Chapter 71
Ashterion stood, the blade still clutched in his hand, its weight deceptively light for a weapon so final.
He walked to the centre of the garden—the true heart of the rooftop space—and stopped before the ancient tree that had taken root there centuries ago.
A twisted thing of pale silver bark and midnight-black leaves, it had grown resilient in the face of the world’s cruelty.
Like everything in this realm, it had learned to survive.
He reached out and placed his hand against the bark. It was cool beneath his palm, solid. Real.
A breath left him.
And without meaning to, without reason or purpose… he thought of her.
He’d never hear her voice again. Not the way it softened when she forgot who he was.
A bitter laugh escaped his throat.
Gods, of all the things to haunt him now. Her voice. Her fury. That ridiculous fire in her eyes even when she was beaten and bleeding. The way she had bitten back every insult with another sharper one.
The way her fingers had curled around his.
In another life, perhaps.
In another life, he might’ve gotten to know her. Might’ve sat beside her in this garden, not at the edge of death but a beginning.
Another dry laugh cracked from his chest. She would’ve fit here. Too well.
Hell, she still might.
He’d left Merrick instructions. Just in case.
Because deep down, he knew what Varyth was. What Varyth might become. What would happen if he got her back in his territory. Isara would fight it. But eventually, she’d need a way out.
So, he’d made sure Merrick would know to get her out. To protect her. Gods, Merrick and Isara in the same room, he could already picture it. Chaos incarnate. The two of them would burn half the court down to prove a point.
And the bastard would probably end up marrying her.
That thought brought him unexpected comfort.
She’d be able to bring her children here. Build a life here. Live out her immortal existence in peace, without fear, without chains.
His hand drifted to the stone bench beside him, fingers brushing the empty space.
For a breath, he let himself remember.
His family.
They’d be pissed as hell at him. Maybe forever. But they’d move on. They’d have no choice. And without Xyliria, maybe—just maybe—they’d heal. Maybe this court could be what it was supposed to be again.
His throat tightened. He let the thoughts go.
He was stalling.
He knew he was stalling. Letting his thoughts wander, spiral into impossible futures that wouldn’t help him now.
With a slow breath, he sank down onto the grass beneath the tree.
The silver bark at his back. The wind in his hair. The sky stretching endless and clear above him.
He angled the blade at his heart.
He could do this.
For his family, for his court, for everything.
He poised the blade over his chest, its tip angled with precise finality toward his heart.
One breath in.
Another out.
His thumb grazed the hilt. The metal felt warm now. Ready.
He pressed the blade just enough to feel skin give.
A heartbeat.
A blink.
A final prayer that he couldn’t remember the words to.
He closed his eyes.
The wind caught the hem of his tunic, lifting it like a farewell. A little harder and—
The world erupted.
Shadows exploded outward, blades of darkness flung from the earth, from the stone, from him. Their silence shattered by a sound that wasn’t a sound. And yet it struck like a symphony tearing open the sky.
A thousand thunderclaps. A roar from the bones of the world.
It wasn’t a whisper.
It wasn’t a plea.
It was a command.
One word.
Deeper than thought. Deeper than breath. It lived in the marrow of him, etched into the very stuff of his soul. A truth that had never stopped burning, even when he had.
Live.
Ashterion’s grip slipped.
The blade dropped. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to shake him.
The shadows surged. They wrapped around him, a memory long forgotten and desperately missed.
He gasped.
A torrent of voices braided together in song. Thousands of shadows, singing in unison. Ancient. Grief-struck. Glorious. Not begging for mercy, not urging surrender.
Commanding life.
Ashterion exhaled. A quiet sound. A cracked sound.
Not a sob.
Not yet.
But close.
The blade in his hand shook, fingers twitching as though unsure whether to hold on or let go. But the shadows didn’t flinch. They wrapped tighter.
The blade no longer promised relief. Only silence.
And he didn’t want silence.
The song pierced straight through him, searing down the old, rotting chains that had wrapped around his soul since the day he’d signed his life away.
It reached into the part of him he thought long dead.
The part that remembered who he had been.
What this court had once stood for. What he had once stood for.
And still, the word roared—
Live.