Ashen Oath (The Ether Chronicles #3)

Chapter 1

Bree

Sleep isn’t happening.

I’ve tried every position, counted sheep, even attempted some deep breathing thing Theo taught me once.

Nothing works. Every time I close my eyes, my brain cycles through everything—what happened with Thane in the garden, Theo’s panicked vision, the way he looked so shaken.

And poor Seth caught in the middle of it all.

I should have found Theo when I came back inside. Should have made sure he was okay. But by the time Thane and I… by the time we came back from the garden, he was nowhere to be found, and asking the others felt like admitting I’d failed him somehow.

So now I’m lying here replaying the way Thane’s hands felt on my skin. The way he said my name when his fangs found my throat. The way the bond snapped into place between us, silver and warm and permanent.

Like forever. That kind of permanent.

And the way I walked away from Theo when he needed me, because apparently I’m excellent at letting people down.

What are the others going to think? The thought hits me like ice water.

I spent years pushing them all away, convincing myself it was safer for everyone if I kept my distance.

Then I finally let them close, and the first thing I do is…

this. With Thane. With someone who was supposed to be watching me for the Council.

Did I just screw up everything we were building here? Everything I thought we were building?

My chest tightens. Will they think I chose him over them? Will they decide this is too complicated, too messy, too much? Maybe this will be the thing that finally makes them walk away.

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the spiral. But the fear sits there, cold and familiar.

You don’t have to be whole to be worthy of being seen.

Theo’s words from the living room float back to me. When everything had just fallen apart and I thought I’d lost them all. When he looked at me like I mattered, broken pieces and all.

I have to believe they’ll stick around no matter who I end up with. I have to believe that what we’ve built together is stronger than my fears.

Even if I’m not sure I believe it yet.

I roll over for the hundredth time, burying my face in pillows that smell like lavender and starlight. The sanctuary bedroom should feel like peace—with its curved walls and silver script that pulses gently in the moonlight streaming through the dome above. Everything here was built for comfort.

Instead, I feel like I’m vibrating out of my skin.

That’s when I notice it.

The mirror from the garden sits on the bedside table where I left it before crawling into bed. The same twisted silver frame with spirals and curves that flow into sharp points like horns or antlers. The surface that drinks light instead of reflecting it properly, ancient and hungry.

I should leave it alone. After what I saw earlier—my eyes glowing red, then going completely black. Both Seth and Thane seemed uneasy about it too. I should probably throw the damn thing out a window.

Instead, I reach for it.

The metal is warm under my fingers, and I can’t tell if that’s from my own body heat or something else entirely. Something that makes my pulse quicken.

My reflection stares back, all messy hair and wide eyes. Pretty standard post-crisis look for me. But as I tilt it to catch the moonlight, something shifts.

The surface ripples.

I blink hard, wondering if I’m finally losing it. But when I look again, I’m not seeing myself anymore.

I’m seeing the corridor from earlier.

The scene plays out in perfect detail, but from an angle I never had. I watch myself move toward Thane, silver mist trailing behind me like a living thing. But there are details I missed—the way the Ether reaches for him before I’m even close, wrapping around his boots like it’s claiming territory.

And his face when he thinks I’m not looking. Less controlled. More raw.

Like he’s seeing something he wants and dreads in equal measure.

My heart does something complicated as I watch the scene unfold. When mirror-me brushes past him, I swear I feel the ghost of that contact. But it’s what happens next that makes me sit up straighter.

A thread of silver light passes between us where the Ether touched him. Just for a heartbeat—a connection that glows like captured starlight.

I didn’t see that. Couldn’t have seen it.

“What the hell?” I whisper.

The image ripples again, and suddenly I’m looking at Thane alone in ruins. Cracked stone walls, pale light filtering through broken spaces. He’s kneeling before what looks like a scrying mirror, and silver mist is rising from its shattered edges—my Ether, somehow reaching across distance.

He’s pressing his hand to his chest, right over his heart, and his expression is completely unguarded. Stunned. Like his entire world just shifted and he doesn’t know which way is up anymore.

Like he’s just realized I’ve been here all along.

The scene fades, leaving me staring at my own reflection again. But now I look different—pupils dilated, breathing shallow. Like I’ve just seen something I wasn’t supposed to.

I set the mirror down, my hands not quite steady. “Okay. Either I’m having a breakdown, or you’re showing me things that actually happened.”

The sigils around the frame pulse once, faint but deliberate.

“Great. Of course you are.”

Against every instinct I have, I pick it up again. Because apparently I never learn.

This time, when the surface ripples, I’m looking at the sanctuary again. But wrong.

The main hall stretches out before me, its familiar curved walls and silver script.

Except something’s off. The script still glows, but it feels hollow somehow, like an echo of warmth rather than warmth itself.

And I’m there, but not me. This version stands frozen in the center while the boys reach for her with desperate hands.

Rhett, Jace, Gray, Theo, Wes, Thane—and others behind them, faces I can almost recognize—but their faces are twisted with something between hunger and panic. And she’s backing away from them, the Ether around her feet gone black as spilled ink.

Behind them all, barely visible in the shadows, stands someone I don’t recognize. Tall, watching, with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

The other-me opens her mouth like she’s trying to speak, but no sound comes through the glass. The black Ether spreads outward from her feet, and everyone it touches—

I jerk the mirror away from my face, heart hammering against my ribs.

“Okay, that’s enough of that.”

I set it down more carefully this time, but I can’t stop staring at it. The frame glows faintly in the moonlight, keeping time with my pulse.

Outside, footsteps echo in the corridor—someone doing a final check before bed. The normalcy of it should be comforting. Instead, it makes me think of that other version of myself, reaching for something I couldn’t quite see.

I grab the blanket and pull it over my head like that’ll help. But even with my eyes closed, I can feel the mirror’s presence. Waiting. Watching.

Just another glamorous night in paradise, I think, borrowing my own sarcasm for comfort.

But it doesn’t help. My heart won’t stop racing, and every time I close my eyes, I see that other version of myself with the black Ether spreading around her feet. Not evil—just different. Wrong in a way I can’t name.

A faint scent drifts through the room—chamomile and something sweeter, like honey and vanilla. I sit up, frowning, and find a steaming mug on the nightstand beside the mirror.

It wasn’t there before. I’m sure of it.

The sanctuary, I realize. Paying attention to what I need before I know I need it, just like always.

I reach for the mug, careful not to touch the mirror, and wrap my hands around the warm ceramic. The tea tastes like comfort and safety, like being held when the world gets too sharp around the edges. Just how Wes usually makes it—sweet, careful, like he knows what I need before I do.

My pulse slows. The terror in my chest eases to something manageable.

“Thank you,” I whisper to the room, and the silver script on the walls pulses once, gentle as a heartbeat.

I finish the tea and set the mug back down. The calm should carry me straight into sleep.

It doesn’t.

My brain keeps circling back to what I saw. That silver thread between Thane and me. The other sanctuary that felt hollow. My mirror-self with black Ether pooling around her feet.

I shift under the blankets, listening to the quiet. The tea helped, but didn’t erase everything. I’m tired but not settled, balanced on that knife’s edge where sleep might happen if I stop thinking.

Good luck with that.

A soft knock interrupts the silence. Deliberate, but not urgent. Not hesitant either.

I freeze. Maybe it’s Theo, still shaken from his vision. Or Wes, drawn by whatever restless energy he’s been carrying lately. But something about the rhythm feels different.

The door opens just enough for someone to slip through.

Stellan.

He stands in the doorway like he’s waiting for permission to exist in the same space as me. Moonlight catches the sharp line of his jaw, but I can’t read his expression from here.

He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t speak. Just… waits.

There’s a question in his stillness that I don’t entirely understand. But somehow, I know what he’s asking.

I tilt my head at him.

He crosses the room like he’s done this before, but careful. No assumptions. When he reaches the bed, he pauses again.

“Okay?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

I nod.

He climbs onto the bed with that fluid grace of his, settling behind me without crowding. When his arm slides around my waist, I stiffen—because that’s what I do—but he just murmurs, “Shh,” once, low and calm.

His hold is loose. Present, but not possessive.

The knot in my chest starts to loosen. My breathing shifts to match his without me deciding to. The sharp edges that the tea couldn’t quite reach begin to blur.

“How?” I whisper.

He’s quiet for so long I think he won’t answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft against my hair.

“Your peace matters more than what it costs me.”

I should probably ask what he means. Should wonder what this is costing him.

Instead, I let myself sink back against him.

Whatever his magic is doing, it’s working. The anxious spiral in my head slows, then stops. My eyelids get heavy in a way that feels natural instead of forced.

The visions from the mirror fade to background noise—still there, but manageable. Like turning down the volume on a song that was too loud.

The last thing I’m aware of is his steady breathing and the way his presence makes the room feel safer. Just as I’m drifting off, his arm tightens around me—barely, but enough that I feel it. Like he’s anchoring me to something solid.

The last conscious thought I have is still wondering if that dark vision was a warning or a promise.

But at least now I’m not wondering alone.