Chapter 22
Ellaryn could still feel the burn threaded through her veins long after the fire had died. It lingered like a phantom ache, clinging to her bones, coiled and patient. Every time her mind drifted back to it, the sensation flared anew, as though memory alone could stoke the embers back to life.
She hated herself for tapping Xander’s arm.
For giving in. For breaking.
Despite her name, Ruin wasn’t someone who broke often. The King had worn her down into something sharp, sure. But pain was something she had practised controlling.
She had thought she was stronger than that.
The King had hurt her before—blades driven into her flesh as though she were nothing more than a target, chains biting into her skin until she begged through bloodied lips. She had endured it all. She had survived it all.
But this… this was something else entirely.
There were no words for the pain. No shape it could take. The moment she tried to name it, it dissolved—turning to ash and cinders, like the city itself—leaving only the echo of heat behind.
She wondered how many times she would have to endure it.
How many nights she would leave that room shaking, scorched from the inside out?
She wondered if repetition would dull it, if her body would learn to bear it the way it had learned to bear everything else.
She hoped it would.
Because she didn’t know how many times she could survive it if it didn’t.
When she stepped inside the castle, a Defier greeted her.
Ellaryn took a sharp breath, steadying herself and hanging up her cloak.
It handed her a note—an invitation to dinner from the King.
Her fingers tightened around the paper as dread crept, slow and insidious, up her throat.
She swallowed it down and continued toward the throne room, praying he hadn’t felt Xander tug at the bond, hadn’t sensed fingers brushing through his memories.
With every step closer to him, her legs resisted. Each stride became a tug-of-war between her will and his enforcement.
The King sat alone at the long table, though many places had been set.
The sight of it twisted her stomach. It was rare—dangerously rare—for him to summon her like this.
Usually, he invited her only when he had company.
Most nights, she ate alone in her room… or not at all.
It was almost never just the two of them.
She forced herself forward, silencing the voice whispering that something was wrong. That he knew.
His black gums cradled a chicken leg as he tore into it, ripping flesh from bone with his teeth. Grease slicked his chin.
“Sit,” he commanded, mouth still full.
The burn still lingered in her chest. Ellaryn prayed it wasn’t a beacon—that whatever blaze Xander had stirred inside her had dimmed enough to escape his notice.
She obeyed, lowering herself into the chair, her untouched meal waiting on the plate before her.
“Yes, Your Darkness,” she murmured, bowing her head as she lifted her fork. She had no appetite, but she knew better than to refuse.
“So,” he said slowly, each word tightening the noose around her throat, “tell me, little Ruin.”
She knew that tone.
In all the years she’d served him, she had learned his tells—the way the grey in his eyes shone like silver coins, the way his teeth pressed together just before he struck.
He was angry. That much was certain.
“What did you get up to in Cinders today?”
He threaded a wishbone between his teeth, biting down until it cracked. The vastness of the question made her pulse spike. Too broad. Too open. One wrong word and she would hang herself with it.
“Just the usual,” she said quietly. “Enforcing.”
“Oh really?” The King’s smile was sharp, putting her instantly on edge. “Because I had the most… interesting view from my window today.” He took a slow sip from a glass that resembled red wine.
Ellaryn didn’t dare speak. She had no idea what was coming, but she knew it wouldn’t be good.
“And it looked like there were raids.” He leaned forward, voice rising. “Now that can’t be right, because no one told me about these raids and…” He slammed the chalice onto the table, making Ellaryn jump. “I AM KING!”
Red liquid splashed across his hand and the tablecloth. He kicked back his chair as he stood, his presence overwhelming. Ellaryn furrowed her brows, her heart stuttering in her chest. Damien had told her it was sanctioned.
He had lied to her face.
That prick.
“So I asked around and, to my surprise… guess who was leading those raids,” he said, his voice sharp enough to cut through the room.
He circled her slowly, each step deliberate, until he stopped close enough that his heat pressed against her. Her breath caught in her throat.
“Oh, come on—don’t you want to guess?” he whispered, leaning toward her ear. “No fun, are you?”
Then he grabbed her face, speaking low into her ear.
“It seems… you, my little Ruin, were front and centre today. Care to explain?”
Ellaryn stayed silent, fighting the urge to slip out of his grip.
“No matter,” he said, voice cold and precise. “I have someone who might enlighten me further.”
His gaze snapped toward the rear doors. “Come out, now,” the King ordered sharply.
Ellaryn stood frozen, bracing for the sound of scraping heels.
It was Damien.
He fought against the Defiers grip, wrenching free for half a heartbeat before they forced him back down. Without his armour, he looked smaller—more human. His chest and torso were bare, and the thought of his exposed skin pressed against the cold marble made Ellaryn shudder.
When he looked up, his eyes found hers—apologetic, desperate—but the contact flickered away almost instantly. He rose as the Defiers unhanded him, leaving him shuddering before the King.
“Tell her what you so desperately told me,” the King said lightly. He flicked his fingers and an invisible force hurled Damien to his knees, the impact cracking through the room. His gaze lifted to Ellaryn, shaking.
“We led the raids today,” he said hoarsely. “Ruin and I.”
Bastard.
Of course, he had dragged her into it—spread the blame, soften the fall.
“And what,” the King asked smoothly, “were these raids for?”
Damien released a shaky breath. “To find a supposed intruder,” he said quickly. “But it was nothing—just false information. We didn’t find anyone.” He struggled again, trying to rise, but the force pinned him to the floor. “We were doing it for you, Your Darkness.”
Too many words, Ellaryn thought. He’s digging.
“So,” the King bellowed suddenly, his voice reverberating off the polished marble with predatory glee, “I’m meant to be grateful that you went behind my back?”
Don’t answer.
“No—no, of course not, Your Darkness,” Damien stammered, trembling violently. “I got a tip. I was following it through. I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily.”
Stop talking.
“Worry?” the King echoed softly. Too softly. The word scraped like shattered glass down Ellaryn’s spine. “And why would I be worried?” He tilted his head. “Don’t you think I can handle my city?”
Another double-edged question.
“It’s not that—I just know you have a lot on your mind with the expansion,” Damien said, sweat pouring down his temples. “I wanted to show my allegiance to you.”
“And Ruin?” the King asked, turning at last. Ellaryn stiffened. “Because last I checked, she answers to me.” His smile was razor-thin. “And me only.”
“I asked her to come,” Damien said desperately. “Thought we could use her. The people fear her.”
He looked so small on his knees. For someone who had fought with such force earlier, he was reduced to something breakable.
“And the people don’t fear me?” the King asked curtly, stepping closer.
“They do, Your Darkness—of course they do—”
The King strode up behind him and, without warning, dragged his blade down Damien’s back mid-sentence.
Ellaryn gasped, but forced her eyes to remain fixed on the table, her hands slowly curling into fists.
“You want to go behind my back?” he snarled. “Then I’ll go behind yours.”
Damien let out a pained gasp as the blade carved marks in his flesh, his breath quickening, palms falling flat on the floor. The King couldn’t hide the dark smile on his face if he tried. Shock contorted the knight’s expression as he stared down at his blood pooling onto the marble.
The King continued to draw the blade across Damien’s back in slow, deliberate strokes—shallow enough not to permanently disfigure, but deep enough to make him writhe.
“It seems you need a punishment usually reserved for Ruin,” he said, his voice cold.
With a snap of his fingers, the wounds sealed—healing magic—only for him to strike again, reopening old cuts. He carved into flesh without mercy. Damien screamed, steel biting into muscle, pain echoing through the room.
Ellaryn watched, every strike familiar to her, the agony etched into her memory.
“Take him to the cells for the night,” the King commanded calmly, studying Damien’s trembling, bloodied form.
The wounds were not shallow enough to spare suffering, nor deep enough to kill—just enough to teeter on the edge.
“Pain is an excellent teacher. Perhaps he won’t make the same mistake again. ”
The Defiers dragged Damien away, his blood streaking the marble behind him like a warning.
“Ruin. Ruin. Ruin,” the King tutted.
Ellaryn inhaled slowly.
“You know where you’re going.”
***
She woke in pain.
Cold stone pressed into her spine, damp and unforgiving, the air thick with mildew and iron. Shackles bit into her wrists where she was chained to the wall. Ellaryn didn’t fight them. She had learned long ago that resistance only taught the metal how to hurt her better.
The moment she realised Damien had lied, she knew the King would never forgive it. He hated anything done without his knowledge.
She hadn’t pleaded her case, hadn’t told the King she believed Damien had permission.
There would have been no point. She knew he would have only said she should have come to him first, or refused the raids entirely, because she was meant to take orders from him alone.
Or he would have simply found another reason to punish her.
He had always told her not to beg, said only weak people snitched.
Which, she supposed, was a testament to Damien’s character.
His lying made her blood simmer, but the fact that he had told on her made it boil over.
If he was caught, fine. But don’t drag me into it, Ellaryn thought.
To fold so quickly. To offer them both up like scraps.
Then again, he had never been good at silence. And even as a kid could never take full accountability. He would rather pass the blame. Lighten the load even if it meant others suffered for it.
The King took his time. He always did.
He sharpened his blades until their edges sang, metal kissing metal in a sound that set her teeth on edge. When the knife finally met her skin, she cried out despite herself.
“You’re mine, Ruin,” he said, smiling as he dragged the blade lazily across her chest. Blood followed its path, warm as it ran down her arms and pooled at her ribs.
“You obey me.”
The knife plunged into her gut.
Pain detonated through her, white and blinding. She coughed, choked, fought for air as fire tore through her nerves. It wasn’t as consuming as the burn Xander had lit in her chest, but it was close enough to make her scream. She clung to consciousness with shaking resolve.
“Say it,” the King drawled.
“I—obey—you,” she gasped, each word forced through clenched teeth. Then he twisted the blade, and darkness swallowed her whole.
When she woke, he did it again.
And again.
Blade. Command. Blood. Obedience.
It was how the King shaped her—never with kindness, always with force. He bent her will the way one bends iron: with heat, with pressure, until resistance became impossible. She bled. She ached. She trembled. And beneath it all, the phantom burn still coiled in her chest, refusing to fade.
Her breath became shallow, incomplete. As though something inside her had been hollowed out.
Then he reached deeper.
When his power brushed her soul, she screamed—raw and unrestrained, the sound sharp enough to shatter glass. A reminder. Not just that he could hurt her, but that he could end her.
Body. Mind. Spirit.
He stopped only when he chose to.
To him, she was his.
And what was his, he could break as often as he liked.