Chapter 24
The cold gnawed at Ellaryn’s skin when she woke.
For a fleeting moment, she wondered if the night before had been a dream. But as she shifted, she realised it hadn’t been. Xander had taken her pain.
She rubbed at her eyes, blinking into the dark. It was still night, but the shadows no longer felt alive—no corners deep enough to hide threats, no movement lurking just beyond sight.
She drew in a careful breath.
Her lungs didn’t burn. Her limbs didn’t feel weighted with pain. There was no tightness in her chest, no sharp reminder with every movement. Whatever Xander had done, it felt as though he’d breathed life back into her—stitched her together in places she hadn’t realised were unravelling.
Her jaw tightened.
Idiot.
He had come here. Into the castle. Into the very heart of the place that was hunting him. Whilst the rumours of his potential still bled like fresh ink, whilst the King’s attention was razor-sharp and unforgiving.
If the King ever found him—
Ellaryn sucked in a sharp breath and forced the thought away before it could fully form. She knew exactly what he would do.
Hopefully, any raids had ended with Damien’s stupidity.
Straining her hearing, she listened for sounds beyond her cell. She couldn’t hear him anywhere nearby. Maybe he’d been thrown into the dungeon for the night—a harsher punishment, but not unexpected.
She could not forgive him for giving her name up, for condemning her to another night at the King’s cruel hands. A painful reminder of why she avoided him.
Ellaryn shuddered as the memory of her suffering surfaced with disturbing clarity; the blade sliding into her, so sharp it parted her skin like butter, cracking ribs, tearing through her as if she were nothing more than flesh meant to give way.
She was used to the King’s cruelty. He had buried steel in her more times than she could count.
Had wrenched her to her knees by the tether of her soul alone, yanking until agony lit her nerves white-hot.
Every time, she writhed. She screamed. She begged. Her body shook and burned and bled.
And every time, she learned the same lesson.
The more she reacted, the more he enjoyed it.
He would smile as she suffered, black gums bared against the castle’s dark brick, his expression almost reverent.
Sometimes he didn’t rush it at all—he would simply watch her blood spill, mesmerised.
He would press his fingers into her wounds, slow and deliberate, and stare as though he were studying something beautiful, eyes glazing over in wondrous glee.
Ellaryn knew then, as she always had, that his cruelty had no limits.
“Are you there?” Sailen’s voice slipped through the stone, clearer than it had any right to be.
“I’m here,” she said quietly, her throat still raw.
“I don’t hurt anymore,” he said breathlessly, his voice tangled with confusion and disbelief.
Her eyes closed at once.
“What do you mean?” she asked, forcing her tone into something steady.
“I mean—” Chains shifted softly as he moved. “Yesterday I couldn’t breathe without it stabbing. My shoulder felt broken.” A pause, like he was testing his own body. “I just sat up. Nothing hurts.”
Ellaryn leaned forward until her forehead met the wall, fingers biting into the mortar.
“Are you sure?” she murmured, finally letting go of the breath she’d been holding too tight.
Xander had healed him.
He had come here—into the castle, into the open mouth that waited to swallow him—because he was worried about her.
Ellaryn didn’t quite know where to put that feeling.
She had been the cause of fear for so long. The reason people braced themselves. Not the one worth worrying over.
“Yes,” Sailen said softly, almost laughing. “I feel warm. Like I slept under blankets instead of stone.” He hesitated. “Did you… do something?”
“No.” The word came too quickly. She steadied herself. “Maybe you weren’t as hurt as you thought,” she added, carefully, nudging the truth sideways. “Shock can do strange things.”
Silence stretched between them.
“…Maybe,” he said at last, but she could still hear the doubt lingering in his voice, thin as a crack in ice.
“And sometimes,” Ellaryn said, forcing lightness into her tone, “just sometimes, good things happen.”
She heard him breathe in deep, slow and full, and she hoped—fiercely—that he was smiling.
***
It was days before a Defier came for her.
She didn’t know exactly how much time had passed—only that it had seemed like forever.
Days lost to time and shadows. Days since she had seen Xander.
She cursed the time wasted, the hours spent trapped instead of working with him. She needed to see him as soon as possible.
The key scraped into the lock, metal screaming against metal as it twisted. The cell door swung open, and the Defier moved in without hesitation, unlatching her manacles one by one. Ellaryn recoiled instinctively, shuffling backwards until her spine pressed hard into the brick.
Looking at them made her skin crawl.
Their frames were wrong—too fluid, too hollow—and the longer she stared, the more her stomach turned. She always wondered who was trapped inside that armour of obedience. Who had been broken down and rebuilt into something that watched the city burn without flinching.
Sometimes she feared it had been someone she once knew.
She crushed the thought before it could take root.
When the final shackle fell away, she didn’t wait for instruction. She was on her feet instantly, moving past the Defier in a rush, breath sharp in her chest. She didn’t stop until she reached her chambers, the door slamming shut behind her like a held breath finally released.
Hours later, the King summoned her and healed the bones that refused to fuse. She might have been grateful—if he hadn’t been the one to break them in the first place.
“Lesson learned?” he had asked, which made her blood boil.
She had wanted to scream at him, to grab him and shake the arrogance out of him, but instead, she only nodded, keeping her gaze fixed on the floor, relief flooding her veins when he finally dismissed her.
Though that relief soon shifted to anger when she spotted Damien on the walk back to her chambers. He didn’t look away—not completely.
Ellaryn didn’t relent. Fear of the King lived deep in her bones, but Damien was different.
Damien bled. Damien could be cut. Killed.
When he finally met her gaze, she held it, relishing the way his shoulders stiffened and jaw clenched as if he was bracing for a blow that never came.
Bastard, she thought, calm more chilling than rage.
The corridor felt narrower with him in it.
“Ruin,” he muttered, his voice tight but steady.
Ellaryn tilted her head, slow and deliberate. “Don’t.”
His mouth opened anyway—always his mistake. “Ruin, just hear me out—”
“No. Damien.” Her gaze hardened, as she jabbed a finger at him. “You lied to me. You said the raids were sanctioned. And then you handed him my name.”
Damien’s jaw tightened. “You wouldn’t have helped if you knew the truth.”
A humourless laugh slipped from her. “You’re damn right I wouldn’t have.”
“Look, I didn’t have a choice,” he shot back. “He already knew you were involved. And anyway, you’re his favourite. The punishment would never be fatal for his little Ruin.”
“Don’t call me that.” She snapped, but he ignored her.
“You don’t even have to try to get his attention.
” His voice rose, frustration bleeding through.
“I’ve watched you fuck up time and time again.
Watched you stalk around the city like there’s a blade at your back.
Sulking. Acting like your life is so damned miserable.
” His laugh was bitter. “Ungrateful for the position you’ve been handed—when death follows you, not the other way around. And yet the King praises you for it.”
The words hung in the air, heavier than he probably intended.
“I try,” he went on, anger sharpening his voice. “I try so fucking hard. I put everything I have into protecting this city, worked my way up the ranks—and what do I get for it?”
His gaze burned into hers.
“You think you get to judge me? At least I was trying to find something real out there. You just do whatever he tells you.”
Silence fell between them.
Ellaryn’s voice, when it came, was colder than before.
“You’re wrong about one thing.”
Damien looked up.
“You did have a choice.” Her eyes locked onto his. “You chose to lie. You chose to drag me into it.” She stepped closer. “And when it went wrong—” her voice dropped, “—you chose to save yourself.”
He flinched. Just slightly.
“Like you needed saving.” He retorted. “You’re immortal. He’s made you immortal while the rest of us still bleed, still die.”
Before she could move, he plucked at the hem of her shirt, fingers brushing too close to her collarbone, eyes sharp as they traced bare skin.
“You don’t know how lucky you are.” He scoffed.
Something ugly bubbled in Ellaryn’s blood—hot and violent. The irony nearly made her laugh—lucky, as if her immortality was anything but a curse. As if every blade driven into her flesh, every excruciating drag back from death, was somehow something she should be grateful for. Worshipping even.
She wore every scar like a memory, as unrelenting as the King’s hand. And she was supposed to, what? Praise her encounters with the end, bless the hands that forced her to dance with death.
She swallowed her rage down.
“Touch me again,” she said softly, hand settling on her blade at last, “and I will remind you just how mortal you are.”
No tremor. No rise in her voice.
“I won’t forget this,” she added, quieter still. Not a threat. A certainty.
For once, Damien didn’t reach for a retort. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t poke the wound again.
She stepped past him, her shoulder brushing his arm, leaving him standing alone in the corridor. Spine straight. Jaw tight.
Pulse just fast enough to remember—
She could easily live up to her nickname.