Chapter 13
Thorne
Damn him.
I didn’t dare say it aloud—not here, not now.
Ashton lounged across his throne wearing his power like silk.
Beside him stood Vasquez, practically vibrating with anticipation, fingers steepled like some grotesque conductor awaiting the overture of suffering.
A small contortion of sycophants flanked the dais, their smiles thin and eyes eager.
They were here for blood. For performance. Ashton looked positively delighted.
Not for the first time, I hated him.
Slade approached, his jaw set and expression dark.
“How is she?” I asked, low enough to keep it between us.
He jerked his chin toward the corridor just beyond the archway. Elira was walking toward us, framed by Leo on one side and Phoenix on the other. A strange, quiet symmetry. Her shoulders were tight, movements sharp with tension—but she moved. That was something.
“Scared,” Slade muttered. “Didn’t sleep.”
“You watched her?” I asked, glancing sideways at him.
He gave a reluctant grunt in reply, but I didn’t miss the way his gaze shifted—already locked on her again. As though she pulled gravity in her wake. As though something about her cracked through whatever armour he’d worn for years.
He wasn’t alone in that.
I met her clear blue-eyed gaze as she approached. They narrowed at my appearance. I almost smiled, though it didn’t reach my eyes.
The girl truly hated me.
I watched Leo lean in, his voice a low murmur in her ear, his posture solid and protective. She stiffened at first, but then reached up and touched his arm, the gesture soft, almost absent. She wasn’t even aware of it, I could tell. The way her fingers lingered spoke more than her words ever could.
They stopped just before me, grim expressions replacing whatever small flicker of warmth they might have shared. Leo's gaze was cold now, unreadable. He released her to me, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary before he let go.
Elira took a deep breath, steadying herself, like she was preparing for the inevitable. A reluctant warrior bracing for a battle she had no choice but to face.
Her eyes met mine for the briefest second, and I saw the flicker of defiance—a spark still burning deep inside her. I was almost impressed. Almost.
I had no intention of extinguishing it... not yet.
“Are you ready?” I asked, my voice sharper than I wanted.
“No,” she admitted quietly, but her shoulders squared with a quiet defiance.
“Just follow my lead,” I murmured, placing a steadying hand at the small of her back as I guided her toward the massive double doors.
The grand hall beyond was thick with tension, the air cold and perfumed with sickening incense. A low murmur ran through the cotillion of courtiers like wind through dry grass—waiting, eager, watching.
Elira stepped ahead of me, her curls pulled back in a tight ponytail that did nothing to diminish her wild beauty.
There was something stark about her today—like a storm building behind a polished sky.
Her simple shirt and fitted pants hugged her form, making her look both practical and unmistakably striking.
The soft glow of her skin looked washed out beneath the chandeliers, but her eyes—those fierce, untamed eyes—refused to dim.
She stood before the throne like a soldier on the edge of battle.
Ashton leaned forward, draped across his gilded seat like a man too used to power, too smug in the way he wielded it.
His crown sat crooked on his golden hair, his fingers adorned with heavy rings that clicked softly against his goblet.
He eyed Elira slowly—devouring her with his gaze—then licked his lips, obscene and unhurried.
“Well, hello there,” he purred, his voice like oil over wine.
My jaw tensed.
“Your Majesty,” I said tightly, forcing the words through my teeth. “May I present Elira… our new shadowmancer.”
The room held its breath.
Ashton’s eyes gleamed like a predator sighting blood.
“So, this is the girl who commands the void,” he said, leaning forward, his smile sharp and humourless.
“She’s even more exquisite than I imagined.
Tell me, darling—” he flicked his fingers lazily, dismissing a nearby attendant—“do you understand what a rare gift you’ve been born with? ”
Elira didn’t answer right away. Her hands were balled at her sides, her chin raised with steel in it.
“I understand that it makes people want to use me,” she said coolly.
There was a ripple of shock through the gathered nobles. I bit back a smirk.
The king only chuckled. “Oh, I like her.” He stood slowly, descending from his throne like a spider descending from its web.
“Believe me the feeling is not mutual,” Elira growled under her breath. If the king heard, he chose not to notice.
“My, she is a pretty thing. Tell me Thorne, why have you dressed my newest prize in such rags?”
I schooled my expression. “She is a trainee Shade. This is the uniform.”
“Ah, but she is so much more than that. Next time you bring her before me I expect a costume much more fitting, is that clear?”
I clenched my jaw. “As you wish sire.”
“I’m not a toy for you to play with, sire,” Elira spat, venom curling around the word like smoke.
I winced inwardly at her defiance—bold, reckless, and beautifully foolish.
“What she means, Your Majesty,” Leo cut in smoothly, stepping forward with a low bow, “is that she does not seek special treatment. She only wishes to serve the crown with clarity and purpose.”
He shot Elira a sharp, warning glance, subtle but clear enough to silence a lesser soul.
Phoenix stood just behind her, his posture deceptively relaxed but his eyes alert. The moment Elira opened her mouth again, Phoenix pressed a firm hand against the small of her back. A silent plea for restraint.
“That’s not—” Elira began, her voice rising.
Phoenix jabbed her lightly in the ribs.
She snapped her mouth shut, glaring daggers at him.
I moved forward, placing myself slightly in front of her, blocking the king’s view of her expression before he could decide to punish her for it.
But Ashton only smiled. That cold, leering smile of a man who believed he had already won.
“You misunderstand your position,” he said, descending the steps from his throne with theatrical grace. “You are not here to speak, little shadow. You are here to demonstrate.”
He stopped just before me, gaze locked on Elira over my shoulder.
“Consider this your first lesson,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “I don’t tolerate rebellion. But I do reward performance.” He made a signal to the doorway and a door opened.
A servant rolled in a bound figure—hooded, gagged, and trembling. A prisoner.
“Show me what you can do.”
I saw Elira’s spine stiffen. She turned to glance at me, a silent, searching look—like she wanted me to say it wasn’t real.
I couldn’t.
“Bring forth your shadows,” Ashton commanded, his tone hardening with cruel amusement. “Make him feel it. Show us what you can do.”
“Sire—” I began before I could stop myself.
“Quiet.” Ashton’s voice cracked like a whip. He didn’t even look at me when he said it—he didn’t have to. The weight of the crown made his commands feel law-bound. My jaw locked, every instinct screaming to step between them.
Elira didn’t flinch. Her eyes darkened, shadows pooling faintly in the hollows of her cheeks, like they were responding to her pulse, to her rage. “And if I refuse?” she asked, softly, but every syllable was a blade.
Ashton leaned back with theatrical ease, smugness painting every line of his face. “You won’t,” he said simply, as if her rebellion amused him. “Because deep down, I think you’re just like the rest of us. Hungry. Angry. And curious to see what your power feels like when it’s real.”
He snapped his fingers.
A silent servant stepped forward and removed the prisoner’s hood. Gasps rippled through the court.
The man beneath was older—grizzled, grey-bearded, and slumped against his chains. His face was a brutal map of bruises, his eye swollen shut, dried blood crusted at his temple. But he was still conscious. Still breathing. His one good eye opened—and met Elira’s.
There was no recognition in it. Just fear. The kind born of too much suffering.
Elira’s breath hitched.
The shadows at her feet coiled tighter, flickering at the edges of her boots like restless wolves.
“I want you to hurt him,” Ashton said. “Don’t kill him. Just show me the edge of what you can do. I want to see it. I want to feel the bite of your gift.”
“She won’t,” I said tightly. “She’s not a torturer.”
He turned his gaze on me. “Then she is useless.”
I stepped forward before I realized what I was doing, and guards moved instantly to intercept me. Elira raised a hand—stopping them and me.
She was trembling.
But she held her chin high.
“I won’t hurt him,” she said, her voice low but steady. “Not for you. Not for anyone.”
Ashton tilted his head. “Pity,” he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Then let’s see how long your resolve lasts.”
He raised his hand.
A guard stepped forward, sword drawn and held high over the prisoner’s neck. The old man moaned, a hoarse sound of fear that echoed off the stone walls.
Elira flinched, her body moving on instinct before her mind could catch up. She stepped forward.
“Stop!” she shouted, voice raw.
Ashton gave a long, exaggerated sigh. “You are beginning to bore me, Elira. Either you show me your shadows, or the man dies. I have no use for a weapon I cannot wield.”
Something shifted in her face—some slow, simmering snap that I had seen only once before, in the chaos of the keep when she first defended herself. Her lips peeled back in a sneer as she turned her gaze on the king, venom lacing every syllable.
“You’re so desperate to see what I can do?” she growled.
Before anyone could react, she flung her hand forward, a wave of inky darkness lashing toward the throne like a beast loosed from its cage.