CHAPTER 19
He woke to the feeling of cold stone beneath his cheek.
Damp against his skin.
The taste of iron in his mouth. His breath came shallow, each inhale scraping against bruised ribs. For a moment he could not remember where he was. The world was a blur of darkness and pain, the air thick with the scent of rust and old water.
Then memory returned.
The ballroom.
Faelith’s face.
Her eyes when she learned the truth.
The guards closing in.
Simon’s voice ordering his arrest.
And then the fight.
The moment the doors slammed shut behind Faelith, something inside him broke. He had lunged for the door, shoving past the guards, desperate to reach her, desperate to explain, to undo the damage Simon had done.
They tried to restrain him.
He fought.
He did not remember all of it. Only flashes. A guard’s arm around his throat. Another grabbing his shoulder. A kick to his ribs. His own voice shouting her name. The sharp crack of a sword pommel against his jaw. The floor rushing up to meet him.
Then nothing.
Now he lay in a cell.
He pushed himself upright slowly, every movement sending pain through his body.
His wrists were bruised. His lip was split.
The cell was small, barely wide enough for him to stretch his legs.
The bars were thick iron, bolted into stone.
A single lantern flickered in the corridor, casting long shadows across the floor.
He exhaled, steadying himself.
He had been beaten before. Training had taught him how to endure pain. But this was different. This was not punishment for failure. This was containment. Isolation. A cage meant to keep him away from her.
Faelith.
He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes.
He saw her standing in the ballroom, silver eyes wide with shock, her breath shaking, her world collapsing around her.
He saw the moment she looked at him and recognized him from her nightmares.
He saw the betrayal in her gaze. The grief. The disbelief.
He had wanted to reach her.
He had wanted to tell her everything.
He had wanted to explain.
He had wanted to protect her.
But he had failed.
He opened his eyes again, staring at the bars. The corridor beyond was empty. The guards had left him alone. Perhaps they thought he was too injured to try anything. Perhaps they thought he was on his last leg and would expire soon.
He had not.
He pressed his hand against his side, wincing.
He needed to breathe. He needed to think.
He needed to find a way to reach her again.
She deserved the truth. Not Simon’s version.
Not the twisted narrative crafted to turn her against him.
She deserved to know what really happened eighteen years ago.
She deserved to know why he had carried her from the flames.
She deserved to know why he had stayed away.
She deserved to know why he had returned.
He lowered his head, breath uneven.
He did not know if she would ever forgive him.
He did not know if she would ever look at him without fear.
He did not know if she would ever believe him again.
But he knew one thing.
He would not stop trying.
A figure appeared at the end of the hall, lantern light catching a crow mask almost in a sinister way.
Cian lifted his head as he heard footsteps approach.
Simon.
He walked with the calm assurance of someone who owned the space around him. His coat was immaculate. His posture relaxed. His steps deliberate. He stopped in front of the cell, the crow mask tilting slightly as though studying Cian’s injuries.
Cian rose to his feet, gripping the bars. “Let me see her.”
The crow mask remained still.
Simon’s voice came out quiet, smooth, controlled. “You made quite a spectacle.”
Cian’s jaw tightened as he repeated. “Let me see her.”
“No.”
Cian felt his pulse spike. “She deserves the truth.”
“She has it,” the masked figure said, voice smooth and calm. “The version that matters.”
“You twisted everything.”
The crow mask tilted again, almost amused. “I told her what she needed to hear.”
The figure reached up.
Fingers brushed the edges as he took hold.
The mask lifted away.
Cian froze.
It wasn’t Simon. It was Damon, his friend.
For a heartbeat, all sound drained away.
Cian’s hands fell slack from the bars. Cold swept over him, sharper than pain.
His breath caught in his throat as his mind struggled to catch up with what his eyes saw.
Shock warred with disbelief, then gave way to a surge of anger and dread.
His chest tightened. He took a step back, pulse hammering, the world narrowing to Damon’s face across the iron divide.
He was older. Hardened. His eyes gleamed with cold, dark satisfaction, the same cruel spark Cian remembered from the night the Lathriel were massacred. Damon smiled, slow and deliberate, savoring the shock.
“Surprise.”
The word hung in the air like a blade. Cian stared at him, unable to speak, unable to reconcile the face before him with the memory of Damon collapsing in the dirt eighteen years ago.
Damon stepped closer, the crow mask dangling from his fingers.
“You thought you killed me?” he said, voice low and edged with amusement. “I survived. No thanks to you.”
“Some friend you turned out to be. You left me there to bleed. It took weeks before I could stand without pain. Months before I could breathe without feeling your blade in my chest. Because of you, I vowed to be better.”
He paced slowly, letting the words sink in.
“And while you were busy pretending the past was buried, I was learning everything you never bothered to question out loud.” He tapped the crow mask lightly against the bars.
“I learned about her, about Faelith. About the amulet. Lady Vaelcourt was careless with her messages. Every secret she thought was safe ended up in my hands.” Damon’s smile widened.
“I put two and two together and worked out who she really is.”
Cian felt his pulse pounding.
“And once I did, it was easy to guide her. People are predictable when they think they’re making their own choices.
” He lifted the mask slightly, letting the carved feathers catch the light.
“I sent her the letter about the archives. I planted the correspondence she found. I nudged her toward the truth she was ready to believe. Not the whole truth, mind you. Just enough to make her curious. Just enough to make her vulnerable.”
Damon paused, studying Cian’s face, then asked softly, “Do you want to know who Faelith really is?”
“She is the last of her line. She is the key to unlocking what the rest of us have spent our lives chasing. Absolute power.” He slipped the owl mask back over his face, dark feathers gleaming in the lantern light.
“And once she has no one left to trust but Simon D’Ardclaire,” he said through the carved feathers, “she will gladly walk into hell for me.”
Cian’s grip tightened on the bars, his knuckles turned white. “You’re using her.”
“I’m guiding her,” Damon corrected. “She needs direction. And I’m giving it to her.
” His voice softened into something almost pitying.
“But you… you were the problem. You were too close to her. Helping her. If anyone could ruin what I was planning it was you.” He leaned in, his voice dropping. “So, I did what I had to do."
"Cut you off, root and stem.”
???
Ashendir had seen Faelith shaken before, but never like this. After the ballroom doors closed, she moved as though the ground beneath her were uneven, her breath labored, her eyes unfocused, her hands trembling despite her attempts to hide it.
She retreated to her chambers without a word, ignoring the others, ignoring Ashendir, ignoring everything except the storm inside her.
He followed at a distance, watching her stare mindlessly out the window, trying to hold back the tears, and failing.
She pressed her palms against the windowsill as though the cold stone could anchor her, but her shoulders shook with every breath.
She refused food and water. Ashendir stood in the doorway, silent, knowing she would not let him near her grief.
He had known her long enough to recognize the signs: she was breaking. Not from anger, but from betrayal. She believed she had seen the truth, yet everything about her posture told Ashendir she was drowning in doubt.
She would not seek Cian, not now.
He thought back to the moment before the ball, when Cian had come to him in the courtyard, caution sharp in his voice.
Cian had warned him not to trust Simon, and to be on the lookout anytime the councilor came near Faelith.
His instincts were correct; whenever Simon drew near Faelith, Ashendir could sense an undercurrent beneath Simon’s smile and politeness. Like a snake ready to bite.
Ashendir had listened, not because Cian demanded it, but because he had watched Cian and Faelith closely since leaving Mist Haven.
They both denied what was growing between them, both insisted their partnership was necessity and nothing more, yet neither could hide the way their eyes lingered when the other wasn’t paying attention.
Cian’s gaze always softened when Faelith turned away, a quiet vigilance settling over him as though he were measuring every potential threat in the room.
Faelith’s expression shifted in those rare moments when she thought no one saw her, a flicker of trust, of curiosity, of something she did not yet have the courage to name.
Ashendir had noticed every stolen glance, every unspoken question, every moment when their walls slipped.
In his book, a man who cared that deeply would never maliciously hurt her.
Ashendir had taken that truth to heart, even when Faelith could not see it herself.
She wouldn’t listen. She could not trust. And that was exactly what Simon wanted.
Ashendir felt a cold certainty settle in his chest. If Faelith continued to spiral, she would be lost to Simon’s manipulation entirely.
She needed stability, but she also needed truth.
And the only person who could give her that truth was locked in a cell beneath the magistrate’s office.
Ashendir knew she would never approve of what he was about to do.
He also knew he no longer had the luxury of time to ask her permission.
He left when Faelith finally lay still on her bed, eyes closed, though he doubted she slept. When the courtyard emptied, he slipped out of her chambers and moved through the corridors with purpose, cloak drawn tight, footsteps silent.
He knew the city well enough to avoid Simon’s eyes, well enough to avoid the guards who had been instructed to keep Cian contained.
The air grew colder as he descended, the stone walls narrowing, the lanterns burning low.
He passed the last guard station without being seen, his movements precise, his expression set in determination.
When he reached the cell block, he paused only long enough to listen.
Silence. No patrols. No voices. Simon had left the lower levels unguarded; confident Cian was broken.
Ashendir stepped forward. The cell door was locked, but he carried a key he should not have—taken from a guard who trusted him too much.
He unlocked the outer gate and approached the bars.
Cian was awake, bruised and bloodied, leaning against the wall with the stubborn endurance Ashendir had always respected. He looked up sharply when Ashendir appeared.
“Ashendir.”
Ashendir unlocked the cell without hesitation. “You’re leaving,” he said quietly.
Cian pushed himself upright, pain tightening his breath. “Faelith...”
“She cannot see you,” Ashendir replied. “Not yet.”
He stepped closer, eyes sharp.
“She is unraveling. Simon’s words are twisting her up on the inside. She needs time to process.”
He handed Cian a cloak, a dagger, and a small satchel. “You have two options. You can run,” Ashendir said. “Or you can stay close enough to protect her.”
Cian’s voice was rough. “I will not leave her.”
Ashendir nodded once.
“Then move quickly. Simon will realize you are gone come morning.” He stepped aside, letting Cian slip into the corridor.
“Do not let her see you,” he warned. “Not until she is ready.”
Cian hesitated. “And if she never is?”
Ashendir’s voice softened. “Then you will make peace with it and move on.”