Merrick softened. “I don’t know what I believe,” he said. “But once upon a time, we would’ve given her a chance. Especially if she’s found herself tied to him.”

  Ashterion sighed. He knew Merrick. Had always known him. The bleeding heart buried under all that scar tissue, the maddening, infuriating way he could look at a storm and ask if it could be reasoned with.

  But Ashterion pushed it down, as he always did. Flattened the ache in his chest and let steel take its place.

  “What’s your point, Merrick?” he asked.

  Merrick gaped at him. “My—what the fuck do you mean ’what’s my point?’” His voice cracked on the words. “Xyliria’s either going to break her, or you’re going to kill her, or what—she ends up back in that court? With him? Those are her options? Don’t you see how fucked up that is?”

  “I can’t run around protecting every fool who wanders into the path of Varyth or my wife.” Ashterion shifted, spine stiff. “I’ve told you I’ll do what I must. Your priority is the city. I can’t set foot there without raising suspicion, so do your fucking job. Go back. And let me handle this as I see fit.”

  Merrick looked ready to argue again. His mouth opened, but then the shadows surged. They flared from Ashterion’s feet, licking up the walls, casting the room in jagged darkness.

  Merrick shut his mouth. Spun on his heel. And stormed out.

  Ashterion didn’t move until the echo of his footsteps had long faded.

  Only then did he exhale and lean back against the wall, bracing himself with a hand that trembled slightly. The stone was cool against his spine.

  His shadows curled around him. And for a moment they were quiet.

  Then they began to sing.

  A low, haunting melody wove from the dark. Familiar and not. They had sung it the other night, too—some whispering, aching tune he didn’t recognise. Beautiful in a way that made his heart thud in an entirely unwelcome rhythm.

  He’d hummed back that night. Absently. Some half-remembered ballad about a fool of a leader who tried to rebuild a broken kingdom, only to lose his entire family in the end. But the shadows had gone and woven the two songs together. His tragedy, their longing, and made it into something new.

  Something dangerously hopeful.

  They danced across his skin now, vibrating with the tune. Threading through him. Trying, he knew, to soothe him.

  He closed his eyes. Let the notes curl under his ribs.

  He wouldn’t kill her.

  Gods, he wished he could.

  It would be easier. Cleaner.

  But he couldn’t.

  Fuck.

  49

  Time bled together, stretched, twisted. Hours. Days. Weeks? I had no idea how long we’d been left in this cell.

  Long enough that our throats were raw from thirst, that even the smallest droplets of water trickling down the stone walls had become a desperate source of relief.

  Long enough that I found myself eyeing the patches of mould growing in the cracks, genuinely considering if licking them might be better than starving.

  No one spoke much. Every now and then, a faint murmur of conversation would pass between us, but even that had begun to dwindle. Soldiers had arrived earlier and taken Fenric. He hadn’t returned, and I tried not to dwell on what that might mean.

  I sat pressed against Linc’s side, my shoulder tucked into the hollow beneath his arm. He was trying to hide it—the way his breathing went shallow when he thought no one was watching, the way his hands trembled when he thought I couldn’t see. But I could feel the panic radiating off him in waves, the terror that ate at him every time he glanced toward the door where Fenric had been dragged through.

  “He’s fine,” I whispered, the words tasting like lies even as I spoke them. “Fenric’s smart. He’ll tell them what they want to hear.”

  “They’ve had him for hours.” Linc’s voice was raw, scraped hollow. His jaw worked like he was chewing glass. “Fucking hours, Isara.”

  I reached for my bond with Kaelen again. I had been reaching for hours now, days, stretching my consciousness toward that familiar warmth that had become as essential as breathing. But there was nothing. Just emptiness where his voice should be, silence where his presence used to fill the hollow spaces in my chest.

  The absence was worse than the thirst. Worse than the cold. It left me feeling carved out, incomplete, like someone had torn away half my soul and left the edges bleeding.

  Linc’s arm tightened around my shoulders, and I could feel him fighting not to break apart completely.

  “What if they—” he started, then stopped, jaw clenching so hard I heard his teeth crack.

  “Don’t. Don’t go there. Don’t give them that power over you.” But even as I said it, I was imagining the same things. Fenric broken and bleeding.

  The door swung open.

  A blast of light flooded in, illuminating the hollowed faces of my companions, each of us looking more like prisoners than warriors now.

  Nyxarian soldiers stepped inside, their expressions impassive as they surveyed us. One wore a helm in the shape of a vulture’s beak. Another smelled of rust and rot.

  A rough hand seized my arm, yanking me up before I could even react. Cindrissian was dragged up beside me. He didn’t resist, didn’t even flinch.

  Why us?

  I wanted to think. To analyse. But I was too hungry, too weak, too exhausted for my mind to function properly.

  We were hauled from the cell, our legs unsteady beneath us, dragged through the winding halls of the palace. I barely registered the twists and turns, the flickering torches, the faint hum of power embedded in the stone itself.

  The guards stopped abruptly, throwing us to the ground. Pain shot through my knees, but I was too drained to react.

  I raised my head just enough to see them.

  Xyliria, and beside her, Ashterion. They were on their twin thrones, a contrast of chaos and stillness.

  Xyliria—smirking, poised, dripping in silks and gold, watching us with the delighted cruelty of a cat playing with its food.

  And Ashterion, who sat silent. His midnight-blue eyes tracked our movements, but his expression revealed nothing.

  Xyliria took her time surveying us, her silken gown trailing behind her. She moved with the ease of someone who had already won, savouring the moment, drawing it out—a cat toying with cornered prey.

  “Well, look at you,” she mused, her tone dripping with amusement. “How long has it been now?”

  I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure I even could. My limbs were weak, my throat raw from thirst, my body aching from days spent in a cell without food or warmth, but I refused to let it show. I wouldn’t let her see my suffering, wouldn’t let her enjoy it. I forced myself to sit straight, keeping my chin lifted.

  “You must all be so hungry. So thirsty.” Her gaze landed on Cindrissian, a slow, cruel smile curving her lips. “Well, you’re in luck. You and Isara can earn food for your friends.”

  My stomach twisted at her words. Beside me, Cindrissian remained motionless, but the tension radiating off him was a storm gathering at the horizon.

  Xyliria’s eyes gleamed as she stepped closer to him. “Hurt her, and you’ll all receive food and water,” she said lightly.

  The silence that followed made even breathing feel like defiance.

  Cindrissian didn’t so much as blink before responding. “No.”

  Xyliria let out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head. “I thought you might say that.”

  A sound echoed through the chamber, a strained, uneven breath. A gasp. A choked-off noise that clawed down my spine.

  Xyliria flicked her wrist and the guards stepped forward, dragging someone into the torchlight.

  Fenric.

  His dark hair was damp with sweat, matted with dirt and blood. His wrists were bound, his breathing laboured, but he was conscious. He didn’t struggle, didn’t speak, just sagged between the guards, his weight supported by their hold.

  A pressure caved in my chest. It took me a second to realise I wasn’t breathing.

  Beside me, Cindrissian went completely still.

  A predator assessing its options.

  “If you refuse,” her voice was almost gentle, “I’ll execute him. Right here. Right now. In front of you.”

  Cindrissian didn’t react, but the air held its breath, like the moment before a storm, when everything stills before the first bolt of lightning strikes.

  Xyliria watched him, savouring the moment, waiting for his response. As though she already knew what it would be.

  Ashterion shifted on his throne, his fingers tapping once against the carved armrest. There was a hesitance in the way he spoke, someone testing the boundaries of his own authority. “Xyliria⁠—”

  She didn’t even let him finish.

  With a single graceful flick of her hand, she cut him off, not even bothering to look at him as she spoke. “Don’t waste your breath, husband.” The title was a sneer. “You’ve already proven you’re far too soft for these matters.”

  Ashterion went rigid, but he said nothing else. He didn’t argue. Didn’t challenge her. Didn’t even look at her.

  I expected anger, expected his power to crack the air, but instead, his head lowered, his fingers curling into the carved wood at his sides. It was so quick, so subtle, but it was a flinch all the same.

  A High Lord flinching. Cold unease crawled through me.

  I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Cindrissian’s focus snapped to Ashterion, his expression neutral, but for the briefest second a muscle in his jaw twitched. His hands fisted at his sides.

  I didn’t know if it was anger, recognition, or disgust. It was gone too fast to decipher.

  Xyliria, oblivious or unconcerned, turned back to Cindrissian. “What will it be, Cindrissian?”

  A full second passed. Then another.

  I choked on my own breath, unable to force it down as I waited. Waited for words I didn’t want to hear.

  Finally, he exhaled, tight and short. “I’ll do it.”

  “It’s fine,” I said before he could even look at me. “We need this. Just get it over with.”

  Survival. That was all that mattered now.

  I braced myself, preparing for the inevitable. Cindrissian had never shied away from cruelty. If anything, I figured it was the control that would bother him, the fact that he was being forced rather than choosing it himself. But when our eyes finally met, I saw something else.

  Regret.

  Genuine, unfiltered remorse.

  That hurt more than the strike ever could.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  Before I could process that, Xyliria spoke. “Oh, and Cindrissian?”

  He didn’t look at her.

  “If you stop before I say, I’ll kill Fenric anyway.”

  Cindrissian’s shoulders tensed. And then, without another word, he hit me.

  The first blow landed hard enough to rattle my bones, snapping my head to the side. Pain flared across my jaw, but it was bearable. Cindrissian wasn’t putting his full strength into it—I could tell. He was holding back, trying to pull the force of his strikes. He couldn’t make it obvious, but I knew.

  The second blow came just as fast, a crack across my ribs that stole the breath from my lungs. I staggered, but I didn’t fall. I wouldn’t fall.

  I braced myself, setting my jaw, refusing to make a sound. If I reacted too little, she’d demand he hit harder. If I reacted too much, she’d enjoy it. I needed to strike a balance. We both did.

  His fist slammed into my stomach, and I buckled, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth.

  A muffled shout rang through the hall. Fenric. I recognised the rage, but I couldn’t focus on it, not when fresh pain exploded across my ribs, knocking me sideways. I hit the floor hard, my hands splayed against the marble, my breathing ragged. Blood dripped from my lip, pooling onto the stone beneath me.

  He hesitated for half a breath, before he whispered once more, “I’m sorry.”

  And then he struck me again.

  And again.

  And again.

  I was a panting, bleeding mess on the floor when a voice echoed across the room.

  “Enough.” It wasn’t loud, but it carried, the word itself holding absolute power.

  My ears rang, my vision blurred, but I recognised him.

  Ashterion.

  The only sound was the drip of my blood, the uneven gasps stuttering out of me. The taste of copper filled my mouth as I spat blood onto the stone.

  Xyliria emitted an amused sound.

  But Ashterion wasn’t looking at her. He and Cindrissian met each other’s gaze, an unspoken exchange passing between them that made Ashterion’s jaw tighten further.

  I didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t have the energy to try to understand it.

  “Take them back,” Ashterion ordered, his tone uncompromising. “Provide food and water.”

  As the guards pulled me away, Cindrissian’s eyes met mine, crimson depths haunted, apology shining so raw and clear it was nearly painful. I saw his fingers tremble, fists clenching at his sides.

  They hauled us back through the corridors, the weight of my own body a burden I couldn’t carry. My legs buckled with every step, but the guards didn’t care. They dragged me forward regardless, my boots scraping against the floor.

  My ribs throbbed in sync with my pulse—a constant, pulsing reminder that I was alive, and breaking. Beside me, Fenric stumbled, unable to hold his own weight, while Cindrissian walked with measured steps, his shoulders tense, his expression unreadable.

  When we finally reached the dungeon, the guards didn’t bother with gentleness. A rough jerk, a sudden push, and I was tossed inside. My body hit the damp stone, my already battered frame flaring with fresh pain. I used what little strength I had left to brace myself as I crashed against the floor, my breath knocking out of me. The heavy iron door slammed shut behind us, the sound echoing off the cavernous walls.

  Silence followed.

  Broken by a curse muttered under someone’s breath.

  Footsteps approached. Then Darian was kneeling beside me, his hands firm but careful as they gripped my shoulders. “Isara,” he said, tight and frantic.

  I forced my aching body to move, shifting to push myself upright against the wall. “I’m fine.” The hoarseness of my voice made the lie obvious, and the others didn’t look convinced.

  Brynelle remained where she was, glancing between the three of us. Shaelith studied me, cataloguing every fresh bruise, every wound.

  Linc was already moving before I’d fully settled against the wall, his hands reaching for Fenric with desperate urgency.

  “Let me see,” he whispered as his fingers ghosted over Fenric’s face, tracing every bruise, every cut. “Gods, what did they do to you?”

  Fenric tried to lean into the touch, but even that small movement made him wince. “I’m alright,” he managed, the words barely a rasp.

  “You’re not fucking alright.” Linc’s hands were shaking now, trembling as they mapped the damage. A split lip, bruising along his jaw, what looked like finger-shaped marks around his throat. “Look at you. Look what they⁠—”

  His voice broke completely.

  Linc was coming undone as he tried to hold Fenric without causing more pain, and something fierce twisted in my chest. They needed this moment. They needed each other. But everyone was staring, waiting for explanations that would only make everything worse.

  So I did what I always did when things got too heavy, too real.

  I laughed.

  The sound came out harsh, but it was enough to make everyone’s heads snap toward me. “Well,” I said, touching my split lip gingerly, “I always wondered what it would feel like to have my face rearranged. Now I know.”

  The others were looking at me like I’d lost my mind—which, fair enough, maybe I had. But it worked. Their attention was on me.

  Which meant no one was watching as Linc finally pulled Fenric against his chest. Meant no one saw the way Fenric’s breath hitched as he buried his face in Linc’s shoulder, or the way Linc’s whole body curved around him like he could shield him from everything that had already happened.

  My attention settled on Varyth.

  He didn’t speak, but his eyes dragged over me, taking in the torn fabric, the fresh blood staining my skin, the way my breaths came shallow and uneven.

  Then his gaze landed on Cindrissian.

  Blood still coated his knuckles.

  Varyth’s expression darkened, his fury curling through the air in a slow-building storm.

  “Did he hurt you?” he snarled, gesturing toward Cindrissian.

  Cindrissian’s face remained calm, but he flinched almost imperceptibly.

  That was when I realised exactly what Xyliria had intended. She had sent us back like this on purpose. To see what would break first. The body or the bond between us.

  If I told the truth, if I let Varyth know that Cindrissian had struck me, Xyliria would have won.

  “No,” I said, wincing as I pushed myself up. “He tried to protect me. That’s why they beat Fenric.”

  Varyth’s nostrils flared, suspicion lingered in his expression.

  “She was making them watch a guard hurt me,” I continued before he could argue, pressing the words forward with as much certainty as I could muster. “Probably trying to figure out our weaknesses.”

  Fenric blinked, shock flashing across his face, but he didn’t correct me.

  Varyth’s hands tightened into fists, his breathing slow, controlled. He was weighing the information, deciding whether to believe me or not. Finally, after a long, drawn-out silence, he gave a curt nod.

  The tension in the air eased but didn’t dissipate. Varyth’s focus remained on me.

  “We need to get out of here,” Linc growled, his voice low and urgent. “Before they decide to pick us off one by one.”

  Darian nodded in agreement. “But how? We’re still bound, still powerless. And even if we could break free, we don’t know the layout of this place.”