His jaw tightened. He didn’t believe me.

  “In my research,” Cindrissian said slowly, still watching me with that sharp, dissecting gaze. “I couldn’t find any history of shadow fire connected to Braerlith. No bloodlines. No records. Nothing.” He paused. “But...”

  That but hung in the air like a knife waiting to drop.

  “But what?” My voice came out steadier than I felt.

  “But there are older legends.” His eyes didn’t leave mine. “Stories that predate the written archives. Tales that got buried because they were too dangerous to remember.” He tilted his head. “Tell me—have you ever heard the shadows whisper before?”

  I could lie. Should lie. The instinct was there, ready and willing.

  But I was so gods-damned tired of lying.

  “Yes,” I breathed. “Since I arrived.”

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  Cindrissian stared at me. Not with fear—worse than that. With something like recognition. Like he’d just confirmed a theory he’d hoped was wrong.

  “What?” I demanded, hating the edge in my voice. Hating how exposed I felt under that look.

  “I don’t want to guess,” he said quietly. “But we need to get out of here. Now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I’m right...” He stood, movements sharp and deliberate. “You’re more dangerous than any of them realise.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means what I said.” His voice was clipped. Sharp. “You’re dangerous. And you do not tell anyone else what you just told me. Do you understand? No matter what happens—don’t tell anyone. Okay?”

  There was something in his eyes that made my blood run cold.

  Panic.

  And that scared me more than anything he’d said.

  “What the hell is going on?” My voice cracked. “Cindrissian⁠—”

  “I’m not sure,” he cut me off. His hands were shaking. Just barely, but I saw it. “When we get back to Luceren, I promise I’ll explain. But not here.” His gaze darted to the shadows pooling in the corners of the chamber. “Not where anyone might be listening.”

  My throat tightened.

  Listening.

  Every instinct screamed at me to push. To demand answers. To make him explain why he looked at me like I was about to detonate.

  But the fear in his eyes was real.

  And I wasn’t stupid.

  "Fine," I said, voice rough. "Fine. But you will explain."

  56

  Iwoke to the hard nudge of a boot against my ribs. My body tensed instinctively as I scrambled back, pressing against the damp wall of the cell. The guard sneered down at me, his face half-hidden in shadow.

  “Get up,” he ordered. “Now.”

  I glanced around the cell. The others were sleeping, huddled together for warmth in the perpetual chill of our prison. Varyth’s eyes opened immediately, then narrowed at the guard standing over me.

  “Where are you taking her?” he demanded, the arm he had wrapped over my waist tightening possessively.

  The guard ignored him, grabbing my arm and yanking me to my feet. Pain shot through my leg, and I couldn’t bite back the cry before it escaped my lips.

  “Move,” he growled, shoving me toward the door.

  “Where are you taking her?” he repeated, baring his teeth at the guard.

  This time the guard glanced at him, a smirk on his face. “Our High Lord desires her company again.”

  Varyth’s face transformed, a feral snarl ripping from his throat. “No.”

  The guard’s smirk widened as he tightened his grip on my arm. “It wasn’t a request.”

  I met Varyth’s gaze, trying to convey a sense of calm I didn’t possess. The last thing we needed was for him to provoke the guards, to give them another reason to hurt him.

  “It’s fine,” I said, steadier than I expected. “I’ll be fine.”

  Varyth didn’t listen. “Let her go. Now. Or I’ll⁠—”

  “You’ll what?” the guard sneered, his grip on my arm tightening painfully. “You’re nothing but a caged animal now, High Lord.”

  Even with his power bound, Varyth radiated lethal intent.

  “I will tear this fortress apart stone by stone,” he said, each word edged with deadly promise. “I will find every person you’ve ever cared about. And I will make you watch as I unmake them.”

  Varyth continued, eerily calm. “I will ensure that your death is so prolonged, so exquisite in its agony, that the memory of it will linger in these halls for centuries.”

  The guard’s smirk faltered, his fingers twitching against my arm.

  “And that—” Varyth didn’t blink. “Is just for touching her.”

  Unease rippled across the guard’s face before he masked it with contempt. “Big words from someone in chains.” But there was a new tension in his shoulders, an instinctive wariness that hadn’t been there before.

  I swallowed hard. “I’ll be back,” I said quietly. “Just… stay alive. All of you.”

  His jaw clenched, muscles working beneath his skin as he fought to control himself. The others were awake now, watching silently, tension thick in the stale air.

  The guard yanked me toward the door, and I didn’t resist. There was no point. As I was dragged from the cell, I caught one last glimpse of Varyth’s face—pale with fury, his eyes burning with feral promise.

  I stumbled as the guards dragged me through the corridors, the opulence of the Nyxarian palace a jarring contrast to the squalor of our cell. My pulse kicked hard, like it was trying to outrun something, or perhaps the someone who awaited me.

  Ashterion.

  We didn’t go to the dining space this time.

  The doors swung open, and I was thrust inside with such force that I collapsed to the floor. Pain ripped up my leg. But I clenched my jaw, determined not to react in front of him. The room was vast, elegant in its darkness. Obsidian floors polished to a mirror shine, furniture carved from some midnight wood I couldn’t name, tapestries depicting ancient battles hanging from walls illuminated by floating orbs that flickered with threads of golden or silver light, like lightning contained.

  Ashterion stood by a window, his back to me, silhouetted against the pale moonlight filtering through glass. He didn’t turn when I entered, didn’t acknowledge me at all.

  I was frozen, half crumpled on the floor, heart hammering against my ribs as Ashterion remained motionless by the window. The silence between us was cautious, bracing for what would come next. This chamber was different from the dining room, more personal, more intimate. Books lined dark shelves along one wall, ancient tomes bound in leather and metal. A massive bed dominated the far side of the room, draped in midnight silks.

  His private chambers. The realisation sent ice sliding down my spine.

  I swallowed hard, trying to still the trembling in my limbs. The instinct flared between my ribs, run, but there was nowhere to go. The door had already closed behind me, the guards stationed outside. I was trapped.

  “Why am I here?” I asked, steadier than I expected.

  Ashterion turned from the window, his midnight-blue eyes finding mine across the room.

  “You continue to fascinate me,” he said finally, moving away from the window with that unsettling grace all fae possessed. “Most humans would have broken by now.”

  I lifted my chin, refusing to show fear. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  A faint smile touched his lips. “On the contrary. Your resilience is... refreshing. I find myself wanting to see it up close.” He took another step towards me. “But first, you’ll get cleaned up. You smell worse than last time.”

  I let out a frustrated sound, more scoff than anything else. “Prick. You think I give a shit about what I smell like?”

  Ashterion chuckled, the sound rich and velvety, utterly unbothered. “Oh, absolutely not,” he said easily. “But I do have standards.”

  His fingers pointed toward an open frame in the wall. Beyond, I caught a glimpse of smooth, dark stone, candlelight glinting against polished metal.

  A bathing chamber.

  There was no door.

  The breath left my lungs slow and controlled. “You expect me to just… do as you say?”

  Ashterion tilted his head, his expression almost playful. “Unless you’d prefer to be assisted.” His voice was a lazy purr, but there was a challenge in his gaze, a test hidden beneath the veneer of amusement.

  I clenched my jaw. “Go to hell.”

  “You keep telling me that,” he mused. “And yet, here we are.”

  I didn’t move. My body remained taut, ready, not that I had any real chance at escape.

  With a slow shake of his head, he sighed. “Isara, let’s not waste time.” He stepped back, giving me an unspoken invitation—no, command. “Or are you waiting for my help?”

  I stared at him, revulsion coiling through my veins. My hands trembled with rage, but I forced them still, fisting them against the floor, shoving down any sign of how deeply he affected me.

  “Help?” I spat. “Is that what you call it? Forcing a captive to strip and bathe while you watch? Tell me, High Lord,” I snarled, injecting as much contempt into the title as possible, “do you practice being this repulsive, or does it come naturally?”

  Ashterion’s brows lifted fractionally, the only indication that my words had landed at all.

  “Such fire,” he said, his tone unchanged. “Even now.”

  I laughed a harsh, brittle sound that scraped against my throat. “You think this is fire? You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  Ashterion’s lips curved into that infuriating smile again. “Is that a threat, Isara?”

  “It’s a promise,” I hissed.

  His jaw tightened, a muscle working beneath his skin. I braced for the strike, or that he might unleash that terrible shadow power once more.

  Instead, he let out a tight breath. “Bathe. Now.”

  I didn’t move.

  Ashterion didn’t move.

  I kept my face blank, my breathing steady, refusing to let anything slip. Refusing to let him see.

  Because he couldn’t know.

  Couldn’t know that the moment I tried to stand, my leg would give out completely.

  That the agony would rip through me and prove what I already feared—that I wasn’t healing properly. The collar’s suppression muted more than only my power. It was stripping me of even the smallest gift of fae resilience. The kind of healing that should have at least begun setting the shattered bones in my leg.

  Instead, the break was worse than it would have been if I were still human. The swelling was too severe. The bruising too deep.

  I couldn’t risk standing. Couldn’t risk him seeing.

  So, I stayed where I was, unmoving, letting him think it was stubbornness.

  Let him think I was being defiant, refusing to move because I wanted to fight him at every turn.

  But Ashterion, unfortunately, was not an idiot.

  His eyes landed on my leg, on the way I hadn’t moved, hadn’t even attempted to brace myself.

  “You can’t stand, can you?” His voice was dry. Matter of fact.

  I clenched my jaw. Didn’t answer. Wouldn’t answer.

  His sigh was slow, measured. Like he was trying to be patient. “If you will allow me to assist you into the bathing room, there is a tonic in the tub water that should help.”

  But before I could stop it—before I could even shove the thought down—a pang of desperation ran through me.

  The pain was unbearable. Endless. And for a single, fractured second, I let myself imagine it. Relief. Even the smallest reprieve. Even knowing it was coming from him. I hated myself for it.

  The thought was crushed a heartbeat later, shoved down deep beneath the instinct to fight, to resist, to crawl my way to the bathing chamber rather than let him touch me. I nearly did. Nearly tried.

  But the exhaustion from the pain was worse than I thought.

  It won.

  And then one word. “Fine.” Came through my gritted teeth.

  Ashterion crouched beside me, his presence looming but—shockingly—not suffocating. I braced myself for rough hands. A careless yank to my arm, fingers clamping around my waist with disdainful force. But when he moved, when his arm slid beneath mine, looping tenderly around my back, his grip steady—the pain was almost bearable. Because he half-lifted me instead. Not letting me bear weight on my leg at all.

  I ignored it. Ignored the strange tenderness. The way he made the effort to not jostle my ribs, to let me find my balance against him before shifting even an inch. I focused only on moving. Only on getting through this.

  The bathing chamber was dimly lit, the air thick with steam. The tub was built into the floor, deep and wide, steam curling from the surface of the dark water. Ashterion set me down on the edge, before pulling back. His hands lingered for a breath too long.

  “If you dip the leg in first,” he said, adjusting the sleeve of his tunic. ”It should make it possible to undress on your own.”

  I stopped listening.

  Because my gaze had drifted past him, over his shoulder, to the empty frame in the wall.

  Ashterion had already straightened, turning, moving away.

  “There’s no door,” I said flatly.

  Ashterion didn’t so much as pause. “How observant.”

  “You expect me to bathe.” My hands curled into fists against the cool stone. “While you could walk in at any moment?”

  “I expect you to bathe.” His tone bore the slightest hint of irritation. “What I choose to do with my time in my own chambers is hardly your concern.”

  Without another word he turned and walked out.

  I stared at his back, hatred burning in my throat. Every instinct screamed at me to refuse, to fight, to maintain what little dignity I had left. But beneath that was the cold, hard truth—I was powerless here. Whatever game Ashterion was playing, I had no choice but to participate.

  With a bitter curse under my breath, I gripped the edge of the stone tub as I lowered my leg into the water.

  The second it was submerged the pain faded.

  Instant. Overwhelming.

  An almost unbearable contrast to the unending agony I had grown used to.

  The heat seeped into my skin, spreading through the shattered bone, loosening the relentless grip of pain.

  Gods. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to sit straighter. Forcing myself to remember.

  Do not let your guard down.

  Ashterion had given me relief, this brief escape from pain. But he had done so with a purpose. He always had a purpose.

  I would not forget that. Instinctively, I glanced back through the doorway. Ashterion stood with his back to me, hunched over a desk.

  Swallowing hard, I reached for the hem of my torn, bloodstained tunic. Every motion was slow, testing—my ribs ached, my arms stiff from healing bruises, from strain.

  But even now, with only steam coiling around me, with no one in sight, my hands trembled as I pulled the ruined fabric over my head. I let it drop to the floor. The steam clung to my bare skin, the air thick and humid, curling against the bruises, the scars, the too-pale places where old wounds had finally healed.

  With one last bracing breath, I slid into the bath.

  The moment I was submerged, the heat wrapped around me, sinking deep into every aching muscle, every bruised inch of skin. But more than that, the tonic.

  It worked fast. Almost unnervingly so.

  The worst of the pain dulled, the ache in my ribs easing, the scrapes and bruises fading beneath the surface. If I had been in any other situation, I might have let myself relax.

  But my leg—my gods-damned leg—was all I cared about.

  The relief there was slower, the pain lingering, the deep throb pulsing through the bone. But it was less. Manageable. A breath slipped past my teeth, slow and forced. My fingers flexing beneath the water as my body adjusted to the absence of agony.

  I willed myself not to think about how much I had needed this, how much I had wanted this relief, how I would have agreed to almost anything if it meant an end to that constant, gnawing pain.

  Don’t think about that.

  I stayed there, floating, weightless. My hair fanned around me in the water, my heartbeat a steady thrum in my ears.

  Then, without leaving the warmth of the bath, I reached beneath the water, fingers finding the waistband of my filthy, torn pants. I sucked in a breath, gritting my teeth, and pulled.

  The fabric slid free, and I tossed them aside with a soft, wet slap against the stone.

  I did not think about how vulnerable it made me. How exposed.

  Instead, I focused on scrubbing myself clean.

  The water darkened, murky with blood and grime.

  But in a blink it cleared, pristine and untouched once more.

  I ran the bar of soap over my arms again. My stomach. My shoulders. There was nothing left to scrub. But I did it anyway. Then I reached for my hair, my fingers working through the tangled mess, lathering it again. The water turned cloudy, strands floating weightless around me.

  Again the bath cleaned itself and warmed up, wrapping around me as I let my body sink lower, let the magic—whatever the hell was in this tonic—continue to work its way into my leg, into my ribs, into every bruise and ache.

  I didn’t want to get out.

  Didn’t want to step back into that room where Ashterion was waiting.

  Didn’t want the weight of his stare, the calculation in his gaze.

  The tub was safe. Quiet.

  So, I stayed.

  Long past when I should have, long past when I had already scrubbed myself raw, long past when the pain in my body had dulled to an ache instead of the overwhelming pain I’d grown accustomed to.

  But finally, I knew I couldn’t linger any longer. I swallowed, forced my muscles to move, then braced. One hand gripping the ledge of the tub. My foot pressing lightly against the edge.

  A slow inhale. I pushed. Pain flared. A bone deep ache, but only an ache. Not the unbearable, splintering agony it had been before.

  I swallowed hard, pressing my foot down a little more, testing. The soreness was there, uncomfortable, but bearable.