I stepped out of the tub, spotting fresh clothing folded on a marble bench. I dressed quickly, my limbs jerky.

  I moved back into the main chamber, my damp hair clinging to my neck and my skin tingling from whatever fae magic had been woven into the water. My steps were slow, my spine straight despite the exhaustion that pressed down on me.

  Ashterion had moved.

  He was lounging in an armchair near the hearth, one leg crossed over the other, his elbow rested on the armrest as he regarded me with that same infuriating calm. The shadows curled lazily along the floor, watching me without eyes.

  With a lazy wave of his hand, a covered bowl of steaming stew appeared on a small table before me, along with a simple wooden chair. The scent hit me instantly—rich, savoury, spiced. My stomach twisted violently, both from hunger and from the wariness curling tight in my gut.

  “Eat,” he said, his tone smooth. “Then we’ll talk.” He turned his attention from me then, plucking a book off the table and flipping it open.

  My body was screaming at me to sit, to eat, to take what was offered, because gods knew when my next meal would come. But my pride kept me rooted in place.

  “I don’t trust you,” I said flatly.

  Ashterion didn’t even glance up. “Good,” he said. “Now, eat.”

  I hesitated for only a second longer before finally stepping forward. Not because he had ordered me to, but because my body needed it. Because whatever came next, I wouldn’t face it weakened.

  The chair scraped against the floor as I pulled it out and sat. The steam curled up from the stew, rich with the scent of meat and herbs, and my stomach twisted again, painfully hollow.

  It would be a lie to say I wasn’t tempted to throw the entire bowl into his lap.

  Instead, I took a small, cautious bite. The warmth spread through me instantly, filling the ache in my gut. But I kept my face neutral, a refusal to show anything that might resemble gratitude.

  Ashterion let out a quiet chuckle. “See? Not so difficult, is it?”

  I shot him a glare and shovelled another bite into my mouth to keep from snapping a retort that would make him retaliate in some unseen way.

  The silence stretched between us as I ate, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the occasional rustle of pages as Ashterion turned them. I stared at my food and refused to look at him, to acknowledge his presence more than necessary.

  When I finally set down my spoon, the bowl empty, Ashterion closed his book with a snap.

  “Better?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer, just lifted my chin, met him with defiance burning in my eyes.

  Ashterion gestured lazily to the armchair beside him. “Join me.”

  I tensed.

  It wasn’t a request.

  I considered a refusal anyway, but there was no point in antagonising him further. Not when I was already at a disadvantage.

  The chair was plush, far too comfortable for the cold tension that hummed through my body as I sank into it. My fingers curled around the armrests, bracing myself, but Ashterion merely leaned back as he turned his attention toward the fire.

  For a long moment, we sat in silence.

  I stared at him, at the way the light flickered against his features and cast shadows that only deepened the mysteries surrounding him.

  I didn’t want to ask.

  Didn’t want to need to ask.

  But the question had been clawing at the back of my mind since the moment I stepped into this fucking room. “Why the hell did you warn me?”

  Ashterion stilled, as if I’d struck something he hadn’t expected.

  Slowly, he turned his head, meeting my gaze.

  “I wonder.” His lips curled. Not quite a smirk, not quite a sneer. “Do you truly believe I owe you an answer?”

  My hands tightened on the armrests. “No. But I’m asking anyway.”

  He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “You assume it was a kindness,” he murmured. “That I warned you out of some sense of pity, or regret.”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  He looked away.

  I didn’t relent, my voice quieter now, but no less pointed. “You didn’t want me to die.”

  “No.”

  A confession. A breath.

  As soon as the word left him, regret brushed over his face.

  His shoulders stiffened and his expression closed off as quickly as it had cracked. He leaned back, fingers tapping idly against the arm of his chair. “Don’t mistake that for mercy, Isara.”

  I scoffed. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Ashterion studied me with unsettling intensity as the firelight danced across his features. For a moment, neither of us spoke, the silence that stretched between us almost alive.

  “No,” he finally said, “I don’t believe you would.”

  I held his gaze despite the unease crawling beneath my skin. This close, I could see the subtle patterns in his midnight-blue eyes, flecks of sliver, stars embedded in an endless void.

  His expression remained the same. A game he was used to playing. A mask he wore effortlessly.

  But I had seen the crack in it.

  I leaned forward. “Why do you seem so irritated when your wife has you hurt us?”

  Ashterion’s smirk returned, slow and knowing. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because you flinched.”

  The smirk on his face weakened.

  “You didn’t watch what you were doing. You looked away. Like you didn’t want to see it.”

  His features tightened for a heartbeat before he smoothed it away.

  A near-silent chuckle escaping Ashterion as he studied me anew. “You’re observant.”

  “And you didn’t answer my question.”

  Silence stretched between us, heavy and humming.

  “I find her tiresome,” he murmured finally, his tone was smooth, but the words were jagged underneath. “And when you’re as accustomed to cruelty as I am…” He sighed, almost bored. “Indulging her less creative methods is rather dull.”

  The chill started slowly, curling down my spine as the realisation took shape.

  Not because of the statement itself, but because of the way he said it.

  Flat. Detached.

  Like cruelty was another expectation he’d grown weary of fulfilling.

  I stared at Ashterion, trying to read past the composed mask he wore. Was he lying? Playing some new game with me? The shadows in the room deepened as I studied him, attempting to shield him from what I might see.

  “Less creative methods,” I repeated, not bothering to hide my disgust. “Is that what you call torture? A lack of creativity?”

  “Call it what you will. The result is the same.”

  “And what result is that?” I challenged, my hands gripping the armrests so tightly my knuckles turned white. “Breaking us? Making us beg? Is that what you want?”

  Ashterion’s lips curved. “What I want is irrelevant.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Perhaps,” he murmured. “Or perhaps not. Does it matter?”

  The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the sculpted angles of his cheekbones, the subtle tension in his jaw.

  I watched him, expressionless. “It matters, because you fixed my leg.”

  57

  Ashterion shifted, the worn leather of his chair creaking as he leaned back, shadows curling tighter around his boots.

  He wanted to change the subject. Stars, he needed to.

  Because the truth?

  He didn’t have an answer. Not one that made sense.

  Why had he warned her? Why had he healed her gods-damned leg when he could have let it fester, forced her to crawl?

  Why had he brought her here, into his chambers, into his space, into the small, hollowed-out piece of himself he hadn’t let anyone into in centuries?

  His fingers flexed once, then stilled on the armrest. It wasn’t kindness. It wasn’t guilt. It couldn’t be.

  He didn’t care.

  He didn’t.

  He just didn’t want Xyliria to break her. That was all. Didn’t want her with access to that fire. To that power. That ancient, impossible magic Isara shouldn’t even possess.

  It was a liability.

  A threat.

  He was protecting the balance. Protecting himself.

  But still… his eyes drifted to her face. Pale from the strain, jaw tight with fury she refused to voice. And beneath all that anger—steel. She was here. Still intact. Somehow.

  He should kill her.

  Here. Now.

  He could make it look like an accident. Tell Xyliria she’d lashed out, that he’d had no choice. That her death had been regrettable but necessary.

  But his shadows stirred around him, slow and sinuous, coiling tighter. They knew.

  “It matters,” Isara hissed, low and lethal. “Because I want to know what game you’re playing.”

  He smirked, slow and lazy. “Telling you would ruin the game.”

  “You’re a smug bastard.”

  “Accurate,” he said mildly, “but flattering me won’t get you answers.”

  Her rage crackled through the air like a storm held back. “You kept us alive. You warned me. But you stood there and let her fucking break us.”

  Ashterion arched a brow. “Are you suggesting I should’ve thrown myself between you and Xyliria?”

  “I’m suggesting you pick a side.”

  “You say that as though I can.”

  Her breath caught, fury and confusion warring in her expression. He should have stopped. Should have shut the fuck up and let it end there.

  But gods, he couldn’t help it.

  He wanted more—her fire, her fury, the way she never bent without digging her heels in first. And maybe he was a fool for it, but it was the most alive he’d felt in centuries.

  “Tell me.” He casually brushed invisible dust from his sleeve. “How long have you been wielding the fire?”

  Isara’s jaw tightened. “That’s none of your business.”

  “I’ll answer any question you ask,” he said smoothly. “Anything. You have my word.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  He waited, already half-resigned to her walking away.

  But then⁠—

  “Months,” she said tightly, like iron ground against stone. “Not long after I crossed the Veil. But I think I felt it even before then… when I passed through. Like it was waiting for me.”

  Ashterion nodded once, though his mind was already spinning, calculations firing. If the Veil was capable of gifting black fire to humans who crossed—what the hell did that mean? What had it seen in her?

  What was she?

  But he said none of it.

  Instead, he waited, watching her.

  “You said people are given shadow fire,” she said, sharp enough to cut. “What the hell does that mean?”

  His fingers went still against the armrest. Here it was, the question that would shatter whatever fragile equilibrium they’d built in this room. The answer that might send her running, or worse, make her understand exactly how fucked she truly was.

  “It means shadow fire isn’t natural.” The words were poison on his tongue. “It’s not something you’re born with.”

  He could see her mind racing, connecting dots he’d rather keep scattered. “Then what⁠—”

  “It’s made.” Brutal honesty, delivered like a killing blow. “Shadow fire wielders were created. Much like other monsters from my court.”

  The blood drained from her face so fast he thought she might collapse. Good. She should be terrified.

  “The shadow magic corrupts whatever power you already possess,” he continued, voice steady as a blade sliding between ribs. “Allows you to wield something beyond the natural abilities of this realm. But the ability comes with a price.”

  “What price?”

  He met her eyes directly, let her see the truth of it. “It corrupts the mind too. Eventually, those wielders became too dangerous to control.” A pause, deliberate as a heartbeat. “They had to be hunted.”

  “Who made them?” Her voice cracked. “Who did this?”

  Ashterion shrugged, the gesture deliberately elegant. “It’s unclear. The magic was hidden after the last wielders were killed. Some say there was an original shadow fire wielder who created others. But the more common legend...”

  He paused, watching her face. Watching the way hope and horror warred in her expression.

  “A legendary shadow warrior tried to save his lover with shadow magic. But power was so great that it was impossible for a fae form to contain, and it corrupted her soul.” The shadows around his boots stirred, responding to the darkness of the tale.

  “What happened?”

  “He had to kill her in the end.”

  He could see it in the way her shoulders drew up, the way her breath caught. Her mouth opened, a dozen questions clawing at her throat.

  But he held up a hand before she could ask them.

  “That was more than one question. My turn.”

  Isara’s laugh was bitter. “Fine. Ask away.”

  Ashterion studied her for a long moment, fingers drumming once against the armrest before going still. When he spoke, his tone was deceptively casual.

  “You told me no one made you.” He tilted his head, shadows pooling deeper at his feet. “So tell me this. Did anyone—Varyth or another member of his court—ever mark you with anything? Give you something to carry at all times?”

  The sound she made was small. Involuntary.

  Gotcha.

  Every nerve in Ashterion’s body went taut, predatory focus narrowing to a blade’s edge. He didn’t move, didn’t let his expression shift, but inside, something clicked into place with the weight of inevitability.

  “That’s a yes then. Do you have it? Or can I see it?”

  Isara’s jaw worked, fury and defensiveness warring in her eyes. For a moment, he thought she might refuse. Spit venom at him and storm out.

  But then her hands moved.

  Slowly, reluctantly, she reached up and tugged her hair back from her neck, baring the delicate curve of skin behind her ear.

  “He said it would help me control my powers,” she said tightly, every word ground out like a confession under duress. “It didn’t make me. I could already feel whatever this was by then.” The defiance in her answer was almost admirable. Almost. “Varyth wouldn’t lie to me.”

  Ashterion didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because he’d gone utterly, dangerously still.

  There, burned into the pale skin just behind her ear, barely visible beneath the fall of her hair—was a mark.

  A symbol he recognised.

  He moved before he could stop himself, closing the distance between them in two silent steps. His hand lifted, fingers curling beneath her jaw to tilt her head just slightly, thumb brushing over the mark with a deliberateness that felt almost reverent.

  Fuck.

  It wasn’t a rune for control.

  It was containment.

  Suppression magic, old and vicious, designed to lock something down so tight it couldn’t breathe. The kind of thing you used when you didn’t want power to surface. When you wanted to keep it buried, dormant, harmless.

  Which meant⁠—

  His mind raced, calculations spinning faster than he could catch them.

  If the black fire she wielded was the suppressed version of her power? If this mark was holding power back, caging it, keeping it from tearing her apart from the inside out⁠—

  What the fuck was she really capable of?

  “Ashterion?”

  He blinked.

  Realised, too late, that he’d gone silent. That his thumb was tracing the edge of the mark, like he could read its secrets through touch alone.

  Her breath hitched.

  His hand stilled.

  He cleared his throat, stepping back with an ease he absolutely did not feel. His expression smoothed into something unreadable, though his pulse was a war drum in his chest.

  Weigh your options, you bastard.

  She was too attached to Varyth. Too loyal, too desperate to believe he’d protect her. If he told her the truth—if he said that’s not control, that’s a gods-damned cage—she wouldn’t believe him. She’d think it was manipulation. Another game. Another lie.

  And she’d be right to.

  So he didn’t.

  Instead, he let his gaze drift back to the mark, his voice far more neutral than it had any fucking right to be. “It does seem designed to control.”

  A half-truth.

  The most dangerous kind.

  Isara was silent for a full minute, her breathing the only sound in the cavernous chamber. When she finally looked up, her storm-dark eyes had gone flat and dangerous.

  “One more question.”

  Ashterion sighed, shadows curling tighter around his boots. The female was relentless. “Fine. But I make no promise to answer it.”

  Isara tilted her head, gave the barest lift of one brow and, completely flat, said, “Do you sit up at night.” Her brow arched a breath higher. “Coming up with all the scary nicknames for your court? You included.”

  For a heartbeat, Ashterion was utterly, completely speechless.

  The shadows around him went still, as if they too were stunned into silence by the sheer audacity of the question.

  “I—what?”

  “You,” she said, gesturing to him like she was explaining something obvious to a child. “Shadow Lord. And your court, Stormborn, Bloodwitch. Every one of you has some ominous, dramatic title that sounds like it belongs in a bad bard’s song. Do you just… spend your free time crafting those? Is that what the most feared High Lord in this realm does?”

  He stared at her.

  Was she… was she being serious?

  He opened his mouth. Closed it. Dragged a hand down his face. Stared at her another beat longer.

  Then, finally—stars help him—he leaned back and said, “Well, it’s an important part of our deadly image. Can’t have the rabble such as yourself thinking we’re the same.”

  Something remarkable happened on her face. A small smile ghosted across her lips before she caught herself and shoved it away.