The shadows around him stirred. They’d noticed too. How could they not? It was like seeing the sun break through storm clouds—brief, startling, and inexplicably captivating.

  He shouldn’t care. Shouldn’t notice. Certainly shouldn’t feel the strange tightening in his chest at having caused that reaction.

  “At least you admit it,” she muttered.

  Ashterion found himself fighting laughter. Not a calculated chuckle designed to unnerve, not the cold, practiced sound he used in Xyliria’s court. A genuine laugh. He couldn’t even recall the last time he’d felt such a thing.

  He suppressed it, of course. Buried it beneath layers of practiced control. But the fact that it had nearly escaped at all was… concerning.

  Ashterion studied her, the faintest crease forming between his brows. His shadows flickered at his feet.

  “Of all the things you could have asked me,” he said, dry and quiet, “you asked about the names?”

  Isara shrugged, leaning against the wall as though she hadn’t upended the entire conversation with one deadpan remark. “Maybe I wanted to know if the names are for show or actually real. Giving yourself the titles is embarrassing compared to earning them.”

  A sound dangerously close to a snort escaped him. A truly undignified noise. “Fair enough.” He didn’t smile, but gods, he almost remembered he could. “You should ask your friends, then. Most of them know how the names came to be.”

  She raised a brow. “And? Were they earned?”

  “That depends.” Ashterion’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “People love a name to whisper in the dark. A way to make the fear feel bigger. Foolish, really.”

  “Why?” she asked, the question blunt, direct.

  He leaned back, turning toward the hearth, flames casting flickering gold across the lines of his face.

  “Because,” he said, “real monsters hide in the light, where everyone can see them.”

  The fire cracked.

  Her jade eyes flashed, not with fear, but understanding.

  Recognition. She knew what he meant because she’d seen it herself.

  The shadows stirred around his feet, responding to his thoughts before he could name them. They’d been doing that more frequently lately. Anticipating. Listening.

  She was studying him again. The weight of her scrutiny was a physical touch against his skin. Searching for cracks, for weaknesses, for any hint of the truth beneath his meticulously constructed façade.

  “You speak from experience,” she said finally. Not a question. A statement.

  Ashterion’s jaw tightened imperceptibly.

  “Perhaps.” He stared into fire, unwilling to risk even a glance in her direction. “Or perhaps I merely enjoy being cryptic.”

  “Which one are you, then?”

  He angled his head enough to study her from the corner of his eye.

  “A monster who hides in the dark?” she asked. “Or in the light?”

  For a heartbeat, he said nothing.

  Then he leaned back, one arm draping over the side of the chair, the other resting loosely across his knee. A shadow curled up the leg of his trousers, brushing against his skin in a silent, knowing caress.

  Ashterion smirked.

  “I don’t hide.” His voice was low, smooth. Dangerous in the way still water could be—quiet until it pulled you under. “I never have.”

  He turned his head then, finally meeting her gaze.

  “I wait for the world to look away.” His fingers flexed once. “And then I remind them why they should fear the dark.”

  The words settled between them like falling ash.

  And still, she didn’t flinch.

  58

  Icould hear every ragged breath rattling in Darian’s chest, feel the fever pulsing off him in waves as he drifted in and out of consciousness. His wounds were shallow—but that didn’t matter. Not when the infection was ravaging him from the inside. Not with that cursed collar choking off his magic. Without a healer, his body was losing.

  So was Fenric’s.

  His wounds weren’t closing. Still bleeding days later. No matter what we did.

  I didn’t stop moving.

  Lincatheron was at Darian’s side now, he cradled his head with trembling care while Varyth pressed a cool cloth to his skin. They rarely spoke.

  Brynelle and Shaelith had taken first watch. Now they were curled against the far wall, huddled in a sleep that wasn’t rest. Brynelle’s arm was wrapped around Shaelith like she could hold her together. Shaelith didn’t even stir.

  I tore another strip of fabric. Drenched it. Pressed it to Fenric’s side, where the blood kept coming. My hands were slick. My arms shook.

  Cindrissian was beside me. His hands over mine, helping me hold the fabric tight against the deep gash across Fenric’s ribs. His touch was steady where mine had begun to shake, his presence a silent anchor in the chaos.

  I couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t afford to. Not with the blood still welling, not with the uselessness that clawed at my throat.

  I needed Darian to live. I needed Fenric to stop bleeding. I needed one gods-damned win.

  Instead, the fucking guards came.

  They tore me away. Tore Varyth away.

  The first time we’d been taken together. That meant nothing good.

  Xyliria sat at the head of the room, her legs crossed, watching us like a cat lounging in the sun.

  “I hear you’re in need of a healer.”

  I didn’t answer.

  Varyth stayed silent too. But his presence was loud beside me, the coiled rage, the way his breath was too controlled, his fingers curling into fists.

  “How rude,” Xyliria mused. “I’m offering assistance, and you don’t even say thank you?”

  Still, we did not speak.

  “I’m also aware,” she purred with satisfaction. “That my husband has been playing with a new toy.”

  My chest tightened.

  I turned my head⁠—

  And met Ashterion’s cold, midnight-blue stare. Something jagged stirred beneath his mask. He looked paler than usual. As if whatever was wrong lingered in his veins.

  But his lips curved into a slow, cruel smirk. “Humans are such a rarity,” he said, as if discussing a fascinating relic. “I was curious.”

  A pit of ice formed in my stomach.

  I locked my spine straight. Refused to react.

  Xyliria’s grin sharpened. She had been waiting for this.

  “Given my husband’s… affinity for you,” she drawled, stretching like this conversation bored her. “I have an offer.”

  The room thinned around me.

  “One night a week in his chambers,” Xyliria said, light and careless. “And I’ll ensure healers treat any injuries that might otherwise be fatal.”

  The noise that ripped from Varyth was pure, undiluted fury.

  A roar so violent it rattled through the stone walls, shook the air around us. He lunged, his entire body straining against the guards holding him back.

  Varyth’s power leaked through the collar, a dark, crackling pressure that coiled through the room—a storm ready to swallow everything whole. It didn’t free him, didn’t help him. But it made the air impossible to breathe.

  “I will fucking kill you.” The words were a snarl, a promise, his eyes locked onto Xyliria, and I knew he was already tearing her apart in his mind.

  The guards fought to hold him back, struggling, their grips slipping as his rage flooded the room.

  Ashterion only smirked.

  Xyliria sighed, all mock disappointment as she tapped a bored finger against her lips. “So dramatic, Varyth. But I wasn’t talking to you.”

  She turned to me. “Well? Do you accept?”

  “Don’t you fucking dare.” The guards struggled harder to hold Varyth back as he thrashed against them. “Don’t you fucking dare, Isara⁠—”

  But I ignored him.

  Because all I could hear was Darian and Fenric.

  Darian’s gasps back in the cell as he burned alive under the fever, with wounds that refused to heal. Darian, who had never stopped protecting me.

  And Fenric. Who had pretended to be a fairytale for my children. Who was bleeding out slowly in the corner of that cursed cell, because I hadn’t been strong enough.

  One night a week. For a life.

  “I accept.”

  Varyth’s head turned, his gaze burning into mine, his chest heaving, his entire body vibrating with fury. Then, he turned back to Ashterion.

  “If you so much as touch her,” Varyth’s voice was lethal, endless. “I will rip your fucking heart out.”

  Ashterion’s smirk deepened. His eyes gleamed with amusement as he tilted his head, considering Varyth’s words as though they were a mild inconvenience rather than a deadly promise.

  “You’re adorable when you’re angry.” Ashterion cocked his head to one side. “Though, it’s a little rich for you to be so possessive.”

  Varyth snarled.

  But Ashterion turned to Xyliria.

  “Thank you.” The tiniest, briefest tremor shook his fingers before he raised his hand, brushing his knuckles down Xyliria’s cheek. “For the gift.”

  Xyliria waved a dismissive hand, utterly disinterested in the carnage she had set in motion.

  59

  Stars, the taste of those words in his mouth made Ashterion want to vomit.

  A gift.

  As if Isara were a thing. A token. A plaything tossed between monsters. And he’d thanked Xyliria for her.

  This was it. The start of the charade. Xyliria had drawn the lines, lit the stage, and thrown him into the role. Her darling, cruel husband, sharpening his knives for the former mortal.

  Break her, she’d said. As though it were a performance. As though it were entertainment.

  And he knew what she expected. Bruises. Screams. Terror. Proof that he could be her good little puppet. Still broken enough to obey.

  Ashterion swallowed bile, his shadows writhing in protest beneath his skin. He wanted to tear the whole room apart. Wanted to burn it down around them. But his hands were bound, always had been, in more ways than silk.

  He needed a plan.

  Fast.

  Because Xyliria wouldn’t wait long for results. She never did. And if he didn’t deliver what she wanted—if he faltered, hesitated, protected instead of destroyed—then it wouldn’t be him in that chamber with Isara.

  It would be Ryleth.

  And she wouldn’t survive him.

  He couldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t.

  He had perhaps three days. Maybe less, knowing Xyliria’s impatience. Three days to figure out how to protect Isara while convincing his wife he was breaking her instead.

  Ashterion forced himself to move.

  Every muscle protested. He realised, faintly, that several of his ribs might be broken. Possibly a few other bones as well. Ryleth had demanded his company again last night. No doubt he would stay close by in the hope Xyliria would change her mind.

  The wounds and bruises mottling his skin were healing, but it was almost pointless if Ryleth’s company was going to be frequent. If nothing else at least Isara’s night in his chambers would offer relief from other company.

  He let the shadows waft from his skin. Let his breath steady, slow and cold, until he felt nothing but frost hollowing out his chest.

  He walked down from the dais, step by deliberate step, the echo of his boots garish in the chamber’s vaulted hush.

  His expression remained carved from obsidian.

  Each stride brought him closer to her. Isara. She was held between two guards, defiant despite the fresh bruise blooming at her jaw.

  His steps stopped before her.

  He met her gaze with eyes like winter. Not a flicker of warmth. Not a hint of the dread roiling behind his sternum.

  “Such a rare treat. I imagine she’ll be… entertaining.”

  He felt more than saw the way Varyth strained against his chains again, the ancient rage in him thrumming through the room.

  “I truly look forward to my time with our new pet,” he purred, infusing his voice with a dark hunger he didn’t feel.

  He moved with deliberate grace, circling Isara like a wolf stalking wounded prey. The torchlight caught in her copper-red hair, illuminating the defiance in her face even as she trembled. The sight of her—bloodied but unbowed—stirred uncomfortably in his chest. He immediately crushed it.

  “Such spirit.” He reached out to trace one finger along the curve of her jaw. “So much fire for such a small thing.”

  She flinched from his touch, her remarkable jade eyes burning with a loathing so profound it should have seared his skin. Ashterion let his finger trail down her neck. A performance for Xyliria’s benefit. But even in the act, he avoided the bruises.

  “All that fire.” He forced his lips to curve into a predatory smile. “I look forward to extinguishing it.”

  Varyth’s snarls had stopped and were replaced by a low, steady growl that vibrated through the chamber. He tracked Ashterion’s every movement, cataloguing, memorising, promising retribution with such conviction that lesser fae would have trembled.

  “Don’t,” Varyth snarled, the sound feral, unhinged.

  “Shut up,” Isara snapped.

  Ashterion’s brows lifted in faint amusement. “Is that any way to speak to your male, little fireling?”

  Her smile was sharp. “Better than listening to the two of you posture like fucking animals.”

  Ashterion barked a laugh, genuine this time. He couldn’t help it.

  This female, this reckless, furious human burned with enough fury to scorch the air between them.

  She didn’t look afraid.

  She looked ready to bite.

  “Such spirit,” he repeated, stepping closer again—close enough to crowd her space, to remind everyone watching that she was supposedly his prize. “I wonder if you’ll be so mouthy when we’re alone.”

  Isara’s head tilted, considering him with the sort of clinical detachment one might reserve for examining a particularly uninteresting insect. “Probably. I’m consistently disappointing that way.”

  Varyth made a sound—half laugh, half growl—and Ashterion felt a twist in his gut that had nothing to do with rage.

  He wanted to laugh. Wanted to applaud. Wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she understood what kind of monsters she was taunting.

  Instead, he let his shadows twist closer, let them taste the air around her.

  “We shall see.”

  60

  The cell door had just slammed behind us when⁠—

  “You have no idea what you agreed to.” Varyth’s roar was deafening, shaking the damp walls, drowning out even the laboured breathing from Darian and Fenric.

  “He’ll tear you apart. Do you think he’ll stop at one night?”

  The others—at least, the ones who could—Linc, Brynelle, Shaelith, and Cindrissian were on their feet in an instant. Their eyes darted wildly between us, demanding answers.

  “What the hell happened?” Linc stepped forward first.

  Varyth let out a deadly snarl.

  I ignored him. “A healer will be here soon. They’ll help Darian and Fenric.”

  Silence. Painful, endless silence.

  Then, Shaelith, “What the fuck did you do, Isara?”

  Varyth’s entire body shook. “She agreed to a night a week in Ashterion’s chambers in exchange for a healer.”

  The cell erupted.

  “Isara, what the fuck!” Linc’s fists slammed against the stone wall hard enough that dust cracked loose.

  “Have you lost your mind?” Brynelle’s voice rose next, her whole body shaking.

  Shaelith was colder, deadlier, her expression one of pure murder.

  I forced a grim smirk. “If Ashterion kills me, at least you all can stop being so dramatic.”

  “That’s not funny.” Fenric’s ragged snarl hit the air.

  I whipped my head around, finding him glaring up at me, half-drenched in blood.

  “I never asked you to die for me.”

  I didn’t respond.

  Didn’t let the words settle.

  I was already moving, ignoring the way my body screamed in protest. I knelt beside Darian, pressing the back of my hand against his fevered skin.

  Worse. His pulse was weak, his breathing too shallow. This deal was the only thing between him and death. I would’ve given every night if I had to.

  I lifted my head and caught Cindrissian watching me.

  I threw him a lethal glare. “Do you have a problem?”

  Cindrissian tilted his head, considering. “No.”

  Linc let out another growl, pacing furiously, his chest rising and falling in erratic, angry breaths. “You are a gods-damn idiot, Isara. Do you even⁠—”

  “Shut up.” I didn’t mean to shout. But if I didn’t, I’d fall apart. And I couldn’t afford to fall apart.

  Linc froze. His jaw clenched, his hands fisting so tightly at his sides his knuckles were white. He glared at me for a moment longer before he stormed to a corner of the cell, his body trembling as he tried to calm himself down.

  Shaelith’s gaze returned to me. Her lethal expression softened a fraction. Then, she turned away, her hands finding Brynelle, who was crying now. Not from sorrow, but from sheer, unbearable frustration.

  Shaelith cupped her face, pressing their foreheads together, murmuring words too quiet for any of us to hear.

  But Varyth⁠—

  We collided like a storm.

  “You’re a gods-damned idiot.”

  “You think I give a shit?” I snarled back, stepping closer, shoving against his chest. “I’m not going to let Darian or Fenric die because you’re too proud to let me make a gods-damned deal.”

  “I don’t give a fuck, Isara!”

  I glared at him, “I⁠—”

  “No. No.” He advanced, his body towering over mine, his fury unbearable. “You don’t get to act like I’m the one who fucking—” He cut off, dragging a shaking hand through his hair.

  I gathered myself. “It’s done.” I lifted my chin. “You need to let it go, Varyth.”