I shot him a withering glare. “Don’t try to be charming. It doesn’t suit you.”

  He settled back into his chair, reaching for a book. “Go to bed fireling, I would like to do a bit more reading, but I expect you are rather tired.”

  I clenched my fists, ready to argue. Except…

  He was right. I hated that he was. Hated that the massive, sinfully soft-looking bed wasn’t just tempting—it was aching. My body recognising the need for rest before my mind could shut it down.

  A real bed.

  Rest.

  How long had it been since I’d had comfort?

  I moved to the bed and slid beneath the covers. My intention had been to stay awake, not to let my guard drop for even a second. But the moment the warmth wrapped around me and the mattress cradled my aching body, something inside me cracked.

  The blankets were warm, as though they had been left near a fire and had been waiting for me.

  I hadn’t realised I was cold until I wasn’t. Sleep took me before I could truly fight it.

  62

  Ashterion wasn’t sure what the fuck he was doing.

  He sat in the armchair across the room, watching her sleep, his body unnaturally still, shadows wafting across the floor.

  It should have been nothing.

  She was nothing to him.

  And yet⁠—

  Unbidden, his eyes drifted back to her.

  The way she had melted into the bed despite herself, exhaustion dragging her under like a tide she hadn’t been able to fight. The way the firelight softened her edges, turned her skin golden against the darkness of his sheets.

  She didn’t trust him. She despised him. And yet she slept.

  His heart raced. A small spike of something he didn’t want to inspect burrowed into his ribs before he crushed it down.

  It didn’t matter.

  He exhaled slowly, rising from the chair as if he could outrun the thought forming in the back of his mind.

  Shadow Drask.

  Gods. He didn’t know why her saying it bothered him so much.

  It had never mattered before. Not when the other courts spat it with ease. Not when they whispered behind goblets, half-mocking, half-terrified of the High Lord who could be traded for the right price. Xyliria called it his purpose. Said she’d found his use when no one else could.

  He hadn’t cared.

  He didn’t care.

  But when Isara said it⁠—

  When she looked him in the eye and voiced that truth, dragging it out into the light?

  It had clawed him apart. Ripped into parts of him he’d long thought silent.

  He scrubbed a hand down his face as he stepped into the bathing chamber, jaw clenched tight. The mirror greeted him as it always did. A reflection he didn’t recognise anymore.

  He undid his tunic and let it fall. The newest wounds were fresh enough that the shirt tugged at them slightly as it slid off his shoulders.

  He barely noticed.

  His body had long since become a graveyard. Fresh wounds stacked over old ones. Half-healed slashes and burn marks, faded scars that he no longer remembered receiving.

  They didn’t ache anymore. Just reminders.

  He didn’t look like the male who’d once ruled armies. He looked like the reason they would refuse to follow.

  Ashterion yanked on a sleep shirt and stepped back into the room, movements mechanical. A sigh left him before he slipped into bed, keeping as much space as possible between them. Not touching. Not breathing too close.

  Still trying to figure out what the hell had possessed him to bring her to him that first night.

  He was curious. That was all. Torture had become dull to experience. The same routine. The same games.

  It certainly didn’t matter that part of him wanted, without understanding why, to reach out. To press his thumb to the bruises on her wrists. To replace violence with something quieter.

  Gods, he needed to figure out a way to get her out of here.

  Away from him.

  Soon.

  The sheets shifted.

  Ashterion didn’t look up right away. He heard the subtle change in her breathing—the way it caught, tightened, then hissed out in a quiet, panicked exhale. The kind a person made when their dream had dissolved and the nightmare of waking had taken its place.

  He turned another page of his book, letting the silence stretch.

  “You dream like someone trying to outrun a blade,” he said, voice low, casual.

  A pause. Then the distinct sound of her breath catching.

  He finally looked up.

  She was propped on one elbow, hair mussed from sleep, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion hollowing her face.

  “Breakfast,” he offered, gesturing to the small table with a flick of his fingers. “I thought you might be hungry.”

  “I’d rather starve,” she muttered, even as her stomach growled loud enough that he was certain the entire castle had heard.

  His lips twitched. “How refreshingly predictable.”

  She rose—slowly, stiffly, pain obvious in the careful way she moved—but with that same blade-backed pride.

  She sank into the armchair opposite him, spine rigid, expression scathing.

  “Your hospitality is overwhelming,” she snapped, tone dry enough to draw blood. “Do all your prisoners get the royal treatment, or am I special?”

  He didn’t look up from his book. “Only the ones who dump wine on me.”

  She grabbed a piece of bread and tore into it. The violence of it was strangely charming. Her gaze flicked to the porcelain cup by his elbow.

  “Go ahead,” he murmured. “Though I can’t promise it’s not poisoned.”

  She snorted, mouth full. “If you wanted me dead, you wouldn’t waste good coffee on it.”

  “You’re learning.”

  She took the cup.

  “You know,” she said, lifting her eyes to him. “For someone who’s supposed to be breaking me, you’re doing a piss-poor job.”

  Ashterion turned another page, unhurried. “The day is young.”

  She took another sip of the coffee, then set it down with deliberate care.

  “When do I go back to my cell?”

  Ashterion didn’t answer immediately. He finished his sip of coffee first, savouring the taste.

  “Soon,” he said at last. “But first, we need to address those pesky wounds of yours.”

  Her brow furrowed. “What wounds?”

  “Exactly.”

  Isara huffed, the sound laced with irritation and resignation. “Of course. Can’t have the High Lord’s pet project looking… untouched.”

  “No,” he agreed smoothly. “That would raise questions neither of us wants answered.”

  Her posture stiffened again, jaw ticking. He could almost feel the argument building.

  He cut it off before she could speak.

  “And when you return,” he said, voice cool and quiet, “you’ll need to lie.”

  “Lie?”

  Ashterion set his book down on the table beside him, folding one leg neatly over the other as he gave her his full attention. “To your friends. To your precious Varyth. They can’t know the truth about what happened last night.”

  She scoffed. “They’d never⁠—”

  “Sell you out?” he interrupted, his tone featherlight. “Of course not.”

  He let the silence stretch before continuing, softer now, almost pitying. “But how certain are you, truly? That Varyth’s affection for you outweighs the opportunity to put me in harm’s way?”

  That stopped her cold.

  Ashterion watched the war behind her eyes. The flash of instinctive denial that didn’t quite make it to her lips. The split-second of doubt she tried to swallow.

  “You can trust them, yes.” He smiled, small and razor-edged. “But can you predict them?”

  Her fingers clenched around the porcelain cup.

  He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. “You’ll tell them what they expect to hear. That I hurt you. Broke you. Played the part I’m meant to play.” His eyes met hers, unblinking. “Because if you don’t… if they even suspect the truth… we both know how this ends.”

  Isara stood, abrupt enough that the chair scraped against the stone. “You think I’m going to lie to them? Pretend I was some broken doll in your hands?”

  Ashterion didn’t rise. He simply looked up at her, tone deceptively mild. “If you’re determined to walk out of here in one piece,” he murmured. “You’ll listen to me.”

  Her glare hardened, fury flickering beneath the surface.

  “I want to go home,” she snapped, her voice breaking. “Whatever it takes.”

  “So, listen to me. Though admittedly…” Ashterion raised a brow at her. “I cannot understand the desire to crawl back to Luceren.”

  That hit. Her jaw clenched. “My children need me.”

  The statement hung between them, suspended in the sudden stillness of the room.

  Everything in him, every inch of his detachment, every frayed thread of endurance, snapped. All twelve centuries of his existence crashed into that single word. Children.

  Isara’s face drained of colour, horror dawning in her features as she realised what she’d revealed. Her hand flew to her mouth, too late to catch the secret that had escaped.

  “You have children?” His shadows reacted before he could master them, coiling tight around his ankles in agitated spirals.

  “I didn’t—” she started, then stopped, her throat working as she swallowed.

  Her eyes were wild. But it wasn’t ordinary fear. No, it was the primal terror that lived in the marrow of mothers who would burn worlds to protect what was theirs.

  “No,” she whispered, the lie transparent as glass. “I misspoke.”

  Ashterion’s mind recalculated in real time. She’d arrived less than a year ago. He was confident of that much. Varyth wouldn’t have been able to hide her presence for longer than a few seasons. There was no way the children were born here.

  “You have children.” Not a question this time. A fact. Carved and cold.

  Isara’s reaction was instant. She moved like something feral—like she’d throw the entire room into flame and ruin if she thought it would protect what was hers. Her magic lashed against the collar, the scent of ether filling the air as it fought to break free.

  “If you go anywhere near them, I will take you apart piece by piece.”

  Ah.

  There it was. The mother underneath the soldier. The apex predator that had always been hiding behind the brittle pride and sharp tongue.

  Ashterion forced calm into his frame. Smoothed every instinct that screamed for more information. “Not to worry, little fireling. I have no interest in hunting children. It’s no fun. They’re very slow.”

  She stared at him. Like she couldn’t tell if he was joking. Isara opened her mouth, then closed it.

  Ashterion rolled his eyes. “Truly, do you think I’m so depraved I would harm a child?”

  She didn’t answer, just kept breathing far too fast and hard, chest rising in those panicked, irregular bursts. The female needed to calm down before she threw herself into a wall.

  “You can stop looking at me like that.” He sighed. “Your children are of no use to me. Besides.” He flicked his gaze back to her, cool and dry. “I assume they take after you, so they’re probably a nightmare.”

  She jolted back into motion, advancing a step towards him. “You bastard,” she spat. But there was a hint of something beyond rage behind the words.

  Ashterion smirked, tilting his head. “Yes.” He leaned back, shadows curling quietly around the legs of his chair as he folded the moment into thought.

  Children. Under Varyth’s care.

  If they weren’t his own offspring? That would complicate things. The male’s history with children… There was no way Isara knew. She would never have allowed them to remain under his care if she did. Unless they were his own. However unlikely, Ashterion needed to be sure.

  Casually, almost bored, he asked, “Based on the timeline… I assume they aren’t Varyth’s?”

  Isara stiffened.

  He could see the moment happen behind her glare. The calculation. Lie, or truth? Protect, or reveal?

  Finally she said, “No. They’re not Varyth’s.” She looked up at him, unflinching. “They crossed with me.”

  Fuck.

  Ashterion managed to keep his expression neutral. It took effort not to scrub a hand across his face. Every time this female opened her mouth, the situation got more gods-damned complicated.

  More bullshit to deal with later.

  Ashterion rose to his feet in one fluid motion. “Well,” he said, tone clipped. “Let’s see to those wounds, shall we? You can return once we’ve made it look sufficiently… unpleasant.”

  He caught it, the tight lines around her mouth softened, and some of the stiffness in her shoulders uncoiled. She didn’t speak, just nodded.

  He turned to step around the table, when her gaze caught on something. Her eyes dropped to his chest, fixating.

  “What?” he said flatly, already annoyed.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “I’m—what?”

  She pointed, frowning now. “Your tunic. There.”

  He glanced down. Sure enough, dark crimson had seeped through the fine grey linen. A sluggish bloom, vivid and ugly, right over his ribs. He prodded at it with two fingers and hissed faintly as pain lanced beneath the skin.

  Huh.

  He hadn’t even noticed.

  Of course the wound had reopened. Why wouldn’t it? It wasn’t like his entire fucking ribcage wasn’t already on fire every time he breathed.

  “Relax,” he drawled. “I won’t bleed out before you get back to your cell.”

  “Let me see it.”

  His head snapped toward her. “Let you see it?” The words came out edged with incredulity. “Why would I do that?”

  She crossed her arms, her stance shifting to something more determined. “Because you’re bleeding all over your fancy floor, and I’d rather not slip in it when I finally get the chance to murder you properly.”

  Despite himself, his lips twitched. “How considerate.”

  “I’m a very thoughtful assassin.”

  Ashterion studied her, trying to parse through whether the concern in her eyes was genuine or merely a tactic.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” he muttered, turning away again.

  “And you’re bleeding.”

  Her footsteps padded across the stone floor, each one far too confident for someone who should be afraid of him. For someone who had every reason to be.

  Ashterion let out a measured breath as she came to stand in front of him again, her expression carved in stubbornness. The same look she wore every time she challenged him, which was far too often.

  She meant it.

  And gods help him, she wasn’t going to back down.

  “Lift your shirt,” she said.

  A short, incredulous laugh escaped him before he could catch it. “Are you seriously ordering me around in my own gods-damned castle?”

  “I’m seriously trying to keep you from bleeding out all over your own gods-damned castle.”

  “I’m a High Lord,” he said dryly. “I won’t die from a little blood loss.”

  “You’re bleeding through your shirt. That’s not a little.”

  Ashterion clenched his jaw, irritation flaring through him. Not at her persistence—though that was certainly grating—but at his own inexplicable reluctance to end this conversation. He should tell her to go to hell. Should remind her exactly who and what he was.

  Instead, he growled something entirely unintelligible under his breath and dragged the fabric of his ruined tunic up, pulling it up over his head in one fluid motion.

  He glanced down, the gash was worse than he’d expected. It carved its way from beneath the centre of his sternum, angling downward across the curve of his ribs and stopping above his hip. The wound had torn through more than flesh—muscle along the edge was visibly strained, the skin around it inflamed, weeping fresh blood where it hadn’t clotted properly.

  Ashterion recognised the jagged pattern immediately. Ryleth’s handiwork. He couldn’t recall the precise moment this particular wound had been inflicted, the sessions with Ryleth often blurred together.

  But the blade? That he knew. Its bite was unmistakable, leaving wounds that refused to heal properly, that reopened at the slightest provocation, that burned long after the cutting had stopped.

  Isara sucked in a harsh breath.

  His gaze snapped up in time to catch her expression. For a split second, her mask of detached determination faltered, horror flashing across her face. She looked at him like she didn’t know whether to be furious or sick.

  And gods, he hated that.

  Ashterion’s jaw tightened, muscles clenching against the unwelcome scrutiny. He despised that look, that fleeting flash of pity across her face before she could mask it. It was worse than her hatred. Worse than her rage. This... this almost-concern was something he had no defences against.

  “It’s nothing,” he said, voice colder now.

  Isara’s eyes darted between the wound and his face. “That’s not nothing,” she said, her words stripped of their usual venom. “That needs attention.”

  He hesitated, every part of him screaming not to let this happen. Not to let her see him like this.

  “Where are your healing supplies?” The softness in her tone scraped against him.

  He considered ignoring her. Considered sending her to the cell right now and risking Xyliria’s wrath. Letting this moment die before it became something worse, before it carved something else open inside him. But instead, his jaw flexed, and he inclined his chin toward the cupboard near the bathing chamber.

  She moved without hesitation. Ashterion tracked every step with wary eyes, his shadows following her as she walked. She rifled through the cabinet, efficient and sure of herself, gathering what she needed. Salves. Cloth. A curved silver knife, clean and honed for trimming torn edges of flesh.