I pressed a hand to my mouth. Because I couldn’t cry. Not here.

  “Darian—” I started.

  He cut me off before I could say something stupid. “It’s not charity, Isara.” He slipped his hand into mine. His palm was warm and steady. “You’re family.”

  My throat ached. I gripped his fingers so tight I was sure it hurt, but he didn’t pull away. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.” Darian huffed a quiet, dry chuckle. “I might live through this just to be annoying.”

  I snorted. “You already are annoying.”

  He made a quiet noise of agreement before resting his head lightly against mine.

  We fell into silence again. But I had to say it. I had to say it.

  “Thank you.”

  Darian shifted, the fabric of his shirt rustling against the stone. “For what?”

  “For your friendship.” I nuzzled my head against his shoulder. “For letting me into your life. Your family. I’d forgotten, you know? What it was like. Having people around. Gods, having other parents around. People who understood.”

  “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

  Someone shifted in their sleep. The drag of breath a reminder we weren’t alone, but somehow, in this moment, we were.

  Then, Darian scoffed. “Not that you gave me much of a choice.”

  “I suppose I didn’t.” I laughed. A real, quiet, gods-damned laugh.

  Darian turned, pressed a delicate, fleeting kiss to the top of my head. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a real friend.” A shaky breath brushed against my hair. “Without all the political bullshit.” His fingers squeezed mine. “So, I suppose I should thank you too.”

  I let my eyes slip shut, the warmth of Darian’s shoulder steady against mine. “You should. I’m an excellent friend.”

  “Debatable.”

  I gasped, scandalised. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re violent,” he said, his voice teasing but laced with fondness. “And dramatic. And you’ve got an awful habit of dragging me into trouble.”

  “You walk willingly into trouble.”

  “That means I’m an idiot, not that you’re excellent.”

  “I think that makes us both idiots.”

  Darian hummed in agreement.

  “You’re a good friend too, you know,” I added quietly.

  Darian adjusted his head, letting it rest more comfortably against mine. “Gods, I hope not. I’ve worked very hard to cultivate my reputation as an asshole.”

  I let out another laugh. “Well, you failed.”

  “Damn,” he muttered. “All that effort wasted.”

  Sleep tugged at the edges of my thoughts, dulling the ache in my limbs, in my heart.

  As I drifted, I heard him murmur, “I hope we make it out of this.”

  I wanted to answer, wanted to promise we would.

  But the words never came.

  64

  She’d summoned him early. That alone was cause for unease. Ashterion stood in the centre of the hall, wrists dusted with dried blood from the last errand she’d sent him on, the scent of iron clinging to his skin.

  Xyliria hadn’t said a word when he entered. Just reclined lazily in her throne, swirling a glass of dark wine between her fingers as if she were entertaining a guest instead of planning another goddamn spectacle.

  It was the quiet that worried him most.

  When Xyliria was quiet, it meant she was savouring something.

  “Sit,” she said at last, gesturing to the throne beside hers, the one he never took unless ordered to.

  He didn’t move. Not until her eyes cut toward him with that sickening amusement. Ashterion sat. Let his body settle into the rigid, uncomfortable curve of the gilded stone.

  She was watching him like a cat watches a dying mouse. “You’re sulking.”

  He said nothing.

  “You always were so transparent when nervous.” She took a sip of wine, licking a dark drop from the corner of her mouth. “Do you want to know what I’ve planned for today?”

  Still, he didn’t answer.

  Xyliria hummed in mock disappointment. “No curiosity at all? And here I thought you might enjoy a little… performance.” She leaned over, trailing one gloved finger down the armrest between them. “Your pet is due to arrive shortly. I thought we might give her a little test.”

  His throat tightened. He didn’t show it.

  “Oh, don’t sulk.” Xyliria’s laugh was soft, honeyed poison. “You’ve had her, what, three sessions now? Four?” She tilted her head, studying him with that predatory focus that made his skin crawl. “She certainly looks appropriately broken. All those bruises, the trembling, the fear in her eyes...” She waved a dismissive hand. “Aesthetically, she’s perfect. Well done on that front.”

  He forced himself to breathe evenly. To keep his expression blank.

  “But aesthetics aren’t enough, darling.” Xyliria set her wine glass down with a delicate clink. “I need to know you’re actually breaking her. Not just playing with your food.” Her eyes narrowed. “You have a tendency to get… sentimental. To hold back when you should be pressing harder.”

  “I’m not holding back.”

  “Mm.” The sound was noncommittal, disbelieving. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

  Ashterion’s mind spiralled—not because he didn’t know what she meant, but because he knew her well enough to understand she hadn’t decided yet. Or worse, that she had, and was playing with him.

  “If she passes,” Xyliria said, “perhaps I’ll be convinced of your progress. I do so love loyal pets. And if she fails…” Her smile turned sharp. “Well. I’ve been receiving letters again. From Ryleth.”

  That name. That fucking name.

  Ashterion stared ahead, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

  Xyliria knew what it did to him, what Ryleth’s name meant. That was why she said it. “He’s been so polite lately. Courteous. Hopeful. Eager to be of service. I thought perhaps we could reward him.”

  Ashterion turned his head, slowly, and met her gaze.

  But all it earned him was her laughter.

  “So tense, my love,” she whispered. “Relax. It might not come to that. She might surprise us.”

  She tilted her head, mock-thoughtful.

  “But we shall see…” Her hand brushed his thigh. “You’ll watch, won’t you? I want you to see it. The moment she breaks. The moment she becomes like you.” She leaned in, lips at his ear. “And if she doesn’t? If she fights me? Then Ryleth gets his prize.”

  The doors creaked open. Always a performance.

  Two figures were dragged in, boots scraping stone.

  Isara stumbled but caught herself, chin already lifting in defiance. Her tunic hung in strips, half-dried blood staining one sleeve. Her lip was split. One eye swelling. But her spine was unbroken.

  Darian followed, quieter. Bloodied, yes. But… quiet. Shoulders back. Face unreadable.

  Xyliria rose like a queen unveiling a gift.

  “There she is,” she cooed. “The rebel flame. Did you sleep well, darling?”

  Ashterion’s gut twisted.

  Isara’s eyes flicked past Xyliria, to him.

  He could feel Xyliria watching. Waiting.

  If Isara so much as hinted at their agreement—at the secrets traded in whispers, the surrender of trust in a place neither of them should have had it—Xyliria would gut Darian before she finished the sentence.

  “Tell me, my dear,” Xyliria said, circling. “How have your nights with my husband been? Did Ashterion make a good bedwarmer?”

  Ashterion stared at the floor.

  Don’t answer. Lie.

  He risked a glance up. Isara was staring directly at him. Fuck.

  “I feel sorry for you,” she said quietly.

  The room stilled. Ashterion’s head snapped up.

  No. No, no, no.

  Xyliria arched a brow. “Do you?”

  Isara turned to face Xyliria at the question, but she didn’t answer.

  Ashterion’s heart thudded. He tried not to show it, but something in him panicked. He had no idea what she was about to say. No idea what blade she was drawing, or who she planned to stab with it.

  “Why is that,” he asked, barely keeping the tremor from his words. “Little pet?”

  Isara turned to Ashterion again.

  And smirked.

  “Because your wife must be truly dreadful in bed,” she said, voice like honey over acid. “If you’re spending your nights with a lowly human.”

  The throne room froze. Utter silence. Even the guards faltered.

  Darian, the idiot, snorted.

  Xyliria’s lips parted, but no sound came.

  Ashterion’s lungs stopped working. He nearly barked a laugh. Nearly choked on it. A bubble of hysteria pressed beneath his ribs, half-amusement, half-terror.

  Gods, she’s insane.

  Insulting Xyliria was one thing. But insulting her sexual prowess? In her own fucking throne room? That was suicide. Beautiful, blinding suicide.

  And yet, there Isara knelt, bloody and smirking and alive.

  Ashterion exhaled slowly through his nose, locking his expression down tight. Because if he laughed—if he so much as smiled—Xyliria would carve it off his face.

  “Such a… reckless little tongue,” Xyliria murmured.

  Isara grinned.

  Darian shifted behind her, shoulders tensing like a male ready to lunge if it came to it. Stupid. Brave. Completely fucking useless.

  Xyliria walked a slow arc around them, hands clasped behind her back.

  “I should kill him for that,” she said lightly, nodding toward Darian. “It would be fitting, wouldn’t it? Strip away the comfort. Make you beg. Remind you what happens when a human whore dares to mock her betters.”

  Isara’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t look at Darian.

  Ashterion sat frozen. Every instinct screaming. Every nerve razor-sharp. He knew her moods. He knew the moment before violence. Knew the pitch of her voice when she meant to kill. But not today.

  “No,” Xyliria said at last. “Killing him would be too merciful. And I do so loathe mercy.”

  She stopped in front of Darian and tilted her head.

  “I have a better plan.” She turned to Isara again, eyes gleaming. “You see, darling, today isn’t about you insulting me. It’s about what you’ll do to make it right.”

  She raised a hand. A guard stepped forward, dropping something to the floor with a dull clang.

  A blade. Long. Thin. Serrated near the tip.

  Xyliria raised a single, graceful hand. The doors behind them swung open. Another set of guards entered, dragging a third figure between them. Small. Slighter than the others.

  A girl.

  Her tunic hung off her frame, clearly a size too big, one shoulder torn. Blood matted the dark strands of her hair where it had crusted near her temple. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Barely past maturity.

  Ashterion’s pulse thudded.

  No.

  He knew what this was.

  From the shape of the blade, the timing, the smug satisfaction pouring off Xyliria in waves, he knew exactly what she’d prepared.

  And Isara hadn’t pieced it together yet. He saw it in the way her brows drew in confusion.

  But Darian was watching Xyliria like he knew he was already dead.

  Xyliria turned back to them, all honeyed cruelty. “One of them will die today,” she said, casual as air. “The wild warrior, or the feral little girl.” She gestured between them. “You’ll pick, darling. That’s the test. Simple, really.”

  Isara’s body locked. “No.”

  “No?” Xyliria’s voice was almost tender.

  “I won’t choose,” Isara said. “You can kill me if you want. But I won’t be part of this.”

  Xyliria smiled. It was the kind of smile Ashterion had learned to fear more than any scream.

  “Oh, sweet thing,” she murmured. “You misunderstand.”

  She moved faster than any of them could react. A fist in Darian’s hair. Yanked his head back. A curved dagger appeared in her other hand. She pressed it to his throat, not quite drawing blood. Not yet.

  Ashterion didn’t move. Not because he didn’t want to. Because he couldn’t. Xyliria’s power tore through him, holding him in place.

  “If you don’t choose,” she said, “I’ll bleed him out slowly.” She tapped the knife lightly against his skin, right beneath the jaw. “Until he’s begging for death.”

  Ashterion could see the fury burning in Darian’s eyes. And the fear underneath it.

  “And when he’s done,” Xyliria continued, tone bright and conversational, “I’ll bring the next one of your foolish attachments up.”

  Isara flinched.

  “I’ll keep going,” Xyliria said, drawing the blade lightly along Darian’s skin, not enough to cut, but enough to make him tense. “And going. Until you choose.”

  She let the words settle.

  Ashterion looked at Isara. She was trembling. Her gaze locked on the girl, wide-eyed and shivering.

  Don’t do it, he thought. Don’t choose. Don’t become like me.

  But he knew.

  Isara’s fists clenched at her sides.

  “I won’t,” she said again, breath catching. “I won’t choose.”

  Still trying. Still fighting. Still clinging to some notion of control.

  Ashterion could feel it slipping from her already.

  Xyliria sighed, long and theatrical. “Very well.”

  She turned the blade in her hand and, with a movement so delicate it was almost graceful, dragged it across Darian’s shoulder.

  The wet sound it made cut straight through the silence.

  Darian grunted but didn’t cry out. His shirt darkened instantly, blood soaking into the fabric.

  “Wait,” Isara choked.

  She took a step forward. Then another. Her body moved like it didn’t quite belong to her anymore.

  “I’ll choose,” she whispered.

  Darian’s head snapped toward her, wild and furious. “No.”

  Isara looked at him, eyes wide and glassy.

  “Save the girl,” Darian shook his head. “Not me.”

  “No—”

  “Save her,” he said again, louder this time. “Don’t you dare pick me. I’m already dead if you do this.”

  Another slash, fast, across the other shoulder this time. Darian hissed.

  “It’s not your choice to make,” Xyliria said coldly.

  The girl sobbed behind them, high, keening sounds of undiluted fear. She was shaking all over, curled into herself like that could stop what was coming.

  Isara cracked. Not all at once. It was slower than that. Her mouth trembled. One hand lifted toward the girl, almost instinctively, as though she could reach through this, find a different answer.

  Isara’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

  She couldn’t seem to breathe properly, each breath uneven. Her gaze darted to the girl, then to Darian, then back again, caught in the endless loop of an impossible decision.

  Ashterion had seen this before. That desperate calculus of survival—what could be lost, what must be spared, what might be forgiven.

  And he could see it. Already.

  The decision had been made.

  It hadn’t reached her lips yet, but it was there. Written in the way she looked at Darian, pleading, apologetic.

  Something that said, I’m sorry I’m choosing you. I’m sorry you have to live with this.

  “Darian,” she whispered. “I want him to live.”

  Ashterion’s chest tightened.

  Fuck.

  “No, no, no,” Darian rasped, but the words were futile.

  Xyliria smiled. “You want him to live?” she said. “Then say it properly. Say who dies.”

  Isara stood frozen.

  A tear slipped down her cheek. “The girl.”

  Xyliria turned, eyes already on the girl. “Very well.”

  The girl screamed. It was shrill, pure terror. She thrashed against the guards holding her—kicking, sobbing, yanking at the restraints with everything her too-small body had.

  Xyliria smiled. “One more thing,” she said, sweet as rot.

  Ashterion’s stomach dropped.

  He’d forgotten. This was a test for him too.

  What the fuck was she about to ask?

  “You get another choice, my dear,” Xyliria said, sauntering back to her throne. “You can kill the girl yourself—or you can let my husband do it for you. He’s well-practiced, after all. Blood suits him.”

  Ashterion’s lungs locked.

  Gods.

  Of course. Of fucking course.

  If Isara was truly becoming his pet, she would do it herself. She would please him. Serve him. Bleed in his place. But if she still saw him as a monster, if she still believed that all he was good for was death, then she’d hand him the blade. And let him do what monsters do.

  Ashterion didn’t care about the consequences anymore. Didn’t care what Xyliria would do.

  Please, pick me. Let it be me.

  He looked at her, looked hard, locking eyes across the space between them.

  Pick me, he begged silently. Don’t let this stain you. My soul is already gone. Let me carry this one.

  His mouth opened. He didn’t know what he was going to say. Didn’t matter.

  Because the moment air touched his tongue, Xyliria’s magic tore up his spine. He choked on it, on the fire, the burn, the unmaking.

  Centuries of discipline locked him in place. Centuries of pain taught him how to make silence out of torment.

  He snapped his mouth shut.

  Xyliria was all false concern. “Oh, my love. No need to speak. It’s her choice to make, after all.”

  Isara looked moments from collapse. Her hands were shaking. Her lips bloodless. Her eyes wide and hollow, flicking between Ashterion and the girl as if either could save her.

  Neither could.

  Finally, she spoke. Barely more than a whisper.

  “I’ll do it.”

  No.

  His hands twitched where they rested against the armrest. He wanted to stand. To cross the distance between them. To rip the blade from her hands before it could ever touch that girl’s skin.