He wanted to scream at her. Let me do it. Let me be the monster.

  But he just watched her walk toward the girl. Watched her take the blade.

  Watched her prepare to tear apart her own soul.

  The blade looked heavier in her hands now. Or maybe it was her body that had gone slack. Sagging beneath the weight of what she was about to do.

  Isara moved slowly. Her fingers curled tighter around the hilt with every pace forward.

  The girl was screaming.

  “Please,” she cried. “I have a little brother. And a sister. They need me—please, they don’t have anyone else. My mother’s waiting. Please, she’ll be so scared. Please, don’t do this⁠—”

  Something snapped in Ashterion’s chest.

  The girl sobbed harder when Isara knelt beside her.

  “I’m sorry,” Isara whispered. And gods, her voice was already broken. “I’m so sorry.” Tears streamed down her face now, silent and steady.

  She reached out with one trembling hand and cupped the girl’s cheek. The girl flinched but didn’t pull away. There was no more room to run.

  “I didn’t want this,” Isara whispered. “I didn’t⁠—”

  The words choked.

  She plunged the blade into the girl’s chest.

  A gasp. A high, sharp breath. The girl stiffened, body jolting against the restraints, and then collapsed.

  Ashterion’s hands clenched into fists so tight his nails split the skin of his palms.

  Isara clung to the girl as she died. Held her long after her breathing stopped.

  She didn’t let go. Not even when the blood soaked through her sleeves, through her pants where she knelt in the spreading pool of it.

  Isara cradled the girl’s body, fingers tangled in dark, blood-slick hair, her own forehead pressed gently to the girl’s temple like they were sisters, like they’d known each other before this.

  And then, faintly audible above the echoing silence⁠—

  She began to hum. A lullaby. Soft. Crooked. Tattered with grief.

  It took him a moment to place it. An old song, meant for rocking children to sleep when the nights were long and cold and full of wolves.

  Her voice cracked on the third line. And still, she didn’t let go.

  Just kept singing.

  Until Xyliria finally sighed. “Oh, enough.”

  She waved her hand lazily, and the guards moved in. Isara didn’t fight when they dragged her away. Her arms slipped from the girl’s body, falling limp at her sides. Her head lolled slightly forward. Eyes open. Empty.

  The blood on her knees left smeared prints across the marble as they hauled her past him.

  Xyliria let out a delighted sigh as she sank back into her throne, wine glass swirling casually between her fingers.

  “Well,” she said, “you’re not as useless as I thought.” She turned her smile on him. “It seems you are breaking the thing after all.”

  Ashterion said nothing. Because if he opened his mouth, something would crawl out that wouldn’t be compliance. And once it escaped, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to put it back in.

  65

  Xyliria had found the weak point, the fracture in my resolve, and she pressed against it again and again and again.

  Every day, she put me in front of her. Every day, she made me choose.

  Choose who to save.

  Choose who to kill.

  And every day, I did it.

  One day, it was Fenric or a middle-aged fae woman, her dark hair streaked with silver, her face lined with years of wisdom and love. She trembled as she stumbled before me, her wide eyes darting around the room.

  “My wife,” her voice broke as she raised her hands in a feeble attempt at defence. “She’ll be worried… waiting for me.”

  Her words faltered as I moved, her instincts taking over despite the ache in my soul. It was quick. But the memory twisted my heart.

  Another time, it was Brynelle or an elder fae male, his face weathered but serene as he knelt. His gaze met mine, steady and knowing.

  “I understand,” he had said, a resigned smile on his face.

  He didn’t fight. He didn’t even try. He waited for me to do what had to be done. My hands had trembled so violently that it took longer than it should have. Longer than I could forgive.

  Then there was Cindrissian or a young female fae, her blonde hair matted with dirt, her face streaked with tears, her hands clasped together as she pleaded.

  “Please,” she sobbed, her pleas tumbling over each other. “My family—they’re waiting for me. My daughter—she’s a child. She needs me. Please…”

  I had stopped looking them in the eyes by then.

  The others whispered when they thought I wasn’t listening. I knew they watched me, glancing at me when they thought I wouldn’t notice. The concern was always there, it stuck to the air like humidity.

  Varyth was furious.

  He paced the cell, his hands clenched into fists so tightly that his nails cut into his palms. He was angry at Xyliria, at Ashterion, at the guards who dragged me away each day.

  But more than anything, he was angry at himself. I saw it in the way his hands twitched with the urge to tear the walls apart.

  I had stopped arguing. Slipped into that space where the pain couldn’t reach me, where nothing could. And that was what drove him mad. Not my suffering. Not my choices. But the emptiness of me.

  Because Xyliria had known. She had known that my breaking wouldn’t come from one unbearable moment, from one devastating wound. It would come from the slow unravelling.

  It was working.

  For the first time, I considered it.

  Xyliria’s offer.

  Truly considered it.

  If I said yes—if I agreed to stay, to serve, to become her weapon—then maybe it would stop. Maybe I wouldn’t have to choose again.

  I wouldn’t have to look into their eyes as they begged. As they understood. As they waited for me to decide who lived and who died with blood already on my hands.

  I knew what Xyliria wanted. What she would make of me.

  She would use me to kill. She would point me at her enemies, her threats, and I would burn them to ash without thought, without mercy. She would take every drop of my power and twist it into something cruel and obedient.

  But at least…

  At least they wouldn’t have to see me become the monster.

  Varyth wouldn’t have to watch me return from another decision I couldn’t take back and pretend he didn’t see the cracks growing in me. At least Darian wouldn’t have to mask the way he flinched when I entered. At least Cindrissian wouldn’t have to meet my eyes and know.

  If I accepted, I could stop pretending.

  I could let the last of myself slip beneath the surface, and no one would have to witness it.

  No more pleading voices. No more blood on my hands that belonged to strangers with families. With names I couldn’t afford to remember. No more choices.

  Just orders.

  Just silence.

  And gods, I was so tired.

  Tired of fighting. Tired of hoping. Tired of clinging to a morality that Xyliria had burned out of me one name at a time.

  Maybe this was what she meant by mercy.

  The stone of the cell was cold against my skin, the weight of exhaustion pinning me in place. The others were asleep, their breathing steady, their bodies curled against the chill of our prison. Varyth’s arm was draped around me, heavy with protective instinct even in sleep. His warmth was the only real comfort in this place, a grounding presence amid the horrors that had become our existence.

  And then, I heard them.

  A soft, melodic hum.

  Faint. Almost inaudible beneath the breath and the drip of water on stone. But it was there.

  Careful not to wake Varyth, I hummed the melody of a song I had learned since arriving in this realm, a fae lullaby. The one I’d hummed to the first girl.

  A song of loss and tragedy, of love stolen too soon and grief that stretched beyond lifetimes. Lira had taught it to me, a song to honour Navaire in a way that children could understand.

  The darkness listened.

  And then, it echoed me.

  The hum deepened, shifting, at first merely imitating the song I offered. But then—it changed. The music wove through the air like smoke.

  It was beautiful.

  It ached.

  There were no words, it didn’t need them.

  Heartbreak. Loss. Longing. It all drifted through the air. As though the world itself knew exactly what I needed to hear.

  I closed my eyes and listened. The melody wrapped around me, a gentle caress against my battered soul. It seeped into the cracks of my being, filling the hollow spaces with a bittersweet warmth. For a moment, I forgot where I was, lost in the haunting notes that emanated from the stones around us.

  As I listened, memories played through my mind. Faces of those I had been forced to choose, their final moments etched into my mind with cruel clarity. But now, instead of the crushing weight of guilt, there was a shared sorrow, the world itself mourning with me.

  The song lifted, becoming more intricate, weaving threads of hope through the melancholy. It spoke of resilience, of strength found in the darkest moments.

  My breath formed but never finished, suspended in the stillness between heartbeats as the music reached into my very essence, touching a part of me I thought had been lost forever.

  Tears slipped silently down my cheeks, but for once, they weren’t born of despair. The song understood, accepted, and offered solace without judgment. It didn’t absolve. It didn’t lie. It just stayed.

  In the hum of its music, I heard what it could not speak.

  You are not alone in this.

  I let the song lull me back into sleep, my body easing against Varyth’s warmth, the world shifting around me with the quiet knowledge that something, somewhere, was listening.

  66

  The blade carved through shadow and skin alike, whispering with each pass. Xyliria hummed softly, pleased, as if this were nothing more than a tedious ritual she performed out of habit.

  A hobby. A craft.

  Ashterion bled in silence beneath her hands, limbs bound, breath shallow but steady. The room stank of copper and ozone, thick with the sharp bite of magic. His shadows had retreated to the far corners of the chamber, too fractured to fight, too loyal to flee.

  The silvery line across his ribs smoked where the blade touched it. Her favourite toy, enchanted specifically for him. It cut through everything. Flesh. Bone. Shadows.

  “You’re being so well behaved today,” she purred. “No writhing, no snarling. I do appreciate when you remember your place.”

  The blade dragged across his abdomen in a shallow curve, not deep enough to be lethal, enough to remind. To mark.

  Ashterion didn’t react. Not even a twitch.

  Her smile widened, pleased with herself, as if his stillness were submission and not strategy.

  “I think that deserves a reward,” she continued, her tone dipped in syrup. “Perhaps I’ll let you keep your voice tonight. Or your shadows. Or maybe—” She tilted her head, lips brushing his jaw. “Maybe I’ll let you pick which part I carve next.”

  Ashterion turned his head slightly, his lips brushing the skin of her throat where she’d leaned in.

  “If it pleases you,” he murmured. “Then I’m glad.”

  Xyliria’s eyes fluttered closed for half a breath. Her fingers slipped from the hilt of the blade to trace the line she’d drawn across his abdomen, smearing blood like ink across a page.

  Xyliria’s bloody fingers lifted, tracing a lazy circle above his heart.

  “But,” she sighed, almost wistfully, “as pretty as you’ve been tonight, I think I’ve had my fill of watching you pretend to enjoy hurting her.”

  The words struck harder than any blade. But he didn’t speak. Not yet.

  “I let you play at torturer once. A novelty. But it never really suited you, did it?” Her voice dropped to a venomous coo. “I prefer you in other roles. Decorative. Compliant. Obedient.”

  The blade dipped, carving a shallow arc down his thigh. Ashterion’s breath hitched. Still, he didn’t scream. Didn’t give her the satisfaction.

  “I’ll be sending you both to Ryleth.”

  No.

  No.

  Xyliria smiled, sweet as poison. “He was so very excited when I told him. Practically purred. He’ll take excellent care of her spirit. Break what’s left of it. And as a reward…” She leaned in again, lips brushing his ear. “He gets you. Leashed and bleeding, just the way he likes.”

  She drew back, tilting her head. “I told him you’d be most compliant.”

  Ashterion swallowed hard, the taste of blood thick on his tongue.

  “If that is what you wish,” he said hoarsely, exactly the way she liked it.

  “You see?” she whispered. “You can be so lovely when you remember who you belong to. In fact⁠—”

  The door flew open.

  Ashterion’s eyes flicked up, just in time to see Merrick freeze.

  The breath left his brother in one violent exhale. His eyes locked on the scene. On the chains, the blood, the blade buried in Ashterion’s flesh.

  Ashterion saw the shift happen—the fury, the betrayal, the bone-deep horror twisting Merrick’s expression. His hands clenched at his sides, trembling with the force of it.

  “Get. Away. From him,” Merrick snarled.

  Xyliria, of course, only smiled.

  “Oh, please,” she sighed. “Don’t be dramatic. He enjoys it.” She trailed a blood-slicked finger down Ashterion’s chest. “Don’t you, darling?”

  Ashterion met Merrick’s stare. And gave nothing away.

  “Merrick,” Xyliria said, glancing over her shoulder. “Be a dear and close the door, won’t you? I’d hate for the court to think you’re the type to interrupt a private moment.”

  Lightning flared across Merrick’s frame.

  Ashterion forced his voice to work. “It’s fine,” he said, flat and cold. “You’re dismissed.”

  Merrick’s mouth opened, then snapped shut.

  Ashterion could see the war in his features. Could feel the storm of it. But then Merrick took one slow step back. And another. Until he was at the door.

  Ashterion held his gaze the whole time.

  Lightning still laced across his brother’s shoulders, crackling with restraint that would not hold forever. His chest rose and fell in trembling bursts, as if the act of not lunging forward was tearing him open from the inside.

  Ashterion felt it then, the fractures forming in the façade he’d spent centuries constructing.

  Because this was a problem.

  He had made sure the worst of it remained hidden.

  The humiliations? Those were public. The whispers of his obedience, of his usefulness in bed, of the leash Xyliria wrapped around his throat and yanked whenever the court grew too quiet.

  But the blade? The bindings? This?

  No one had ever seen that.

  And now Merrick was standing in the doorway, fists clenched, lightning licking at the air like a living snarl. His eyes burned with something ancient. Righteous. Wrathful.

  And Ashterion knew Merrick would kill her. The first opportunity he had.

  The male had never been one to forgive cruelty, especially not when it touched family. And he could do it. Ashterion knew that. Knew how lethal Merrick was when he was angry, how sharp his instincts became when the people he loved were hurt.

  But if he struck while she was consort… if he moved against her now…

  Ashterion’s jaw flexed.

  “Merrick,” he said again, low and sure. “Go.”

  A muscle in Merrick’s jaw twitched, his throat worked around a word he didn’t say. His lightning flickered, then vanished.

  But Ashterion saw it on Merrick’s face, clear as daylight. Every moment of the last four centuries folding in on itself. Every quiet question, every tense silence. Every time Merrick had pressed him, asking things he shouldn’t have noticed, things Ashterion had been so sure he’d hidden.

  Every time, he had dismissed them. Deflected. Smiled. Lied.

  “Merrick.” And fuck, his voice cracked. “Please.”

  Agony flashed across his brother’s face. It came closer to breaking Ashterion than any blade Xyliria had ever pressed to his skin.

  But then, with hands that trembled far more than they should have, Merrick reached for the door. Pulled it shut. And the room was silent once more.

  Xyliria sighed as she resumed her work. “Well done,” she purred, dragging the blade lightly across his collarbone. “I thought for a moment Merrick had forgotten his manners.”

  Ashterion hissed through his teeth, not from the pain, but to fill the sound where a scream might have gone.

  Because he was already planning. Merrick wouldn’t let this go. He would kill Xyliria the first chance he got. And Ashterion couldn’t risk Merrick. He refused to lose him—not when he’d already lost so much.

  He needed to protect him. There was only one way to do that.

  The irony nearly made him laugh. Because the answer… the answer was already in Xyliria’s hand. It was one of only a handful of weapons in the world that could kill a High Lord like him.

  Ashterion closed his eyes, just for a moment.

  It would be difficult. But not impossible.

  He’d already been considering it. In stolen moments. In the dead hush of sleepless nights when guilt curled tight in his gut and her face haunted him. He hadn’t been able to protect her. Not fully. But this… this he could do.

  The power tethered to him—his hold over the Nyxarian lands—could be transferred. Xyliria had never been made High Lady, only consort. And that made things… simpler.

  He could bind the magic to Merrick instead. Quietly. Finalise it the moment before⁠—

  Ashterion swallowed down the thought.

  He didn’t want to die.

  Gods, he didn’t.

  But if it saved Merrick, if it spared Isara from what came next, then it would be the most useful thing he’d done in centuries. And there was something almost poetic about that.