He could see it, now. Merrick standing in the throne room, shadow-crowned and blood-marked, power humming through the floor. Xyliria choking on her last breath, finally, finally silenced. His people freed from her grasp.

  And Varyth…

  Maybe he would accept the offering. Maybe he would see it as enough. Ashterion’s own death in exchange for the pain they had inflicted on his court. On Isara.

  Isara.

  Her name flared through him. Her face rose behind his eyelids, vivid and alive. Too alive. It hit something in his chest he hadn’t let himself feel in years. Something tender. Dangerous.

  He shoved the thought away.

  No.

  He forced his mind back to the plan. To the blade. To the thrum of power in the walls of this cursed chamber, the heartbeat of the court that pulsed in time with his own.

  It was the only path. Ashterion knew it, down to the marrow. There was no clever manoeuvre left, no final card to play. No bargain that wouldn’t cost more than it saved. Only this.

  And still, he grieved.

  Not for the throne. Not even for his life. But for what he’d dared, once, to imagine he might have again.

  He’d clung to it, stupidly. To the idea of return. As though he might someday step through that door again and find them waiting. As though forgiveness could be earned if he bled enough. As though the wreckage he’d become could somehow fit back into that place.

  But that was fantasy.

  He knew better now.

  No death could redeem him. No blade could carve his sins away. Whatever waited for him beyond the veil—oblivion, judgment, nothing at all—was more than he deserved.

  The steel sang across his skin again, another shallow cut, and he barely felt it. He was too deep in it now. Too far away.

  Lost in the memory of golden light on polished wood, the flicker of candle flames at dusk, the echo of footsteps that no longer walked these halls.

  He would never return. He would never be that male again.

  The ache twisted in his chest, dull and constant.

  He didn’t flinch when the blade nicked across his collarbone.

  And then⁠—

  He heard them.

  His shadows.

  At first, a whisper. A ripple in the wrong direction.

  They hummed to life at the edges of the chamber, a low tune threading through the air. It wasn’t one of his. He hadn’t summoned it. Hadn’t fed it.

  And yet… it was familiar.

  His breath caught.

  A lullaby.

  A soft, tragic thing he hadn’t heard in centuries—sung in cradles and bedrooms. Meant to soothe children through nightmares, through things they were too young to understand.

  Where in the gods-damned realms had they learned that?

  The shadows didn’t learn from others. Not truly. Not without his will behind it.

  But this wasn’t his.

  This was hers.

  The melody Isara had sung when she killed the girl. They’d remembered it. Taken it in. Echoed it back. They’d chosen to learn from her.

  Why now?

  And before he could think better of it—before he could remind himself of where he was, of what Xyliria would do—he hummed back.

  A different melody.

  One older.

  Darker.

  A song he’d carried since he was a fresh-faced High Lord, standing on blood-soaked soil with too much power in his bones and too little wisdom in his heart.

  It was a ballad of death. Of glory and tragedy and warriors sent to die for causes that never cared for them. A hymn to fallen brothers. To lost leaders. To the cost of war.

  Fitting, really.

  The moment the sound left his throat, he felt Xyliria’s presence shift, sensed the fury before it struck.

  The blade sliced clean down his chest. A line of fire, of torn flesh and burning nerves.

  But he didn’t flinch.

  Didn’t make a sound.

  Because the shadows had taken the two melodies and merged them.

  And it was… breathtaking.

  It shouldn’t have been beautiful. But it was. It filled the room like light slipping through battlefield smoke. And for a single, precious heartbeat⁠—

  Nothing else mattered.

  Just the music.

  Just the shadows singing.

  A final gift, perhaps. From a power that knew, just as he did, that his time was nearly done.

  67

  Isara wasn’t really there. She stood inside his chambers, exactly where the guards had left her, just past the threshold. As though she’d forgotten how to move forward. Perhaps she’d forgotten how to move at all.

  Caked in blood, some dried and flaking, staining her skin and torn clothes. But there was fresh blood too, dripping from her hands. Not hers. He could tell in the way she held herself, no pain in her stance, no protective hunch over unseen wounds. But that wasn’t what drew his attention, not truly.

  Her eyes were vacant.

  Not blank. Not unreadable.

  Vacant.

  There was no one behind them.

  Ashterion stilled.

  He knew that look.

  It was how he had looked, once, in the beginning. Before he learned how to shut down the parts of himself that could break, before he mastered the art of survival in ways that left essential pieces behind.

  He watched her, standing there, unresponsive.

  Then—calmly, smoothly, said, “Isara.”

  Nothing.

  Not a flinch, not a flicker of recognition. She didn’t hear him. Or if she did, she wasn’t there enough to care. Something cold curled in his chest. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t concern, he refused to call it that. But part of him tugged at the sight of her, at the way she stood there, drenched in the aftermath of the torment Xyliria had inflicted, and did nothing.

  He leaned against the edge of his desk in a way that might look casual, but his whole body was angled toward her.

  “You should bathe,” he said, voice even, casual. “You’re making a mess.”

  Nothing.

  He studied her again, considering. Perhaps a push would work.

  He smirked. “Unless this is a fashion statement? I must admit, the bloodied-wraith aesthetic suits you. Dramatic, not to mention intimidating as hell.”

  Not even a blink.

  His fingers curled against the wood of the desk.

  That wasn’t good. That wasn’t her.

  “Come now,” he drawled, pushing away from his perch. “If you’re going to be difficult, at least be entertaining about it.”

  But his usual tactics—needling, teasing, provoking—didn’t reach her. That tug inside him pulled tighter, stronger, more irritating than before.

  It was unacceptable, he told himself. This wasn’t what she was supposed to become. He could handle her fury. Her defiance. Her bitter words and sharp edges and relentless, irritatingly reckless spirit.

  But this? This hollowed-out thing standing in front of him?

  Unacceptable.

  Ashterion stepped closer, watching for any reaction, for even the slightest shift. “Isara,” he said again, quieter now. Not a command. Not a taunt.

  And still, nothing.

  He couldn’t ignore this. Couldn’t smirk his way through or offer some dry remark and expect her to snap out of it.

  She was gone.

  He clicked his tongue, before stalking toward her. “You need to get that blood off.”

  Damn it.

  His patience, never his strongest virtue, thinned to a blade’s edge. He grasped her arm and guided her toward the bathing chamber.

  She didn’t resist. That was worse.

  When they reached the bath, he tried again, deliberately lighter, “You need to bathe, Isara.”

  Silence. Stillness.

  His irritation deepened.

  Fine. Fine.

  He smirked, though there was no real amusement behind it. “Unless you’d rather leave the blood on? Make a statement? Perhaps I should start dressing in red myself. We could match.”

  Fucking nothing. Of course.

  He exhaled through his nose. “Right. Well. I’ll help you then.”

  Without hesitation, he positioned himself behind her, drawing a dagger from his belt. The fabric of her ruined top was stiff with dried blood as he sliced through the back, peeling the tattered cloth away from her shoulders, sliding it down her arms.

  His fingers skimmed her skin, the warmth beneath them stark against the cold air.

  Focus.

  He didn’t look at her, didn’t allow himself to. He kept his eyes fixed on a point over her shoulder, his movements precise, methodical, clinical.

  When her top was gone, he crouched, fingers finding the hem of her pants. He slid them down next, peeling the fabric away from her skin, careful, careful.

  His hand brushed her thigh.

  For just a moment, his pulse skittered.

  He ignored it. Shoved the reaction deep into the dead, quiet part of himself that swallowed inconvenient things.

  He guided her into the tub, the warm water lapping around her legs as he sat her down on the ledge inside. She was pliant beneath his hands, moving only when he moved her. Ashterion stepped back, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to shake off the strange, unwanted weight pressing against his ribs.

  He let out a breath, forced his voice to return to its usual careless lilt. “Right, can you take it from here?”

  He knew damn well he wasn’t getting an answer.

  But gods, he needed one. Just to escape this room. To breathe.

  He clenched his jaw, waiting.

  And waiting.

  When nothing came, when she remained a silent, still thing in the water⁠—

  Ashterion dragged a hand down his face as though it might erase the situation. It didn’t.

  Then he made a decision. A foolish one. An unnecessary one.

  He sighed, rolled his shoulders, and stepped down into the tub, fully clothed. The water soaked through his tunic and pants instantly, heat seeping into his skin as he crouched beside her.

  He grabbed a cloth, dipped it in the water, and started wiping the blood from the parts of her that weren’t submerged.

  He worked in silence at first, methodical, efficient. But silence was dangerous. Silence let the mind wander, let the weight of things settle in too deep.

  So, he spoke.

  Not in his usual careless, taunting way. Not with words meant to provoke.

  “One of the first times I came home from battle, I was covered in blood.” He wrung out the cloth. “I was young, only three decades old. But it was my first real taste of killing. Of war.”

  No reaction.

  He continued anyway.

  “Merrick was with me. We fought together, side by side, and when we came home… we were emptied out. Exhausted. Something had settled under our skin, and we didn’t know what the fuck to do with it.”

  He ran the cloth over her arm, wiping away the dried flakes of crimson.

  “But my mother—” A dry, quiet chuckle. “She knew what was needed. She took one look at us, these two warriors who thought they were grown, and promptly marched us to a bath. My sister helped. Between the two of them, they cleaned us up, fed us, and put us straight to bed.”

  He shook his head. “Ridiculous, really. A future High Lord and his—” He paused, exhaling through his nose. “Well. Merrick’s not my brother by blood, but he might as well be. And there we were, being cared for like a couple of whiny toddlers.”

  He shifted, reaching for a bottle of scented soap. He poured a small amount into his hands, lathering it between his fingers before beginning to work it into her tangled hair.

  “My sister always had a knack for knowing exactly how to help. She spent the next day making joke after joke, trying to make either one of us laugh. Merrick broke first, which, if you knew Merrick, wouldn’t be surprising at all.”

  He breathed out through his nose, rinsing the soap away before reaching for another bottle, this one filled with an oil that would cleanse the scent of blood completely.

  “The point of the story, Isara.” His fingers slid through her hair, combing out the tangles. “Is that if I—a certifiable monster—can manage to be here, pissing you off after doing much, much worse…”

  He tipped her head back, rinsing the oil away. “Then a stubborn fireling such as yourself should be more than capable of getting through this.”

  A flinch.

  Better than nothing.

  Ashterion rose from the water, his movements fluid as he reached for a towel. He pulled her up with him, steadying her as he wrapped the thick fabric around her, drying her with a gentleness he hadn’t known he was still capable of.

  She remained silent, compliant, her limbs moving only as he guided them. It was an odd thing, seeing her like this. Letting him do this.

  Once she was dry, he dressed her with the same clinical detachment, slipping a tunic over her head, pulling it down over her arms, tugging thick but comfortable pants up her legs.

  Ashterion sat her gently on the cushioned stool before the vanity, her body slack, her gaze unfocused, but there. Somewhere, beneath the bruises and the silence. He grabbed a leather tie from the tray beside the basin and reached for her hair.

  It was softer than he expected. Damp from the bath, the copper strands clung to his fingers as he began sectioning them out, working mostly by muscle memory. His fingers were far from nimble, but steady—twisting, tucking, pulling.

  “I should apologise in advance.” He made a sound low in his throat. Almost a laugh. “This is going to be terrible.”

  Still, he kept braiding. One strand over the next. A slow, almost meditative rhythm.

  “My sister made me learn.” A smile finally found its way to his lips. “Said I’d thank her for it one day. That was a lie, for the record. I haven’t used this bloody skill in over five hundred years.”

  A twitch. Small. But real.

  Her lips curved—barely—but enough for him to see it. The faintest flicker of life returning to her face.

  Then, hoarse but clear, “Where is she now?”

  He froze. He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t prepared for it, and that was why the truth slipped free before he could stop it.

  “She died,” he said quietly. “A long time ago. Centuries now.”

  He watched her reflection in the mirror. Her head lifted. Her eyes were tired. But not empty.

  “I lost brothers,” she said, with the tone of someone who already carried too much. “Back in Braerlith.”

  His hands stilled in her hair. For a moment, the entire room felt as though it had held its breath. He released his own in a slow, quiet stream.

  “Siblings are dreadful things,” he said, low and distant, “until you don’t have them anymore.”

  Her scoff broke the tension. “That’s horribly accurate.”

  Ashterion tied off the braid at the end, letting it fall down her back. Not his finest work, but it would do.

  He guided her to the cushioned chair by the table, one hand light on her back. A flick of his fingers summoned steam from nowhere, stew thick with root vegetables and herbs, a warm crust of bread, and a chilled mug of dark ale.

  “Eat.” He meant to sound cold. He didn’t succeed. “I’ll change.”

  Isara sat, blinking at the food like it might vanish if she stared too hard. Then, for the first time since he’d lifted her from the bath, she really looked at him.

  “Why are you soaking wet?”

  Ashterion froze mid-step.

  He didn’t look down. His tunic clung to his chest, his pants dripped steadily, and his hair was wet, curling at the ends.

  “I…” he hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I fell in the bath.”

  Silence.

  Isara frowned. Hard.

  Her eyes narrowed with suspicion so sharp it could’ve sliced through bone.

  “You… fell?”

  “It happens.”

  “Does it?”

  Ashterion stared at her.

  She stared right back, spoon halfway to the bowl.

  But then she scooped some food into her mouth.

  Thank the fucking stars.

  Ashterion sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as he stalked toward his dresser. He tugged out dry clothes, slipping behind the half-unfurled privacy screen, stripping off his soaked tunic and pants.

  The damp fabric hit the floor with a wet thump as he dressed quickly, pulling on fresh pants and a loose, dark shirt.

  When he emerged, she had eaten half the bowl.

  A quiet satisfaction settled in his chest that he refused to examine too closely. He moved to his desk, arranging papers with deliberate nonchalance, as if he hadn’t spent the better part of an hour bathing and dressing a human who had, until recently, been little more than a thorn in his side.

  A thorn that had somehow worked its way deeper than he’d anticipated.

  Because something had changed tonight, upsetting the balance he’d maintained for centuries. The walls he’d built, the persona he’d crafted, the calculated indifference he’d perfected… all of it felt suddenly flimsy.

  He had bathed her.

  Dressed her.

  Braided her fucking hair.

  His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. What had possessed him? What strange, forgotten instinct had driven him to such… softness? What possible reason could he have for treating her with such care?

  He glanced at her reflection in the window, copper hair still damp, the braid already coming loose in places.

  It made no sense.

  Ashterion raked a hand through his hair, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. He was losing his mind. That was the only explanation. Centuries of Xyliria’s games had finally cracked an essential part of him, and now he was… what? Playing nursemaid to a broken female?

  He turned away from his desk, unable to focus on the papers before him, and found Isara watching him. Her eyes tracking his movements with a wariness that hadn’t been there earlier.

  Because before, she hadn’t been there at all.

  “You should finish eating,” he said, his voice deliberately cool. Back to normal. Back to what it should be.