Isara lowered her spoon, her gaze never leaving his.

  Ashterion held still beneath it, willing himself not to react to that all-too-familiar look he’d grown used to over the years. Suspicion. Mistrust. A glint of defiance. It was safer when she hated him. Easier. The moment it shifted into anything else, it became dangerous for both of them.

  “You should finish eating,” he repeated, quieter this time. More command than suggestion.

  Isara didn’t move.

  He breathed through his nose and turned back toward the desk, gripping the edge of it as though it might tether him to reality.

  What the fuck was he doing?

  He had calculated the trajectory of his own death. Had listened to his shadows sing lullabies in the dark like something in him already knew the end was near. And despite all of it, all he could seem to focus on was her.

  On whether she was warm.

  Whether she was fed.

  Whether she’d scream again, broken and guttural and carving into him, making even his shadows recoil.

  He looked over his shoulder again. Isara had returned to her food, her spoon slow as it dipped into the stew, but her eyes flicked up toward him cautiously.

  Of course she was wary. She should be.

  He had helped shatter her bones.

  And now…

  Now she sat wrapped in his tunic, in a room heavy with his scent, wearing a braid he’d tied with his own hands.

  He looked away.

  Fuck.

  His shadows stirred at the corners of the room, restless. Unsettled. Like they, too, didn’t know what this was becoming.

  This wasn’t part of the plan. Not the one he had made for his death. Not the one Xyliria expected. Not the one that would keep everyone—Isara included—alive long enough to see Merrick ascend and end the war.

  And yet, despite every carefully drawn line, every reason he’d carved into stone to justify his end⁠—

  All Ashterion could think, as she quietly finished her stew behind him, was how much he didn’t want her to be anywhere near the path he’d chosen to walk alone.

  Ashterion turned, leaning back against the desk with the sort of detachment he’d perfected over the centuries. His arms crossed over his chest, his expression once again carved from stone.

  “You should rest.”

  Isara stared at him, the faintest crease forming between her brows, her body angled defensively even beneath the warmth of the meal and the softness of the clothes.

  Then, blunt as ever, she cut through the silence. “What the hell is your deal?”

  He froze.

  Only for a breath. Only long enough for it to register that she’d seen through the performance.

  He let a smirk curl at his mouth, lazy and practiced. “You’ll have to be more specific little fireling. I have so many.”

  But she stared at him as if she already knew the lie and was waiting for him to admit it.

  “You made me eat,” she said, voice calm. “You told me a story about your sister. You won’t look at any of us when we’re being hurt.” Her tone hardened. “But you let your wife torture them anyway.”

  Ashterion’s jaw twitched.

  Isara leaned forward. “You’re the High Lord of this court. But you let her run it. You let her decide. Even when you don’t agree. Even when it clearly fucking guts you.” She tilted her head. “I don’t care if it gets me killed. What does she have on you?”

  A beat of silence stretched between them.

  Inside, Ashterion cursed himself.

  He never should have brought her here. Never should’ve let her stay in his chambers. She was too observant. Too willing to bite when she sensed weakness.

  But fuck it.

  Anything she learned wouldn’t matter in a few days.

  He sighed, then shrugged and let his gaze fall to her throat.

  “Not all collars are visible.” He smiled, but it wasn’t real. “Some are worn so long, you forget they’re there.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Ashterion’s laugh came low and sharp—void of real humour. He pushed off the desk, pacing a slow circle as he rubbed a hand across his jaw.

  “Just,” he said, “that if you ever marry someone in this realm, make sure you really read the fine print of your marriage contract.”

  Isara blinked.

  He let the words hang there. Let her chew on them. Let her see a sliver of the truth, the trap wrapped in silk and bound in gold. Because there were things written into his union with Xyliria that no amount of power could unwrite.

  Ashterion turned away before she could speak again, grabbing a decanter from the sideboard and pouring himself a drink with too-steady hands. He downed the drink in a single swallow, the burn doing little to numb the restlessness prickling under his skin. He set the glass down with a clink, then turned toward her.

  “You need to rest,” he said, tone clipped. “And this is the one night a week I get some damned peace. I’d prefer to enjoy it.”

  Isara looked as though she was about to argue—jaw tight, eyes flashing. But then fatigue dragged the fight from her shoulders. She nodded once and moved silently toward the bed.

  He watched her slip beneath the covers, each movement stiff, as though her body remembered the pain, even if the healing had dulled it. She settled on one side, back tense, spine straight.

  He crossed the room, sliding into the opposite side of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. She didn’t move, didn’t react to his presence.

  He lay still, staring at the carved ceiling above.

  Listening.

  To the fire crackling low.

  To her breathing.

  Even. Controlled. Not asleep yet.

  And—

  Her scent.

  Not the lingering trace of the perfumed oils they used in the baths. That was there, yes. But beneath it was her.

  Night-blooming jasmine. Burning sage. And something older, stranger. Something that reminded him of stars bleeding light over a war-torn sky.

  It hit him all at once, memory and omen tangled together, unbidden and unwelcome. Something in his chest twisted.

  He glanced over.

  She was facing him. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Loose strands of copper hair spilled across her face and pillow, catching the firelight like threads of gold.

  His hand drifted closer beneath the blanket.

  Not to touch. Just to be.

  But then he felt it. The faintest brush, her fingers against his.

  And before he could pull away, before the panic could reach his spine⁠—

  Two of her fingers—small, callused, stubborn—curled lightly around his own beneath the blanket, a tether in the dark.

  Everything inside him stilled. The shadows. His thoughts. Even his breath.

  Ashterion stared at the ceiling, muscles locked. He knew he should pull away. Knew the right thing, the smart thing, was to sever the contact immediately. To remind her, and himself, that this was nothing. That she was nothing.

  But stars, when was the last time someone had touched him like this?

  Not with violence. Not with hunger. Not in expectation of pain or pleasure or power.

  Just… touch.

  She hadn’t even looked at him.

  Her breathing remained steady. Her eyes stayed closed.

  And a part of him cracked.

  Not all at once. Just a hairline fracture beneath the surface of all the masks and armour. A place he hadn’t felt in centuries.

  He let his fingers remain where they were, curling slight against hers.

  Ashterion swallowed hard, eyes burning as he stared at the darkened ceiling above.

  The silence stretched on, the kind that could break a person if they weren’t careful.

  But it didn’t matter.

  Couldn’t matter.

  Not now.

  Not when he’d already sealed his fate.

  In a few days, she’d be back where she belonged, surrounded by her court.

  With him.

  And Ashterion?

  He would be wherever monsters go when their use runs out. Where broken things are laid to rest. He closed his eyes, focused on his breathing, on the warmth of the fingers wrapped around his.

  And he didn’t pull away.

  68

  They dragged us from the cell together, the cold of our collars biting into our skin, the chains rattling as we were forced through the winding corridors of the palace.

  Xyliria waited in the grand hall, perched lazily atop her throne, her nails tapped idly against the carved armrest, but her eyes shone with delighted malice.

  Ashterion was absent. I didn’t know why, didn’t care. His presence had never mattered before. But today, standing atop the dais, I recognised a different male.

  Merrick.

  He was grinning—that lazy, predatory smile I’d seen cut through sky and storm. And strapped to his hip, gleaming like captured moonlight against the dark leather of his belt, were my damn moonsilver daggers.

  The sight of them sent white-hot rage blazing through my veins.

  They’d carved through shadow and bone, had whispered death songs in languages older than memory. And now this bastard wore them like trophies, like spoils of war torn from my defeated body.

  The collar around my throat pulsed, dampening the black fire that wanted to burn everything in this hall to ash and bone, but it couldn’t touch the rage. That was purely, devastatingly human.

  Merrick’s grin widened when he saw me looking, his fingers trailing almost lovingly over one blade’s hilt. The gesture was deliberate, calculated—a taunt wrapped in silk and delivered with such casual cruelty that my vision blurred red around the edges.

  “Well, well,” he drawled, voice carrying an electric anticipation. “Look what we have here.”

  We were thrown to our knees. The marble was ice beneath my battered legs. My palms scraped as I caught myself. All around, my companions breathed in tight, controlled bursts.

  “How the mighty have fallen.” Xyliria drank in the sight of our battered forms like we were a fine vintage she meant to savour. “Once proud warriors, now crawling at my feet like the filth you are.”

  No one spoke.

  Not Shaelith, who kept her attention fixed on a point beyond Xyliria’s shoulder, her jaw clenched. Not Linc, whose hands had formed fists against the stone. Not even Cindrissian, who somehow managed to look utterly bored by the events around him.

  Brynelle knelt perfectly still, her gaze fixed straight ahead, too calm. Fenric looked the most human of all of us—exposed and breaking, his shoulders hunched as if trying to disappear into himself. His eyes kept flicking to me, as though I might find some way to stop what was coming.

  Varyth didn’t hide his fury.

  Didn’t mask the sheer hatred radiating off him in waves.

  Xyliria noticed, of course. She had orchestrated this moment precisely to elicit that reaction.

  She pushed herself from the throne and descended the steps, each movement dripping with amusement. “I’ve been thinking.” She trailed her fingers along the hilt of a dagger at her hip. “Your pain, Isara, has been delightful, but it lacks… creativity.”

  Ice coiled in my gut and slithered upward, lodging itself beneath my ribs.

  She gestured, and Merrick descended the stairs. He grabbed Linc by the collar and hauled him forward. Two guards seized Varyth a moment later.

  Varyth snarled, jerking against their hold, but the guards forced him down, pressing him to his knees beside Linc.

  I already knew what was coming.

  Xyliria sighed. “You’ve been such a good little pawn, Isara,” she purred, stepping closer. “But I think it’s time we push your limits.”

  She drew the blade at her belt and placed it in my hands.

  The weight of it sent bile up my throat.

  Xyliria crouched before me. “I want you to kill one of them,” she said, her tone light, almost teasing.

  My breath stopped. The blood in my veins froze. I couldn’t suppress the tremor of cold terror that ran through me.

  Her smile widened. “Oh, come now. You’ve done this before.”

  The room tilted, my heart pounded so violently it hurt.

  No.

  No, no, no.

  I couldn’t do this.

  I had chosen before. I had done her bidding before. But not this. Not them.

  Xyliria’s lips parted in a mockingly sympathetic pout. “Don’t look so stricken, darling. You know how this works. If you refuse, I will kill them both. And then I’ll start working my way through the rest of your little friends. I’ll let you watch as I carve them open one by one.”

  I gritted my teeth, my grip on the dagger so tight my fingers ached.

  Varyth snarled. “You won’t do this.”

  Linc remained silent, but his eyes said the same.

  Xyliria chuckled, straightening. “Let’s test that theory, shall we?”

  She lifted her hand, and Linc screamed.

  His body arched violently as magic seared through his veins.

  I lunged forward, but guards wrenched me back, forcing me to watch as he convulsed.

  “STOP IT!” I cried, thrashing, but Xyliria only smiled.

  Then she turned to Varyth. “Anything to say, High Lord? Perhaps an impassioned plea?”

  Varyth bared his teeth. “Go to hell.”

  “Fine, then.” Xyliria tutted.

  Another surge of magic struck Linc. His roar of agony broke me.

  The sound that tore from Fenric’s throat was inhuman—a wounded animal’s cry that shattered something fundamental inside me. He lurched forward against the guards restraining him, his face twisted in anguish as he watched Linc writhe.

  “Please,” Fenric gasped, the word cracking like broken glass. “Please, I’ll take his place. Hurt me instead.”

  Xyliria’s eyes lit up with predatory delight. “Oh, how precious.” She tilted her head, drinking in his desperation.

  Another wave of magic slammed into Linc, and his scream died in his throat, replaced by a horrible, rattling gasp.

  She was going to kill them both. She was going to make me watch.

  Xyliria took a step back, her arms folding as she waited.

  “I won’t.” But I looked at the dagger in my hand, the polished steel gleaming in the dim torchlight.

  Xyliria’s lips pursed. “Are you sure?” She lifted a hand, and magic stirring again⁠—

  “Wait!” The shout ripped from my throat.

  Xyliria grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

  I turned to look at Varyth. He shook his head once.

  Another wave of Xyliria’s magic ripped through Linc.

  The sound that escaped him⁠—

  Gods.

  A whimper.

  I’d never heard Lincatheron make a sound like that. Not once.

  It tore something fundamental inside me. Something that could never be repaired.

  Fenric was sobbing now, guttural sounds that came from watching your soul being carved out with rusty knives. “Please—please, I’ll do anything. Hurt me. Kill me. Just stop.”

  Merrick stepped closer, twirling on of my moonsilver daggers between his fingers as he moved. That predatory smile never wavered, even as his voice dropped to mock concern.

  “Tick tock, little assassin,” he crooned, fingers trailing along one blade’s edge with obscene reverence. “Your friends are breaking so beautifully. Look at them.”

  I snarled, the sound ripping from somewhere primal and feral.

  “I won’t.”

  Merrick chuckled, the sound like silk wrapped around broken glass. “Even now? Even watching him fall apart?” He gestured at Fenric, who was straining against his guards, trying desperately to reach Linc. “Even hearing sounds you never thought he could make?”

  My grip on the dagger tightened until my knuckles went white.

  “I. Won’t.”

  Xyliria’s magic released its hold on Linc, and he collapsed forward, shaking, blood trickling from his nose, his mouth. His breathing came in sharp, stuttering gasps that spoke of internal damage, of things broken that couldn’t be seen.

  But she didn’t give him long.

  Didn’t let him recover.

  Her hand lifted again, magic coiling around her fingers like hungry serpents.

  “No.” I lurched forward, but the guards wrenched me back. “I said I won’t choose.”

  “Then watch them both die.” Xyliria’s voice was silk and poison, delighted anticipation dripping from every syllable.

  The magic built, darker this time, more violent. I could taste it in the air—death magic, the kind that didn’t just stop hearts but shredded souls.

  Varyth was straining against his bonds, his fury so pure it was making the air shimmer. But the collar around his throat pulsed with suppressing magic, keeping his power locked away.

  “Choose,” Xyliria purred, “or lose them both.”

  “I won’t.” My voice cracked, but the words held. “I won’t do this.”

  Her smile turned savage.

  She whirled.

  And before any of us could process what was happening, before anyone could scream or lunge or even blink⁠—

  The blade in her hand slid into Brynelle’s throat like a whisper.

  69

  Ashterion sat alone in the garden atop the roof of his home, the quiet hush of the wind combing through hawthorn and red maple trees, flowering vines that spilled over the stone edges. The city stretched out far below, bathed in the golden haze of early dawn.

  It had been a long, long time since he’d come to this place.

  Too long.

  The air was different up here—untouched by rot or shadow, untainted by Xyliria’s reach. She had never set foot in this place, never discovered the sanctum he’d carved into the sky.

  And maybe that was why he’d stayed away. Why he hadn’t dared to return.

  But today was different.

  Today, he’d come home.

  If he was going to die, it would not be in that castle. Not in that cold, corrupted palace with her breath down his neck and blood on the floor.

  No.

  He’d die here.

  In the one place he hadn’t yet defiled with violence.