“Power,” Fenric said immediately. “Control over others. The ability to shape outcomes to his will.”
“And pain,” Cindrissian added quietly. “He finds genuine pleasure in causing it. Not just physical—emotional, psychological. He likes to watch people break.”
The room fell silent except for the crackle of the fire in the hearth. I stared into the flames, trying to picture myself sitting across from someone like that. Someone who would look at me and see nothing but vulnerabilities to exploit.
“But that’s not what makes him truly dangerous,” Cindrissian continued. “What makes him dangerous is that he’s brilliant. Centuries of experience, tactical genius, and the kind of strategic mind that can see twelve moves ahead while you’re still figuring out the game being played.”
Fenric leaned forward, his expression grim. “He’s not just cruel for the sake of it, that’s what makes him dangerous. Every action serves a purpose. Every word is chosen for maximum impact. If he compliments you, it’s because he wants something. If he threatens you, it’s because he’s already three steps ahead. Centuries of experience have honed him into something approaching perfection in his chosen field.”
“Which is?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.
“Breaking people.” Cindrissian’s voice was matter-of-fact, clinical. “He can read a person’s deepest fears within minutes of meeting them. He’ll identify your pressure points, your weaknesses, the things you’d die to protect. And then he’ll use that knowledge like a scalpel.”
Fenric nodded grimly. “He’s also politically astute. Every move he makes serves multiple purposes. If he’s calling for this meeting, it’s not because he wants peace. It’s because he’s calculated that this particular strategic approach will serve his goals better than continued direct conflict.”
I set down my glass, the amber liquid suddenly tasting like ash. “So what you’re telling me is that I’m walking into a room with someone who’s spent centuries perfecting the art of psychological warfare, and my job is to... what? Not get completely destroyed?”
“Your job,” Fenric said gently, “is to be exactly what Varyth said you are—unpredictable. Ashterion thrives on reading people, on knowing exactly how they’ll react. But you’re human-born, dragon-bonded, carrying power no one fully understands. You’re a variable he can’t account for.”
“That’s assuming I don’t spontaneously combust from terror the moment I see him.”
Cindrissian’s lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile I’d seen from him all evening. “That would certainly be unpredictable.”
“Not helpful,” I muttered.
I picked up my glass again, swirling the amber liquid as I tried to process everything they’d told me. A political genius who dismantled people for sport. A predator who could read my deepest fears within minutes.
“What was it like?” The question slipped out before I could stop it, quieter than I’d intended. “Being part of his court?”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Cindrissian went completely still, his glass frozen halfway to his lips. Those crimson eyes turned flat, the same lethal emptiness I’d seen that night in his chambers when I’d mentioned rain and Ryn. Every line of his body went rigid, defensive walls slamming into place so fast I could practically hear them lock.
Fenric’s head snapped toward his brother, face twisting with something that looked like panic.
“Driss,” he said, a warning threaded through the name.
But Cindrissian didn’t seem to hear him. His fingers had gone white around his glass, knuckles standing out in harsh relief against pale skin.
“Forget I asked,” I said quickly, recognising the danger signs. The same lethal stillness that had preceded his transformation into the Master of Interrogations when I’d pushed too far before.
But something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, that I was backing down instead of pressing forward like most people would. The rigid tension in his shoulders eased fractionally.
“It’s fine,” he said, though his voice was carefully controlled. “Just not something I discuss.”
Fenric was watching his brother with a focused attention that spoke of years of practice reading Cindrissian’s moods.
“I understand,” I said, then hesitated. “But you mentioned before that you were sent there when you were thirteen.”
Cindrissian’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t shut down completely this time.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” I continued carefully, keeping my tone gentle. “But... how long were you there? How long before you came back?”
The question hung in the air between us like a blade balanced on its edge. Fenric’s breathing had gone shallow, his attention darting between his brother and me.
Cindrissian was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, finally, so low I had to strain to hear it. “Eight-hundred and sixty-seven years, four months, sixteen days.”
Gods. He knew exactly how long he’d been trapped there, down to the day.
