Ashterion’s smile widened. “Black fire isn’t natural,” he said, his tone intimate in its menace. “It’s not a gift like wind or flame or ice. It’s a corruption. So, I must wonder…” He tilted his head. “Did you come upon it naturally… or did Varyth create you?”
I blinked.
What?
“No one created me,” I said. “It happened when I crossed the Veil.”
His expression flickered with unease. But he smoothed it away instantly, that armoured composure sliding back into place.
I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. I was too busy trying to push down the sick churn in my gut.
Ashterion folded his hands behind his back, pacing leisurely now. “You know,” he said casually. “Black flame wielders haven’t existed in millennia. They were once the most powerful warriors in Nyxaria—feared, unmatched. Touched by power darker than even we could understand.”
His eyes slid back to mine. “That power isn’t born. It’s taken. Pulled from the shadows and forced into the vessel. And it comes at a cost.” He smiled, cruel and slow. “Eventually, the corruption drove them mad. And when they fell, they didn’t fall quietly. They had to be hunted. Eliminated.”
I stood frozen, my thoughts spiralling.
Eliminated.
“You’re saying,” I managed, throat dry, “I’m going to go mad?”
“I’m saying you don’t even know what you are.”
“You’re lying,” I breathed, though the words felt hollow even as they left my lips.
“Am I?” Ashterion’s voice was almost gentle. “Think, fireling. Have you felt it yet? The whispers in the dark? The hunger that gnaws at you when the fire burns brightest?”
I had. Gods help me, I had. In the moments when the black flames consumed everything around me, when they licked across my skin like living things—there was something else there. Something that felt ancient and hungry and not entirely mine.
“What does Varyth truly want from you?” Ashterion cut through my words like a blade. “What are you to him, really?”
I bristled. “That’s none of your concern.”
Ashterion hummed, considering my words. Then, in a movement so smooth I barely registered it, he leaned back against the edge of the table, crossing his arms over his chest. “He’s claimed you. I can see it in the way you speak of him, the way you defend him. The way you wear his scent as armour.” His gaze dragged over me. “And Varyth’s choices tend to have… undesirable outcomes. I’d hate to have to kill him if he finds himself creating a mess of you.”
The threat was unmistakable, delivered with such casual cruelty that it stole my breath. The blood drained from my face,but I shoved down my fear. Instead, I let anger rise, hot and fierce, burning away everything else.
“The only ones creating a mess,” I said, “are you and your wife.”
Ashterion’s expression shifted, the change so subtle I would have missed it if I hadn’t been watching him closely. A tightening around his eyes, a slight tension in his jaw—I’d struck a nerve without meaning to.
“You know nothing of my wife.”
“Oh, I know plenty.” A laugh bubbled up, humourless. “I know you’re herbitch.”
Ashterion went preternaturally still. His fingers dug into his biceps hard enough that his knuckles went white.
But I didn’t stop. “I know she has you on a leash. When she tugs, you obey.” I let my smile sharpen, my tone mocking. “While she tortures the rest of us, you stand there. Her perfect little pet.”
Ashterion’s expression turned lethal. Violence rippled beneath the surface, coiled tight, ready to strike. For the first time since the conversation began, I wondered if I’d pushed too far.
But, Ashterion merely hummed, low and thoughtful.
“We’re done for today,” he said, pushing off the table.
Relief should have settled in my chest, but it didn’t.
Because then he smiled. A slow curve of his lips. “Though,” he mused, “I do find your company… unusual.”
