Cindrissian’s hands ghosted over the break, poised, steady. A single beat of hesitation. Then he moved.
The pain was instant, excruciating, unbearable.
A white-hot spike shot through my leg, tearing through every nerve, searing into my bones. I distantly registered the snarl that ripped from Varyth’s throat, the way his grip on me tightened.
My world ruptured?—
And then went dark.
53
Ashterion sat slouched in the obsidian throne, elbow braced on the armrest, chin resting lightly against his knuckles. Below, a dozen guards knelt in blood and ruin, shadows wrapped around them like patient executioners. The room reeked of copper and failure.
One screamed—high and wet—before a snap cut it off.
Xyliria sat beside him, her posture the picture of elegant boredom, head resting against the chair as she inspected her nails with a lazy flick of her wrist.
“I assume there’s a reason I’m watching our soldiers bleed all over the floor,” she drawled without looking up from her nails. “Or is this simply a creative outlet for your frustrations?”
Ashterion didn’t look at her.
“It’s punishment,” he said coolly. “They underestimated an asset.”
“An asset,” she repeated, smirking. “Is that what we’re calling her now?”
Another crunch of bone. Another choked sob. The shadows moved like wolves through the wreckage. Most of the guards had ceased protesting, at least outwardly. But one squirmed.
The one who laughed when she screamed.
Ashterion’s gaze snapped to him. Rage lashed up his spine like a whip. It hadn’t truly left, not since those fucking animals had shattered her leg. The inconvenient memory of her stuck in his mind. Her blood, her scream—it clung to him.
Now, his shadows forced the male’s mouth open. Another coil twisted around his leg. The same leg he’d used to stomp on hers.
The shriek that followed was brief.
“Now they’ll take her seriously,” Xyliria said, her tone indulgent.
“They should have from the beginning.”
She turned to him fully now, eyes gleaming with quiet threat. “Are you worried about our little human?”
“I’m concerned with efficiency. You wanted her broken. She can’t be broken if she escapes.”
“Oh, Ashterion,” she cooed, all saccharine steel. “You know she wasn’t going to escape. Not really.” Her fingers drummed against the armrest. “Three prisoners against an entire palace? It was suicide, not strategy.”
Ashterion’s jaw tightened. “Then why do it at all?”
“Because she’s testing boundaries. Seeing how far she can push before we push back.” Xyliria’s smile turned predatory. “It’s what wild things do when they’re caged. They throw themselves against the bars until they break.”
He didn’t dignify that with a reply. Just sat there, watching the blood pool, the scent of iron rising through the room.
Xyliria let the silence stretch for a beat longer, then asked, almost absently, “How’s the leg?”
“At least one of them proved useful,” he said flatly. “It’s a bad break.”
“Mmm. That might be useful,” she said, tapping her chin with one lacquered nail. “A wound like that offers... opportunities.”
Ashterion said nothing.
