He met her eyes directly, let her see the truth of it. “It corrupts the mind too. Eventually, those wielders became too dangerous to control.” A pause, deliberate as a heartbeat. “They had to be hunted.”
“Who made them?” Her voice cracked. “Who did this?”
Ashterion shrugged, the gesture deliberately elegant. “It’s unclear. The magic was hidden after the last wielders were killed. Some say there was an original shadow fire wielder who created others. But the more common legend...”
He paused, watching her face. Watching the way hope and horror warred in her expression.
“A legendary shadow warrior tried to save his lover with shadow magic. But power was so great that it was impossible for a fae form to contain, and it corrupted her soul.” The shadows around his boots stirred, responding to the darkness of the tale.
“What happened?”
“He had to kill her in the end.”
He could see it in the way her shoulders drew up, the way her breath caught. Her mouth opened, a dozen questions clawing at her throat.
But he held up a hand before she could ask them.
“That was more than one question. My turn.”
Isara’s laugh was bitter. “Fine. Ask away.”
Ashterion studied her for a long moment, fingers drumming once against the armrest before going still. When he spoke, his tone was deceptively casual.
“You told me no one made you.” He tilted his head, shadows pooling deeper at his feet. “So tell me this. Did anyone—Varyth or another member of his court—ever mark you with anything? Give you something to carry at all times?”
The sound she made was small. Involuntary.
Gotcha.
Every nerve in Ashterion’s body went taut, predatory focus narrowing to a blade’s edge. He didn’t move, didn’t let his expression shift, but inside, something clicked into place with the weight of inevitability.
“That’s a yes then. Do you have it? Or can I see it?”
Isara’s jaw worked, fury and defensiveness warring in her eyes. For a moment, he thought she might refuse. Spit venom at him and storm out.
But then her hands moved.
Slowly, reluctantly, she reached up and tugged her hair back from her neck, baring the delicate curve of skin behind her ear.
“He said it would help me control my powers,” she said tightly, every word ground out like a confession under duress. “It didn’tmakeme. I could already feel whatever this was by then.” The defiance in her answer was almost admirable. Almost. “Varyth wouldn’t lie to me.”
Ashterion didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because he’d gone utterly, dangerously still.
There, burned into the pale skin just behind her ear, barely visible beneath the fall of her hair—was a mark.
A symbol he recognised.
He moved before he could stop himself, closing the distance between them in two silent steps. His hand lifted, fingers curling beneath her jaw to tilt her head just slightly, thumb brushing over the mark with a deliberateness that felt almost reverent.
Fuck.
It wasn’t a rune for control.
It wascontainment.
Suppression magic, old and vicious, designed to lock something down so tight it couldn’t breathe. The kind of thingyou used when you didn’t want power to surface. When you wanted to keep it buried, dormant, harmless.
Which meant?—
