His mind raced, calculations spinning faster than he could catch them.
If the black fire she wielded was thesuppressedversion of her power? If this mark was holding power back, caging it, keeping it from tearing her apart from the inside out?—
What thefuckwas she really capable of?
“Ashterion?”
He blinked.
Realised, too late, that he’d gone silent. That his thumb was tracing the edge of the mark, like he could read its secrets through touch alone.
Her breath hitched.
His hand stilled.
He cleared his throat, stepping back with an ease he absolutely did not feel. His expression smoothed into something unreadable, though his pulse was a war drum in his chest.
Weigh your options, you bastard.
She was too attached to Varyth. Too loyal, too desperate to believe he’d protect her. If he told her the truth—if he saidthat’s not control, that’s a gods-damned cage—she wouldn’t believe him. She’d think it was manipulation. Another game. Another lie.
And she’d be right to.
So he didn’t.
Instead, he let his gaze drift back to the mark, his voice far more neutral than it had any fucking right to be. “It does seem designed to control.”
A half-truth.
The most dangerous kind.
Isara was silent for a full minute, her breathing the only sound in the cavernous chamber. When she finally looked up, her storm-dark eyes had gone flat and dangerous.
“One more question.”
Ashterion sighed, shadows curling tighter around his boots. The female was relentless. “Fine. But I make no promise to answer it.”
Isara tilted her head, gave the barest lift of one brow and, completely flat, said, “Do you sit up at night.” Her brow arched a breath higher. “Coming up with all the scary nicknames for your court? You included.”
For a heartbeat, Ashterion was utterly, completely speechless.
The shadows around him went still, as if they too were stunned into silence by the sheer audacity of the question.
“I—what?”
“You,” she said, gesturing to him like she was explaining something obvious to a child. “Shadow Lord. And your court,Stormborn,Bloodwitch. Every one of you has some ominous, dramatic title that sounds like it belongs in a bad bard’s song. Do you just… spend your free time crafting those? Is that what the most feared High Lord in this realm does?”
He stared at her.
Was she… was she being serious?
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Dragged a hand down his face. Stared at her another beat longer.
Then, finally—stars help him—he leaned back and said, “Well, it’s an important part of our deadly image. Can’t have the rabble such as yourself thinking we’re the same.”
Something remarkable happened on her face. A small smile ghosted across her lips before she caught herself and shoved it away.
The shadows around him stirred. They’d noticed too. How could they not? It was like seeing the sun break through storm clouds—brief, startling, and inexplicably captivating.
