He shouldn’t care. Shouldn’t notice. Certainly shouldn’t feel the strange tightening in his chest at having caused that reaction.
“At least you admit it,” she muttered.
Ashterion found himself fighting laughter. Not a calculated chuckle designed to unnerve, not the cold, practiced sound he used in Xyliria’s court. A genuine laugh. He couldn’t even recall the last time he’d felt such a thing.
He suppressed it, of course. Buried it beneath layers of practiced control. But the fact that it had nearly escaped at all was… concerning.
Ashterion studied her, the faintest crease forming between his brows. His shadows flickered at his feet.
“Of all the things you could have asked me,” he said, dry and quiet, “you asked about the names?”
Isara shrugged, leaning against the wall as though she hadn’t upended the entire conversation with one deadpan remark. “Maybe I wanted to know if the names are for show or actually real. Giving yourself the titles is embarrassing compared to earning them.”
A sound dangerously close to a snort escaped him. A truly undignified noise. “Fair enough.” He didn’t smile, but gods, he almost remembered he could. “You should ask your friends, then. Most of them know how the names came to be.”
She raised a brow. “And? Were they earned?”
“That depends.” Ashterion’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “People love a name to whisper in the dark. A way to make the fear feel bigger. Foolish, really.”
“Why?” she asked, the question blunt, direct.
He leaned back, turning toward the hearth, flames casting flickering gold across the lines of his face.
“Because,” he said, “real monsters hide in the light, where everyone can see them.”
The fire cracked.
Her jade eyes flashed, not with fear, but understanding.
Recognition. She knew what he meant because she’d seen it herself.
The shadows stirred around his feet, responding to his thoughts before he could name them. They’d been doing that more frequently lately. Anticipating. Listening.
She was studying him again. The weight of her scrutiny was a physical touch against his skin. Searching for cracks, for weaknesses, for any hint of the truth beneath his meticulously constructed façade.
“You speak from experience,” she said finally. Not a question. A statement.
Ashterion’s jaw tightened imperceptibly.
“Perhaps.” He stared into fire, unwilling to risk even a glance in her direction. “Or perhaps I merely enjoy being cryptic.”
“Which one are you, then?”
He angled his head enough to study her from the corner of his eye.
“A monster who hides in the dark?” she asked. “Or in the light?”
For a heartbeat, he said nothing.
Then he leaned back, one arm draping over the side of the chair, the other resting loosely across his knee. A shadow curled up the leg of his trousers, brushing against his skin in a silent, knowing caress.
Ashterion smirked.
“I don’t hide.” His voice was low, smooth. Dangerous in the way still water could be—quiet until it pulled you under. “I never have.”
He turned his head then, finally meeting her gaze.
“I wait for the world to look away.” His fingers flexed once. “And then I remind them why they should fear the dark.”
