It meant I hadno ideawhat truly held his leash.
I forced my arms to uncross. “If you don’t want to answer, then don’t,” I said finally. “But don’t act like I’m the fool for asking.”
He didn’t meet my eye. Instead, he simply stared at a point over my shoulder.
Then, after a long moment, he nodded. “Fair enough.”
Something about the gesture unsettled me more than any insult he could’ve thrown.
Ashterion rose from his chair, moving to pour himself another glass of wine. The liquid caught the firelight, dark and rich as blood.
“I need to discuss this arrangement with you,” he said abruptly, his back still to me.
My muscles tensed instinctively. “What arrangement? I thought it was clear. One night a week in your chambers for healers.”
He turned, swirling the wine in his glass with practiced elegance. “Xyliria has expectations.” His tone was relaxed, but his posture had changed, a subtle tension I hadn’t noticed before. “She expects results from our... sessions.”
“Results?” A warning prickled across my skin.
“Evidence,” he clarified, studying me over the rim of his glass. “That I’m breaking you.” He spoke the words as though they tasted foul in his mouth.
I stared at him, a chill slithering down my spine.
“Breaking me,” I repeated.
Ashterion’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”
“And what exactly does that entail?”
“It means,” he said carefully, “when you return to your cell, you need to look like you’ve been through hell.”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “You want to hurt me.”
“No.” The answer came quickly. Almost defensive. Then he composed himself. “What I want is irrelevant. But what needs to happen is that you must appear to have been... handled.”
I backed away instantly. “So, what’s your plan? Beat me until I can’t stand? Cut me open the same way you’ve been cut open?” I snarled, disgust coiling through me. “And I’m supposed to let you?”
Ashterion’s expression shifted, the mask slipping enough to reveal something raw underneath. “I need you to listen, Isara.” His voice was barely audible above the crackling fire. “I have no intention of torturing you.”
I barked a harsh laugh. “Then what exactly is your plan?”
“Illusion.” He moved closer, his steps measured. “Shadow magic can create wounds that appear real, that feel real to anyone who touches them but cause no actual damage.”
I stared at him, disbelief warring with a dangerous flicker of hope. “Why would you do that? Why not hurt me and be done with it?”
“Because...” he hesitated, something passing across his face that I couldn’t comprehend. “Because this isn’t what I want.”
The words hung between us, startling in their honesty. I studied him, trying to find the lie, the manipulation, the trap. But his expression remained open, unguarded in a way I hadn’t seen before.
“You expect me to believe you suddenly developed a conscience?”
Ashterion’s midnight eyes hardened. “I expect you to understand that we both have roles to play.”
“And what’s yours? Torturer with a heart of gold?”
“My role,” he said, voice dropping lower, “is to keep myself alive. And to keep your fire out of her hands.”
A slow, creeping sensation worked its way up my spine. Something I couldn’t even name. “And why would you care about keeping my fire from her?”
