“Because if Xyliria gets control of that power, she’ll use it to burn everything to the ground.” His voice shifted into something raw, something genuine. “And I’ve spent too many centuries trying to prevent exactly that.”
I stared at him, the pieces shifting in my mind like a puzzle I couldn’t quite solve. The scars. The marriage. The way he’d warned me. The strange, conflicting signals he kept sending.
“You’re afraid of her,” I realised, the words fell from my lips before I could stop them.
His expression shuttered instantly. “Don’t be absurd.”
But I’d seen the truth before he could hide it.
“You don’t—” I stopped, the realisation crashing over me. “You’re her prisoner too, aren’t you?”
Ashterion’s face went completely blank, a stillness so perfect it could only be practiced. For a moment, I thought he might lash out, might unleash those shadows that coiled restlessly at his feet.
Instead, he turned away, moving to the window.
“You should be careful with accusations like that,” he said, so quiet I had to strain to hear him. “The walls have ears.”
I stepped closer, something shifting in my understanding of him. “That’s why you warned me. Why you’re offering illusions instead of torture. You’re caught in the same trap we are.”
His shoulders tensed beneath his fresh tunic. “I am High Lord of Nyxaria. I am not trapped.” But there was a hollowness in his response. A recitation rather than a truth.
“Bullshit,” I said quietly. “If you’re not trapped, why are your scars still fresh? Why do you flinch when she speaks? Why are you creating illusions instead of hurting me?”
Ashterion whirled to face me, his shadows rising around him. “Enough.”
But I couldn’t stop now. The pieces were falling into place too quickly.
“What does she have on you?” I pressed, stepping closer despite the danger radiating from him. “What keeps the mighty Shadow Lord on a leash?”
His hand shot out, faster than I could track, clamping hard over my mouth. His palm was cool against my lips, his grip firm as he backed me against the wall.
“Stop talking,” he hissed, his face inches from mine, eyes wide. “You have no idea what you’re saying.”
I struggled against his grip, but he held firm, his body boxing me in without quite touching me.
“Listen to me,” he whispered. “There are things you don’t understand. Things that will get both of us killed if you speak them aloud.”
The shadows around us thickened, coiling up the walls in strange patterns.
“If you want to live.” Ashterion’s breath was hot against my ear. “If you want your friends to live, you will never speak of this again. Do you understand?”
His fingers pressed harder against my lips, the pressure just shy of painful.
I nodded, the movement small beneath his palm. The shadows around us pulsed once, twice, then settled into a gentle rhythm that matched his breathing.
He released me slowly, his hand dropping to his side, but didn’t step back. The heat of his body radiated through the space between us, his breath falling in even counts against my skin. And that’s when it hit me, the scent of him. Cedar embers and storm-washed night, like lightning had struck a forest and left only the memory behind.
It made him seem suddenly, alarmingly real. Not the monster from stories, but someone who carried weather inside him.
“I don’t understand you,” I murmured, searching his face for any hint of deception. “One moment you’re threatening me, the next you’re trying to protect me.”
Ashterion’s jaw tightened. “I’m not protecting you,” he said, but he lacked conviction. “I’m protecting what you carry.”
“The fire.”
“Yes.”
“Then show me,” I said, steadier than I felt. “Show me how you plan to fake it.”
