69
Ashterion sat alone in the garden atop the roof of his home, the quiet hush of the wind combing through hawthorn and red maple trees, flowering vines that spilled over the stone edges. The city stretched out far below, bathed in the golden haze of early dawn.
It had been a long, long time since he’d come to this place.
Too long.
The air was different up here—untouched by rot or shadow, untainted by Xyliria’s reach. She had never set foot in this place, never discovered the sanctum he’d carved into the sky.
And maybe that was why he’d stayed away. Why he hadn’t dared to return.
But today was different.
Today, he’d come home.
If he was going to die, it would not be in that castle. Not in that cold, corrupted palace with her breath down his neck and blood on the floor.
No.
He’d die here.
In the one place he hadn’t yet defiled with violence.
Ashterion studied the blade in his hands. It was a beautiful thing—simple, elegant, perfectly balanced. The metal caught the light, gleaming silver-blue in the fading sun, the enchantment woven into the hilt humming quietly, like a sleeping heartbeat.
It would be quick.
Gods knew, if nothing else, he would at least die with precision.
His gaze drifted across the garden. Wild roses bloomed in tangled arches. A cluster of silver lilies danced in the breeze. A tree he’d planted when he’d built the garden stood in the centre, its trunk thick now, branches stretching high and strong into the sky.
He’d once imagined bringing someone here.
A wife, maybe. A mate, if fate had ever been so kind. He used to sit under that tree and picture children racing across the stones, their laughter echoing over the rooftops, chasing faelight and dreams.
Gods, how deluded he’d been.
Ashterion’s throat tightened. He hadn’t realised he’d stopped breathing until a bitter exhale pushed from his lungs.
Freedom.
Death was the closest he would ever come to it. And so, he might as well be grateful—for the silence, for the sky, for the fact that Xyliria had been too preoccupied with her latest machinations to notice him slipping away.
He ran his thumb along the edge of the blade.
The blade’s edge opened a thin red line across his thumb, a bright bead of crimson forming in its wake. He watched it with detached curiosity, the way it trembled and swelled before finally spilling over, trailing down the curve of his palm.
His shadows stirred restlessly, coiling around his ankles. They sensed what was coming. They had been part of him forso long. These ancient, hungry things had followed him through centuries of bloodshed and survival.
Merrick would inherit them, along with everything else. The power, the responsibility, the burden of the Nyxarian Court. The shadows would serve him well. His brother had always been the better of them, stronger in ways that mattered, kinder in ways Ashterion had forgotten how to be.
The wind whispered through the leaves, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine. When had he planted those? Centuries ago, perhaps, on a night when he’d still believed in small mercies.
It was the right decision. The only decision.
Ashterion studied the point where he would place the blade, right between his ribs, angled upward to pierce his heart. A swift death. Clean. Final.
A tremor ran through his hand.
