“What is it?” he whispered, crouching to touch the writhing darkness.
Images flooded his mind. Blood. Death. Power. And something else... something familiar yet utterly foreign.
And at the centre of it all, a figure wreathed in darkness.
A figure with copper hair.
Ashterion’s heart slammed against his ribs.
Isara.
He rose from his crouch, every muscle tight. Forced himself to breathe. Slow. Steady.
The shadows swirled tighter, a warning, but Ashterion was done heeding warnings. Done cowering. Done waiting.
The power under his skin pulsed, vibrating through his bones, demanding release after centuries of suppression.
He wouldn’t unleash all of it—couldn’t risk that level of destruction, not yet—but the pressure was unbearable. He couldn’t contain it anymore. Didn’t want to.
Ashterion let his head fall back, eyes half-closing as he loosened his grip on the power he hadn’t held in centuries.
The relief was instantaneous. Shadows exploded from his skin in waves, rippling outward like ink in water, the darkness thick and alive as it coated the walls, the floor, the ceiling. The stone beneath his feet cracked, hairline fractures splintering through the marble as his power surged free.
Something inside him broke open.
Not just magic, memory. Freedom. The weight of four hundred years of submission, of watching his court rot from within, of standing by while Xyliria destroyed everything he’d once protected.
His vision blurred, then sharpened to painful clarity. Every sound, every scent, every sensation magnified until the world itself seemed to breathe through him.
Ashterion stepped forward, his shadow-laced fingers reaching for the massive doors before him. The metal was cold beneath his touch, ancient and heavy. He paused, feeling the power surge through his veins.
Then he pushed.
76
Irose, and the weight of their stares hit me all at once.
Varyth stood frozen. Blood dripped from his hands, evidence of the guards he’d torn through, but he paid it no mind. He was fixated solely on me, drinking in every detail as if seeing me for the first time.
Darian’s expression was cautious. He took a hesitant step forward, then stopped, unsure whether it was safe to approach.
The others—Linc, Fenric, Cindrissian—stared at me with varying degrees of shock and disbelief. I had become something more, something they couldn’t quite comprehend.
Shaelith’s chest heaved as her eyes fixed on Xyliria’s ruined form, her face tear-stained but her eyes blazed with a fierce, savage pleasure.
I felt it before he entered.
Not power. Not exactly.
It was presence. Sovereignty.Command.
A force that swallowed breath, choked thought, bent the fabric of the air around it.
Magic pulsed through the stone, thick and primal, ancient and furious. It pressed against my skin, as if the stars themselves had bent low to watch what was coming.
This wasn’t the world exhaling.
This was the world kneeling.
