Ash screamed as the blade carved through his flesh, the cry raw and unbidden. A vicious slap cracked across his cheek, a cruel reminder to silence his pain, to wear no expression but obedience. His trembling fingers clutched at his thigh where the cut bled freely, crimson soaking through the fabric as he fought to steady himself. His golden eyes, wide and glistening, stared down at the open book before him, the words swimming on the page.
‘Read!’ his father thundered.
Ash swallowed thickly, battling to collect his breath. He tried to summon the memory of Alina’s voice, soft as a lullaby, whispering encouragement in the glow of candlelight. Those nights in her chambers, practising with gentle corrections, warmsmiles. With her, the words had come easily. With her, love had made the stammer shrink.
Another slap. Harsher. This one sent him sprawling. The stone floor bit at his skin as he fell, vision spinning, ears ringing. He looked up, breath hitching, and saw the fury burning in his father’s eyes—cold, bright, and seething.
‘Useless boy!’ King Egan shrieked, the sound grating like metal on glass. He drove his boot into Ash’s wounded leg, eliciting a gasp of agony. ‘For all your worth, I should’ve had another daughter!’
Ash curled in on himself, shielding what he could with trembling arms. The beating only ceased when the chamber doors creaked open and a timid servant stepped in, bowing low as he announced the king was needed elsewhere. The room fell into sudden, eerie silence.
Ash lay where he’d fallen, chest heaving, blood dripping in slow rhythm to the pulse in his ears. The servant's gaze flicked to him just for a breath before, as always, sliding away.
King Egan exhaled sharply, smoothing back his pale hair with an air of irritation, not remorse. ‘See to those wounds. We wouldn’t want them getting infected,’ he said with a sneer, then swept from the room without a backward glance.
Ash pushed himself upright with a hiss, the metallic taste of blood still sharp on his tongue. The balcony doors hung ajar; voile curtains billowed in the salt dusk, carrying with them whispers of a gentler world. He observed the floating isle of the Kingdom of Air, suspended like a pale moon above the darkened sea. Did the valkyrians there speak with tenderness rather than derision? Was love given freely rather than a trophy earned through pain?
He limped along marble corridors, the echo of each footfall accompanied by a throb in his gashed thigh until he reached oneof the castle’s training courts. Stripping off his torn shirt, he selected a practice sword from the rack and wrapped his fingers round the well-worn hilt. Twenty summers old and already the finest blade in his land. Yet what use was that brilliance when a single page of prose still tangled his tongue?
Ash let the steel describe fluent arcs through the twilight, each stroke exact, disciplined, merciless. Pain blossomed through bruised flesh, but he willed it into silence. Old contusions were fading only to be painted anew, purple blooms upon his canvas.
A faint shift in the air warned him. He pivoted just as Hagan sprang from the shadow of a column, sword raised. Stealthy, yes. Yet never quite enough. Two crisp parries, a deft riposte: in a heartbeat Ash had his friend sprawling on the gravel.
Flat on his back, Hagan laughed, wiping grit from his cheek. ‘One day,’ he panted, good-natured malice glinting in his eyes, ‘I’ll catch you unawares. You’ll not even feel the wind of the strike before it lands.’
Ash allowed himself a rare, crooked smile. ‘Y-you’re welcome t-to try,’ he replied, stammer softened by the quiet triumph in his chest.
Hagan gave him a shove, rough but affectionate, as they returned their blades to the rack. By then, the pain in Ash’s leg had sharpened, streaking like lightning down to his ankle with every step. He faltered, wincing subtly, but not enough to fool Hagan, who reached out, gripping Ash’s arm to halt him.
‘Let me see,’ Hagan said, his voice low but firm.
‘It’s n-nothing,’ Ash replied, trying to shrug him off.
‘No, it’s not.’ Hagan steered him to the edge of the courtyard, guiding him down to a stone bench with quiet insistence. He crouched, tugging at the hem of Ash’s trousers until the fabric gave way, revealing the deep, angry gash acrosshis thigh. Hagan’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he raked a hand over his face.
‘Don’t,’ Ash muttered, weariness weighing on every syllable. ‘He’s your k-king.’
Hagan spat onto the stones. ‘I don’t care if he’s the king of the fucking stars. He has no right to do this to you.’ He carefully pulled the fabric back up. ‘You need to get the physician to treat that. If not, you’ll be dragging that leg around for a week.’
Ash gave a small nod, running a hand through his tangled blond hair.
‘I mean it, Ash,’ Hagan pressed, his brow furrowed with genuine concern. ‘You need to have it seen to.’
Another nod, more deliberate this time. ‘Don’t tell Alina.’
Hagan exhaled hard through his nose. ‘You should. She ought to know how far he’s gone.’
‘No.’
‘Someone needs to.’
‘No one, Ha–Hagan. P–promise me.’ His voice trembled, but there was iron behind it.
Hagan looked away, shaking his head as frustration warred with affection. They had danced this dance too many times, fought the same fight, exchanged the same words and always, in the end, Hagan yielded.
‘Fine,’ he muttered. ‘But if he ends up killing you, I’m not coming after you in the afterlife.’
Ash gave a soft, tired smile.
