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Chapter Thirty-Three

Aleksander

Long after the meeting in the throne room, I sit across from Asha in her parlor.

“Do you trust Brathen?” I ask as I lean back in my chair, cradling a goblet of wine.

She meets my gaze, her blue eyes unwavering. “I do. He’s proven himself time and again.”

A flicker of doubt gnaws at my gut, but I nod anyway.

I’ve always prided myself on my ability to judge people, to see beneath their lies and uncover their motives. But with Brathen, I’m left grasping at shadows.

Asha stands and moves to the window, where she faces the night sky, hands clasped behind her back. “Do you not trust him?”

“I find it hard to trust a man who hides his face.”

“Sometimes people wear masks for a reason. It doesn’t necessarily mean they have something to hide.”

“Doesn’t it, though? Why else would he conceal his identity?” I ask, then take a long drink of the wine, letting its warmth spread through me.

A sigh escapes Asha as she turns to face me. “You’re too quick to judge, just like everyone else from your house. Give him a chance. He’s on our side.”

Typical Asha—always quick to throw stones at my house.

Though, it is true that Brathen has been a valuable ally thus far. Still, the unease lingers, a whisper in the back of my mind that I can’t quite silence.

Who is he really? And why is he so willing to help us?

I set down my empty goblet and cross the room to stand beside Asha at the window. “It’s not just Brathen. I worry about the alliances we’re forging. The risks we’re taking.”

The lines near her mouth tighten as she keeps her stare forward. “Risks are necessary for victory.”

“Perhaps.” I study her profile, the way the soft glow of torchlight grazes her cheek. “But some risks aren’t worth taking.”

“Then, why are you here, Aleksander? If you doubt our path?”

“Because I believe in our cause. And...” I pause, then say what I’ve been thinking for a while, “…I believe in you.”

“Belief isn’t enough. We need action.”

“Action without trust leads to ruin.”

The lines near her mouth deepen even more as she frowns. “If you can’t trust our decisions, maybe you should reconsider your place.”

The space between us shrinks as I step closer to her. “You know I won’t do that.”

Her eyes meet mine for a brief moment before drifting back to the window.

“Sit with me,” I suggest, motioning to the sofa nearby.

She hesitates, then moves, settling at the far end. I take a seat beside her.

“Asha,” I begin. “I want us to take time to get to know each other.”

Her fingers trace an invisible pattern on her cotehardie. “We’ve been over this.”

“Have we? Or have you been avoiding it?” I reach out, covering her hand with mine.

She withdraws and stands abruptly. “This isn’t the time.”

Tightness grips my chest, my throat. “When will it be time? We’ve danced around this long enough.”

Shadows darken her blue eyes. “It’s complicated.”

Needing to understand, I rise to face her. “Is it your grief? If so, I understand. I can wait.”

Stray strands of hair lash against her cheeks as she shakes her head. “You assume too much.”

“Then, help me understand.” I search her face. “I care about you, more than you realize.”

“Our alliance is strategic. Nothing more.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Think what you like.”

Frustration simmers through my veins. “Why do you keep pushing me away? What are you hiding?”

“Enough, Aleksander,” she says as she turns toward the door.

I take a step after her. “Asha—”

“—good night.” The door closes behind her.

My thoughts churn like a storm at sea as I sink onto the sofa. There’s more to her distance than sorrow. There are barriers I can’t seem to breach.

And somehow, I doubt it will ever change.

The door clicks shut behind me as I step into the corridor, my thoughts still tangled in knots.

As I make my way down the hallway, a flash of movement catches my eye. Curious, I pause and peer inside a large sitting room, where Breda hums as she wipes down a table.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Well, well. If it isn’t the fortress most industrious servant.”

Breda’s eyes meet mine as she dips into a hasty curtsy. “My Lord, I didn’t see you there.”

“Clearly.” I push off the doorframe and walk into the room, picking up a trinket from a nearby shelf. “Tell me, Breda. Do you ever tire of your endless work?”

She blinks. “No, I take pride in my work.”

“Pride?” I scoff and set the trinket back in its place. “In scrubbing and dusting? How quaint.”

A hint of pink colors her cheeks as she meets my gaze. “There’s honor in a job well done, no matter how small.”

“Is that so?” I slip my fingers into my weapon belt as I think about what she said. “And what of your dreams? Your ambitions? Surely you want more than this.”

A glimmer of defiance shimmers in her eyes as she lifts her chin. “My dreams are my own, My Lord. And I’m quite content.”

I roll my eyes. “Content. How very dull.”

“I find joy in the simple things.”

“Simple things,” I echo. “Like what, exactly?”

“Friendship. Laughter. Acts of kindness.”

“And what has kindness ever gotten you?”

A small smile curves her lips. “More than you might think.”

“Truly?” I lift my brow as I continue. “What has kindness gotten you lately?”

“Lady Annora gave me one of her cotehardies.” Breda’s eyes light up as she adds, “And she defended me against—”

“—ah yes, the incident with Roran.” I tuck the coin away. “I heard about that. He won’t be bothering you again.”

Her brows lift. “Did you…?”

“Let’s just say he’s been reassigned to mucking out the stables.” I lean against the table. “Far away from any servants he might harass.”

“That was...” She pauses for a beat before continuing. “Thank you.”

She leans over to dust, but the cloth slips from her grip, floating to the floor between us. We both reach down, and her head bumps mine as our hands brush against the fabric. Her eyes drop to my mouth, and something tightens in my chest.

I straighten, clearing my throat. “I should check on the Watchers. Make sure they’re settling in.”

“Of course, My Lord.” Her face reddens as she clutches the cloth to her chest.

“Carry on with your...” I wave vaguely at the room. “Whatever this is.”

I walk out before she can respond, knowing that I refuse to be like my father, who treated women worse than disposable trinkets that he used and discarded.