Page 10 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

The two guards flanking the door exchange brief glances, their stoic expressions unbroken but their curiosity barely hidden.

I meet their gazes with a raised brow, daring them to linger longer.

As usual, they look away, returning to their disciplined stillness.

My right hand rises, and I knock three times.

“Come in, my sweet,” comes my father’s voice from within, smooth and commanding, yet laced with an unshakable warmth that has always made me uneasy.

Stepping into his chamber feels like walking into a time capsule.

The rich green and gold hues of the room remain as vivid as the first day I arrived here as a child.

Velvet drapes frame the tall windows, spilling onto the floor in decadent waves, and his imposing desk stands like a fortress in the heart of the room.

Everything feels grand and untouchable, as if even time itself bends to the will of the Vampire King.

My eyes rest on him, and for a fleeting moment, I see him as I once did—a towering figure of authority, the man who raised me.

Unlike humans, he does not age. The years do not touch him, cannot carve lines into his face or steal the sharpness from his gaze.

And yet, he is not the same as when I first met him.

He used to wear his long white hair tied back in a knot, a style that made him look older, more severe.

I remember teasing him about it as a child, calling him old, smug in my small victories when I caught him smiling at my antics.

Not long after, he cut it—short on the sides, leaving the top just long enough to sweep back.

I never asked if my words had influenced his decision, but a part of me liked to think they had.

Now, standing there in the candlelight, his pale skin untouched by time, his cold, almost white-blue eyes unreadable, he looks like something carved from ice.

His jawline is clean-shaven, his features delicate yet devastatingly handsome, a beauty that should be ethereal but is instead lethal.

He is tall, his broad shoulders lending him an air of command, his slender frame deceptively graceful.

To the world, he is a predator clothed in regal elegance, a creature that inspires fear with a single glance. But to me, he is still my father.

My eyes drop to the map spread across his desk, its intricate markings illuminated by the soft glow of a nearby candelabra. His attention is fixed on a particular area—Lord Striden’s territory.

“You wanted to speak with me, Father?” I ask, my voice steady, but each word pointed enough to cut through the stillness.

“You’re late,” my father says, shifting his attention from the map before him. His voice is calm, smooth, and layered with expectation—an expectation that has shaped every step of my life in this castle.

“I wasn’t aware you’d started counting,” I reply, stepping further into the room. My tone is firm but measured—enough to hold my ground without stepping over the line. His lips curl faintly, his delight so brief it’s easy to miss.

He rises from behind his desk, his movements measured as his piercing gaze sweeps over me, resting on the silver bracelet at my wrist before returning to meet my eyes.

“You look every bit the daughter of the Vampire King,” he says finally, his tone low but purposeful. “Strong, poised, and untouchable .”

I incline my head slightly, the words both a compliment and a reminder of what I’m meant to be.

“And here I thought it was my charm that won you over.”

“Charm is fleeting,” he replies smoothly, stepping closer. His voice lowers, each word deliberate. “Seduction, however, is power. And power, my sweet, is what?”

His words settle between us, heavy and familiar. This is no idle remark. It’s a lesson he’s instilled in me since the day he brought me to this castle, a reminder that power is not merely taken—it is wielded, cultivated, and protected.

“Control, Father,” I say out of habit.

“And what is control, Lailah?” he asks suddenly, tilting his head as he studies me. His voice isn’t harsh, but it carries the tone of a teacher expecting his pupil to answer correctly.

“It’s mastery over oneself,” I say, my voice steady. “And the ability to bend the world to your will. ”

His faint smile deepens, approval glinting in his icy stare.

“Good. And what have I taught you about protecting what is yours?”

“That strength without discipline is chaos,” I reply automatically, repeating the words he’s drilled into me for years. “The greatest power lies in knowing when to strike and when to wait.”

“And have you done what I’ve asked of you during your time here?” His tone remains calm, but there’s a razor-sharp edge beneath it. He’s not merely asking—he’s testing me.

My stomach twists. He knows. He must know.

The memory drifts back unbidden, as vivid as if it were happening all over again.

The warmth of the summer night had wrapped around me, the air thick and still, humming with possibility.

Sera’s laughter had rung out softly beside me as we wove through the narrow streets of the human quarters, the distant buzz of the tavern pulling us forward.

And then there was him .

His dark green eyes had caught mine through the haze of the room, their depth endless, like an ancient forest drenched in shadow. They held me captive, pulling me in, unraveling something I didn’t realize I had tightly bound inside myself.

And his touch?—

I stop myself, forcing the thought away before it can fully form. My hands clench at my sides, the fabric of my gloves taut against my skin. Focus. He’s watching you.

“Yes,” I say, my voice calm, masking the quickened tempo of my heartbeat. “The veil holds strong. No force, mortal or immortal, can breach it without my permission. My magic answers to me. I control it— completely .”

His gaze intensifies, dragging out the silence as though testing the truth of my words. My pulse quickens under his scrutiny, but I keep my head high, my posture resolute.

“Good,” he says at last, his tone as measured as mine.

His faint smile curves like the edge of a blade, satisfaction glinting in his eyes .

“You speak with the confidence of someone who understands what she is. Power, discipline, control… these are not just words for you, are they?”

“No,” I reply smoothly, the hint of a smirk tugging at my lips. “They’re who I am.”

My father’s faint smile lingers, his gaze never wavering. He steps closer, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, radiating effortless authority.

“Have I ever asked something of you that you did not already want?” His voice is smooth, coaxing, yet there’s an edge to it—a challenge disguised as a question.

I hold his gaze, my expression calm. “No.”

His smile sharpens.

“Then what I am about to ask you next, my sweet,” he says, his voice taking on a deeper resonance, “I hope it is something you will want just as much as I do.”

Unease stirs in me, though I keep my expression calm.

My mind races through possibilities: another task, another lesson, another piece of his endless strategy. From his desk, he retrieves a folded parchment sealed with his unmistakable crest. Without a word, he extends it toward me, his eyes holding mine with quiet expectation.

I take the paper, my fingers brushing against the embossed wax. The weight of the moment presses down on me as I break the seal and unfold the parchment. The elegant script leaps off the page:

With the Blessing of the Divine, Sovereign of the Kingdom of Astral, I, King Clyde, do hereby extend to you, our noble subject, an invitation of great joy and importance.

It is with the deepest pride and the utmost reverence that I announce the forthcoming union of my beloved daughter, Princess Lailah of Astral, with Lord Jason of Alystan, son of the esteemed House of Striden.

The words blur as my pulse quickens, the full weight of their meaning settling over me .

“Marriage,” I whisper, the word barely audible, as though speaking it aloud might make it more real.

Clyde steps closer, his voice quiet but firm. “Yes. Jason of Alystan. The son of Lord Striden.”

He turns then, moving toward the far wall where the map of Astral is pinned between two brass rods. Candlelight casts flickering shadows across its surface—the jagged mountains of Arinstor, the winding rivers, the clustered cities marked in crimson ink.

I know this map well. I used to study it endlessly, searching for places I’d never see. But now, with Clyde’s words still echoing in my mind, the map feels like something else entirely—a battlefield held together by threads ready to snap.

Only three human lords remain now—one in the Riverlands, another in the Striden Territory, and the last in Emberwich.

They are the remnants of a fractured people, tolerated more than trusted, allowed to govern only so long as their obedience remains absolute.

Their borders act as fragile seams holding Astral together, lines not guarded by loyalty, but by fear.

Fear of what Clyde would do should they waver.

And far to the south, nestled deep within the mountains of Arinstor, there are whispers of a king who crowned himself with stones plucked from the bones of a dead kingdom.

They say he lives among jeweled caverns and halls of crystal, surrounded by riches beyond imagination—hoarding gold, ghosts, and grievances atop his frozen throne.

A mad king, some call him—not because he marches, but because he stays.

Content to rot in opulence. Content to speak only to his stones.