Page 17 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

As my father finishes his speech, I can’t stop the surge of anticipation that rises in me. I glance toward Jason, and just briefly my nerves settle. The traditions feel weighty, yes, but they are grounded in beauty, in connection, in the promise of something more.

The excitement feels precarious, a fragile ember I’m afraid to let burn too brightly. But it’s there, undeniable, as I think of the nights to come. Maybe, despite everything, there’s still room for hope—for the magic these traditions promise.

“This year’s hunt will take place in the western glades, just beyond the river. A beautiful stretch of land, but treacherous if you don’t know its paths. It’s where the best stags roam—fast, clever, and hard to track. A perfect challenge for a groom to prove himself.”

My gaze shifts to Jason, and this time, his eyes meet mine. There’s an unmistakable glimmer of laughter in them, a shared understanding of the absurdity of the moment. For a fleeting second, the heavy atmosphere of the room fades, replaced by something lighter—something just for us.

Lord Striden’s gaze narrows slightly, his tone firm.

“Devotion shouldn’t need to be tested like this. And what of the bride’s... safety ?”

The question lingers, and I feel his attention shift to me. But I know better. His concern isn’t about my well-being; it’s about preserving the alliance—the union with a great house. My safety, it seems, is merely a secondary consideration in his calculations.

My father chuckles, waving a dismissive hand.

“Oh, don’t worry, Striden. The vampires don’t actually hunt her... they seduce her.”

The statement lands like a thunderclap. Lady Elenor coughs, nearly choking on her wine, her expression snapping into one of barely-contained outrage.

Jason’s eyes light up, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

Across the table, I feel my own lips threatening to curve into a smile, and I quickly press my goblet to them to hide it.

“I beg your pardon?” Lord Striden says, his voice rising a fraction, his shock apparent.

“It’s all symbolic, of course,” my father replies, unbothered. “A bit of flirtation, a little temptation—nothing anyone can’t handle. ”

Lady Elenor sets her goblet down with more force than necessary.

“A bride being seduced at her engagement party? That’s hardly symbolic—it’s disgraceful.”

“Disgraceful?” my father echoes, feigning offense. “My dear Lady Elenor, it’s tradition. The bride’s loyalty is unshaken, and the groom’s devotion is proven. Everyone wins.”

Jason leans forward slightly, his voice a calm contrast to his mother’s shrillness.

“Mother, I’m sure the tradition isn’t as... salacious as it sounds.”

Lady Elenor fixes him with a hard glare.

“I should hope not, Jason.”

Jason’s looks to me, the amusement in his eyes now fully evident.

“Still,” he murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear, “it does add a certain... challenge .”

I shoot him a look that I hope communicates both warning and levity.

“I’m sure you’ll rise to the occasion,” I reply smoothly, though my cheeks warm under his gaze.

Lord Striden clears his throat softly, drawing attention without saying a word.

He stares at my father, probing, as though weighing how many of these customs might challenge propriety.

The silence hangs, the unspoken strain adding a new layer to the room.

He finally lifts his goblet, sipping slowly, his neutral expression betraying nothing.

Jason sits back in his chair, his lips twitching again as though fighting back laughter. “It’s much better to be the hunter than the hunted,” he says lightly, though the humor in his tone doesn’t mask the subtle challenge behind his words.

Lord Striden deftly shifts the conversation, allowing the tension to dissipate.

Time stretches, the minutes blending together as the topic meanders from hunting to politics.

My father’s booming voice dominates the room, filling it with stories of his younger days as he drains his fourth bottle of blood.

His laughter reverberates off the walls, a reminder of the formidable presence he commands.

Jason listens attentively, the picture of decorum—nodding at the right moments, posture impeccably straight.

A faint smile tugs at my lips as I watch him.

Ever the dutiful son, yet there's something genuine beneath the facade.

My fingers trace the rim of my goblet before I lift it, taking a slow sip of wine.

In the quiet chaos of the room, this unspoken understanding feels like an anchor grounding me.

As the conversation wanes, the soft rustle of skirts cuts through the lull, drawing my attention to the edge of the room.

Celaena, Lady Elenor’s handmaid, glides forward with a silver pitcher nestled against her side.

Her steps are graceful—almost too precise—like a dancer rehearsing a part. Not humble. Not invisible. Intentional.

She stops beside Jason, carefully tilting the pitcher.

The wine flows in a clean, uninterrupted stream, but her eyes aren’t on the goblet.

They linger on his face, tracing the line of his cheek, the curve of his mouth.

There’s a softness in her gaze that doesn’t belong to a servant—a flush of hope, maybe fantasy, stitched into the way she watches him.

It’s the kind of look a lover gives in private, not a handmaid in a public hall.

He doesn’t respond. His gaze remains fixed, unmoved, as if she’s no more than a breeze brushing past. But as she turns, her fingers graze his sleeve—barely a whisper of contact, delicate enough to be accidental.

The reaction is immediate. His shoulders tense, posture snapping into perfect alignment. The muscle in his jaw shifts—once. Tight. Telling.

“Sorry, my lord,” she murmurs, dipping into a bow just shy of genuine.

The words drip with sweetness, a softness meant to disarm. A smile tugs at her lips—polite, poised, and practiced to perfection. He stays silent. Doesn’t flinch. Only the tick of his jaw betrays his stillness. A nod follows—curt, final. Not acknowledgment. Dismissal.

She lingers a breath too long, as if hoping the silence might shift, that he might reconsider.

But he gives her nothing. And when she turns, the glow fades from her expression.

Her once-confident posture dulls, shoulders sloping slightly as she retreats.

Grace hollowed, she melts into the edge of the room.

With careful precision, he lifts his goblet. The motion is too composed to be casual. He sips slowly, as if rinsing the moment from his mouth, then glances at me—just once. Brief, but weighted. He doesn’t need to ask if I saw. We both know I did.

I watch her fade into the dim candlelight, the shape of her smile still echoing in my mind. A servant with too much softness in her gaze, too much certainty in the brush of her fingers. She was performing for attention that was never truly hers.

But then again, I hadn’t seen Jason in years—not since before this arrangement was ever spoken into existence. It would be naive to think others hadn’t tried for his attention in that time. Maybe once, she had it. Maybe he let the lines blur when it didn’t matter.

But it matters now.

And tonight, he didn’t give her anything. No smile. No glance. Just silence.

And gods, it made me want him even more.

“My sweet,” my father’s voice cuts through the din. I straighten instinctively, meeting his commanding gaze. “What’s your opinion on the matter? Should we allow the lower houses more influence, or would that only invite discord?”

“Discord can be useful,” I reply evenly, holding his gaze. “It forces people to reveal their true intentions. But too much chaos weakens the structure. Balance is key, I suppose.”

Jason’s father lets out a derisive chuckle, shaking his head as he sets down his glass.

“Balance,” Lord Striden repeats, his voice dry and dismissive. “How diplomatic. But diplomacy, Princess, is often a veil for uncertainty. Chaos doesn’t temper leaders—it exposes how unfit they are. A kingdom built on chaos doesn’t deserve to last.”

I hold his gaze, refusing to flinch under his disapproval.

“Only if the kingdom is fragile to begin with, Lord Striden,” I counter smoothly, my voice steady. “A strong foundation weathers chaos. It does not fear it. ”

Lord Striden takes a slow sip of wine, as if the entire conversation has begun to bore him. Then, without lifting his gaze, he remarks almost idly, “One might say the last human court proved that well enough.”

My breath stills for the briefest moment. Something deep within me recoils, ancient and instinctive, as if memory lingers in my bones even if my mind cannot reach it.

“Perhaps,” I say softly, “but not all who fall are lost. And not all who rise are steady.”

I lift my goblet, letting the silence settle. I don’t rush. Men like Striden enjoy the sound of their own voice too much to notice when someone else is holding the blade.

“I’ve heard there’s a king buried somewhere in the southern mountains.

No one says his name anymore, but they still whisper about him.

Mad, they say. Crowned himself after the fall.

Locked himself away in glittering halls, surrounded by stone and gold he didn’t earn.

Spends his days speaking to walls, waiting for power to speak back.

He built a kingdom from the bones of what was never his, and wears the illusion like a crown that fits. ”

I glance at Lord Striden then, just briefly, but I let the glance say everything.

“Some men spend their lives circling power like vultures around a carcass, convinced that wanting something badly enough makes it theirs. As if standing near the throne is the same as sitting on it.”

I take a sip, slow and unbothered, before setting the glass down.

“But wanting more doesn’t mean you’ll have it. And claiming what was never yours doesn’t make it any less stolen.”