Page 20 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

The green eyes remain, but the gaze turns predatory.

Casper’s face becomes clearer now, his figure leaning into someone—Celaena.

Her golden hair cascades over her shoulders, catching the light in waves that almost mock the darkness surrounding them.

Her lips curve into a smile, sly and taunting, and her eyes lock onto mine even as a moan escapes her parted lips.

I can’t move, can’t breathe as I watch Casper’s hands on her, gripping her waist with the same intensity as I once imagined him holding me.

The space between them vanishes, his lips brushing against her neck, her laughter low and sultry as she tilts her head to grant him access.

The sound of her moans echoes in my ears, each one cutting deeper.

Celaena's smile widens, her gaze unwavering as she meets my eyes across the dream’s blurred distance. The triumph in her expression is undeniable, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “Did you really think you were the only one?” she seems to say without speaking.

Casper doesn’t look at me, doesn’t see me. He’s lost in her, and the air grows colder, the chasm wider. My magic stirs restlessly, but in the dream, it falters, refusing to obey me. I am powerless to stop it. Powerless to change what I’m seeing.

I wake with a start, gasping for breath as the dream lingers, cruel images playing over and over in my mind. The rain’s soft patter feels deafening in the heavy silence of the room. I press my palms into the mattress, my body trembling as if I’d physically endured what I had just seen.

The stars I conjured above me have long faded, and the room is shrouded in darkness.

Yet, the vivid memory of the dream remains—Celaena's mocking smile, her hair, Casper’s hands on her, the sound of her moans all claw at my mind, feeding the doubt that already gnaws at me.

I curl my hands into fists, my nails digging into my palms as I try to shake the images loose.

It was just a dream. But dreams don’t pull at the truth like this unless they’ve already found cracks to burrow into.

I feel caged, trapped by the suffocating stillness of the room.

My body aches to move, to run, to do something that will burn the restless energy clawing at my insides.

The storm in my head needs a release. Sitting here, letting my thoughts consume me, feels unbearable.

The need to escape, to quiet the chaos within me, grows louder with every passing second.

Finally, I rise from the bed and fling open the wardrobe, searching for something less constraining than the gown Sera had laced me into the night before.

My hands find a pair of fitted black pants and a loose linen tunic.

I pull them on quickly, tucking the tunic into the waistband before fastening a thick leather belt around my waist. I pause just long enough to secure my dagger at my side— silent, familiar, necessary.

My black boots follow, their weight grounding me as I tie the laces with trembling fingers.

Then, almost without thinking, my fingers find the gloves—soft leather, worn smooth with time.

I slip them on slowly, each one a silent barrier, not just against touch, but against the world itself.

The cloak comes last, its wool lining brushing against my skin as I fasten it tightly at my throat. It feels like a shield, protective and solid, as I move toward the balcony. The rain-soaked air lashes against my cheeks as I step outside, welcoming the chill that bites at my skin.

The rain falls steadily, soaking the stone beneath my boots as I inhale deeply, letting the damp air fill my lungs.

Shadows shift across the courtyard below, distorted by the rain’s steady rhythm.

My eyes lock on the narrow staircase window set into the wall a few feet away.

Its wet frame reflects the dim light, like a beacon for escape.

The climb will help, I tell myself. The effort, the exertion—it’s what I need to quiet my thoughts.

My heart pounds as I grip the railing, swing my legs over, and feel the cold stone beneath my fingers.

Inch by inch, I move carefully, my body straining against the rain-slicked surface as I make my way toward the window.

I pause for a moment. Below me, the courtyard stretches out like a void, wet stone glinting faintly under the pale light filtering through the clouds.

The drop is steep—lethal, even. A laugh bubbles unbidden from my throat.

Out of all the assassination attempts on my life, how poetic would it be if this, a fall of my own accord, were the end of me?

The poets would revel in the irony, spinning tales of a tragic heroine who reached too far and fell too hard.

The thought almost amuses me as I press my palms against the stone, pulling myself up and clinging to the slick surface.

I calculate each step as the sting of the rain against my cheeks keeps me present, focused.

My fingers tremble as I grip the ledge of the next foothold, the stone rough against my skin even through the thin leather of my gloves.

The muscles in my arms burn with the effort, but it’s a welcome distraction.

The climb demands all of me, leaving no space for the doubts and fears that have consumed me since I woke from that haunting dream.

Suddenly, my boots slip, and for a terrifying moment, my body jolts downward.

My heart slams against my ribs as I claw at the wall, fingers finding purchase at the last second.

A gasp tears from my throat, but I don’t let go.

Not yet. Not until I’ve reached the window.

The irony of falling now, after all this, is too bitter even for me to bear.

The narrow window finally looms ahead. My arms shake as I haul myself upward, my boots scraping against the wall in search of a foothold.

Inch by inch, I pull myself closer until my fingers curl over the ledge.

The cold bites at my hands as I grip it, pausing to catch my breath.

The rain drips steadily from the edge of my cloak, the sound muffled against the thunder of my pulse in my ears.

With one last burst of effort, I heave myself toward the opening.

My shoulders scrape against the edges of the frame as I slide through, landing awkwardly on the stone floor inside.

The impact jars my knees, and I let out a breathless laugh, both triumphant and vacant.

I made it. The staircase yawns before me, spiraling downward into shadowed depths.

The cold, damp air clings to my skin as I lean against the wall, steadying both my breath and my heartbeat.

I glance back at the window, the rain continuing its relentless assault outside.

The courtyard below seems impossibly far now, as though I’ve climbed more than just a few stories.

My fingers flex instinctively, the ache in my arms a dull reminder of how close I had come to falling.

I press my hand flat against the stone to let the chill ground me.

The storm inside me hasn’t quieted—it’s only changed form, a restless energy coursing through my veins.

I press forward, the pull of the unknown stronger than the call of safety.

Each step down the staircase feels like shedding another layer of the castle’s suffocating grip.

The air grows colder, damper, as I descend into the depths.

When I push open the door at the base, the rain greets me again, its rhythm steady, soft, and soothing despite the chill.

The open air is a relief, though the world before me is no less oppressive.

The cloudy sky casts a pale gloom across the castle grounds, the light muted and gray.

Mud clings to my boots as I walk aimlessly, replacing familiar stone corridors of the castle with the sprawling emptiness of the grounds.

My body aches, the climb taking its toll, but the need to burn energy keeps me moving.

The forest of Revina looms ahead, its darkness unbroken by daylight. My father’s warnings echo faintly in my mind—stories of the shadows that consume and creatures that hunt. I should turn back, but I can’t. My restlessness is an outlet, and the quiet, eerie pull of the forest offers it.

The rain is softer beneath the trees, the sound muted by the canopy of leaves overhead.

The towering trunks rise like ancient guardians, their branches skeletal and clawing at the gray sky above.

The scent of damp earth mingles with something pungent, like decaying leaves.

My boots sink slightly into the ground as I step deeper, the forest’s silence enveloping me.

A shadow moves at the edge of my vision, and my hand flies instinctively to the dagger at my side, pulling it from its sheath.

My pulse quickens as I scan the trees, the steady drip of rain the only sound.

Then, it steps forward—a black stallion, its coat gleaming like polished onyx even in the shadows.

Its eyes meet mine, unblinking, reflecting the faint light of the rainy afternoon.

I lower my dagger slightly, though my grip remains firm.

The stallion’s presence is commanding, but there’s a calmness about it, an inexplicable familiarity.

I take a step closer, my boots squelching against the soft ground.

The stallion mirrors my movement, its hooves soundless against the damp earth.

When it lowers its head, I hesitate, but only temporarily.

My gloved fingers brush against its muzzle, and the contact sends a pulse through me—a spark of recognition.