Page 23 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

CASPER

A suffocating sense of dread tightens around me as I approach the king’s study.

The towering walls of the castle loom overhead, their intricate carvings seeming to follow my every step.

Memories claw at my mind, fragments of a childhood wasted in these halls.

Each step pulls me closer to the room I’ve spent years avoiding—a place steeped in ghosts and the stench of ambition.

I pause briefly before the heavy oak doors, forcing the tension from my shoulders before pushing them open. The last thing I need is for Clyde to smell blood in the water.

Inside, the scene is everything I loathe.

Clyde sits comfortably, sprawled like a king on his throne, a glass of blood cradled in his hand.

That ever-present smirk twists his face, smug and venomous.

Opposite him, Lord Striden sits rigid, his polished manners a vacuous facade.

Jason stands beside him, the image of false humility, though the way his hand rests on his sword hilt speaks to the arrogance simmering beneath.

I hate them all. Every last one.

“Ah, Ghost,” Clyde says, his voice curling through the room like smoke, cloying and suffocating. “So pleased you could join us.”

He lifts his glass in a mock toast. The others turn to look at me, evaluating me, as though my very presence is a challenge they need to best. I meet their stares briefly, my expression blank, before walking toward the desk. Internally, I dismiss their scrutiny—they’re not worth the effort.

Clyde’s gaze follows me as I reach for the glass of amber waiting on the desk. His smile isn’t just amused—it’s pompous. He revels in my indifference, twisting it into his own triumph. I hate him for it.

Jason steps forward, breaking the silence. “Ghost, is it?” His voice carries an air of feigned politeness as he extends a hand toward me, his movements calculated.

At the same moment, I lift the glass to my lips and take a slow sip of the amber.

The liquid burns as it slides down, but it’s nothing compared to the fire simmering beneath my skin.

I don’t so much as glance at Jason’s hand, let alone acknowledge his existence.

His outstretched fingers twitch slightly before he pulls back, the uncertainty in his eyes quickly masked with a sly grin.

Smart boy.

Clyde leans back in his chair.

“Now that we’re all here,” he begins, his tone dripping with false camaraderie, “let’s discuss the matter at hand. This engagement between my daughter and Jason—it’s a partnership that will strengthen both our houses.”

Partnership. The word cuts through me like a blade. Clyde uses it so casually, as if it means anything beyond what it truly is: another manipulation, another scheme.

“Well, naturally, my son will make an excellent husband for your daughter, King Clyde,” Striden says, his voice polished and confident, though it rings hollow to my ears.

Clyde’s grin deepens as his eyes flick to me, daring me to react. I stay silent, keeping my expression neutral.

“And, of course,” Striden continues, “the dowry your family provides will be… generous, I presume.”

“Ah, yes, the dowry,” Clyde says smoothly. He rises from his chair, moving toward the desk with grace. “It will be handed over once Jason fulfills his part of tradition and claims his stag at the engagement hunt.”

He gestures toward Jason with a sly grin, his eyes gleaming. “Only then will the alliance be fully sealed.”

Jason’s lips curl into a smug smirk.

“Of course, my King,” he replies, brimming with confidence.

Clyde’s grin widens further, his approval all the more evident.

“I expect nothing less. After all, this tradition isn’t merely symbolic—it’s about proving oneself worthy of the role you’re about to assume.”

Jason glances toward his father, who nods in silent affirmation, and Jason’s expression deepens as if his victory is already assured. Clyde’s words hang in the air, and I feel the familiar twist of disdain in my chest.

“However, there is a matter of logistics I’d like to discuss,” Clyde says, slicing through the faint tension in the room.

He strides toward the map on the wall, sliding aside a section to reveal another beneath it. His finger glides over it, stopping at a barren desert just beyond Lord Striden’s borders.

“I wish to station my army here,” Clyde continues, calm yet commanding. “And I expect your full support during their stay.”

Striden’s polished smile fades, unease breaking through his practiced composure.

“Your Grace, we would be honored to host your forces, but… the resources to sustain such a presence may stretch us thin.”

Clyde turns back to the room, swirling the wine in his glass with slow precision. He takes a measured sip. “I have no doubt you’ll manage, Lord Striden. This alliance is, after all, mutually beneficial.”

“Additionally, the soldiers are under your command. Whatever assistance you require, I’m confident they will be eager to help,” he continues, calculated. His gaze shifts to Jason. “And that includes Ghost. Feel free to use him however you see fit.”

With that, he strides to the desk, retrieving an envelope sealed with his insignia.

Turning to Jason, he holds it out with an exaggerated flourish, as though presenting him with some great treasure.

Jason steps forward, his smirk widening as he takes the envelope, clutching it with barely contained arrogance.

He looks like a boy handed his first sword.

“We’ll ensure everything runs smoothly, Your Grace.”

Clyde clasps his shoulder, his expression the picture of paternal pride.

“I trust you will. And I trust you and my daughter will bless me with many grandchildren.” His voice drips with mock affection, but Jason, blind to the venom laced beneath the words, merely chuckles.

“Come, Jason,” Striden says, steering his son toward the door.

Jason flashes another smirk before following his father, the envelope still clutched tightly in his hand. The heavy door closes behind them, their absence a relief I don’t bother hiding.

Clyde exhales, slouching into his chair with exaggerated exhaustion.

“Humans,” he mutters, swirling the contents of his glass. “So simple. So predictable.”

I remain silent, leaning against the desk with my arms crossed, letting the silence stretch. Clyde hates silence, hates when he isn’t the center of attention. So I let it linger, savoring the irritation that momentarily flashes across his face.

“You’ve planned for every contingency,” I say finally, my voice dry and cutting.

His smirk returns in full force. “That’s why I’m still here, Ghost. And why you’re still here. You play your part so well.”

My grip tightens around the glass still in my hand.

“Jason’s a rake,” I say curtly. “Half the kingdom knows it.”

Clyde lets out a soft laugh, leaning back in his chair as though my words are the most entertaining thing he’s heard all evening. He swirls his wine lazily, mock concern knit across his brow.

“A rake, you say?” he muses, entertained, as if he’s toying with the idea. His keen eyes meet mine, gleaming with insincere curiosity.

“Do you think that matters?” He chuckles again, low and condescending. “Ah, Ghost, you do have a way with observations.”

The mockery makes my jaw tighten, but I don’t take the bait. Instead, let the silence stretch until his light-heartedness fades into something colder.

“That’s one of the reasons I chose him,” Clyde says, insufferably smug.

“He indulges in his vices—which, naturally, will give me grandchildren—but more importantly, my daughter will see him for exactly what he is. A rake.” His smile deepens, his tone more satisfied.

“And that will make me her savior. Her hero. Always .”

The arrogance in his voice grates against my nerves, but I let it linger, his self-importance hanging in the air. Slowly, I smile, though it doesn’t reach my eyes. It’s a deliberate curve of my lips that masks far more than it reveals.

Without a word, I set my drink down on the edge of the desk, the faint thud cutting through the silence like a knife. My hand moves to the letter opener, fingers curling around its handle as I lift it, the cool metal a satisfying weight in my grip.

Clyde’s eyes flick to the blade.

“Are you planning to use that, Ghost?” he asks, his tone light, almost teasing, as though he finds the very idea amusing. “Or is this just another one of your quiet gestures?”

I glance at him, letting my smile linger a little longer before shifting the letter opener in my hand. The blade catches the light as I twirl it idly between my fingers.

“It’s tempting,” I reply evenly, my voice void of any warmth, “but I’d hate to ruin your evening before the festivities even begin.”

Clyde chuckles, the sound like rusted nails dragging across stone. He leans back in his chair, taking a slow sip of his wine like the smug bastard he is. I resist the urge to drive the letter opener in my hand straight through his throat.

“You’ve always been one for dramatics, Ghost,” he says, his words dripping with condescension. “Tell me, has your time away softened you? Do you find yourself longing for the comforts of court life?”

I clench my jaw so tightly it’s a wonder my teeth don’t crack.

Court life. This castle. Him. It’s all poison.

Every inch of this place reeks of the lies and violence I grew up in, every memory stained with blood and betrayal.

I stayed away for a reason—to forget this place, to outrun the nightmares it bred.

But now, the chains around me have tightened, and I’m back where I swore I’d never be.

“Why?” I sneer, tilting my head. “Did you miss me?” My tone drips with mockery, a challenge hidden beneath the venom of my words.

Clyde’s grin twists into something darker, his eyes narrowing. “Miss you? No, Ghost, I’m well aware of where I stand in your affections. But the court has been… lacking in entertainment during your absence.”