Page 24 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

I hate the way he says it, as if I’m some pawn he can summon at will.

The man who tortured the only woman I ever cared about and turned me into his weapon now has the audacity to smirk at me like we’re equals.

My grip tightens around the letter opener in my hand, its cold steel grounding me as I resist the impulse to act.

“Are you staying for the festivities, Ghost ?” he asks, still mocking.

I don’t answer immediately, letting the question linger in the air. My thumb brushes the edge of the blade, turning it lazily in my hand before I glance up.

“Are you not sending us out?” I reply, my voice flat. “Or have you forgotten that you sold us off like whores to your new human family?”

Clyde falters slightly, but he recovers quickly, leaning forward just enough to loom. His tone loses its feigned lightness.

“Tell me, Ghost—have you made any progress on finding the stone, or are you still wasting time?”

I tilt my head slightly, letting his question weigh in the air before placing the letter opener back on the desk with care.

“The stone is within the Arinstor mountain range, as you suspected” I say, my tone even, as though I were commenting on the weather.

Clyde raises an eyebrow, his smirk deepening with unrestrained satisfaction.

“Striden’s lands position us perfectly,” he says. “Every piece is exactly where it needs to be. A seamless plan, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You’ve set the groundwork, Clyde,” I reply dryly .

Clyde lets out a low chuckle, setting his glass down carefully.

“Then it should be easy for you to give me what I want. Unless, of course, there’s something you’d like to confess about your progress, Ghost. Something I should know?”

My grin widens.

“The stone will be retrieved, Your Grace” I say, my tone firm and cold.

But the words taste like ash in my mouth. Clyde’s voice—the way he speaks as though he owns everything, including me—scrapes against my nerves. I’ve endured that voice before, dripping with the same self-satisfaction, the same venom. A flash of memory cuts through me, unbidden.

Chains. Heavy iron chains bolted into cold stone walls.

The smell of blood and damp earth. A soft whimper—a woman’s voice—pierced through the suffocating silence, her pain echoing in my mind like a phantom scream.

Blue eyes staring back at me through the darkness, wide and pleading.

I remember the helpless fury that tore through me, the way I thrashed against my own bindings until my wrists bled.

Clyde stood there, watching, smiling, savoring every broken moment like it was his personal entertainment.

My grip tightens on the edge of the desk as the memory recedes, leaving behind a simmering rage I keep carefully locked away. Clyde doesn’t just destroy lives—he enjoys it. He’s a man who turns suffering into art, who takes everything good and pure and twists it until it’s unrecognizable.

And now he wants the stone. The idea of that monster holding that kind of power turns my stomach, but I keep my face impassive. I can’t let him see the storm raging beneath the surface.

“Good,” Clyde replies, his voice dropping into a quiet hum of approval. “You know what happens when people disappoint me.”

My nails dig into my palm, the faint sting grounding me as I fight the urge to wipe that smug grin off his face. He thinks I’m still his obedient pawn, still the weapon he forged in fire and pain. He doesn’t see the knife I’ve been sharpening behind my back for years .

I glance at the letter opener on the desk, my fingers twitching toward it before I force myself to straighten.

“Anything else you’d like me to fetch for you?” I ask, openly sarcastic now.

Clyde tilts his head, his smirk turning sinister.

“Careful, Ghost,” he says softly, his voice calm but laced with venom. “I enjoy your presence, but don’t forget—I know how to shut your mouth when it suits me.”

He delivers the words with the casual ease of a man who’s used to control, but the threat beneath them feels like a punch to the gut. My jaw tightens, but I force my expression to remain neutral, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

I force another slow, insincere smile.

“I haven’t forgotten,” I say simply, the words carrying a promise I don’t voice.

I push off the desk, rising to my full height, and head for the door. His quiet chuckle follows me, a grating sound that lingers long after I leave. It’s the same chuckle he used back then, the same smug satisfaction he wore when he tore everything I cared about apart.

But he doesn’t see what’s coming. Not yet. The stone won’t be his. And one day, he’ll pay for every chain he’s bound, every scar he’s caused, every life he’s broken.

The hall stretches endlessly ahead, its cold stone walls adorned with portraits of a legacy built on blood.

White-haired and unchanging, the man they glorify looms in every frame.

As a young king, his cold gaze already hinted at the cruelty he would refine over centuries.

As a warlord, he sits astride a black warhorse, towering over a battlefield littered with the broken bodies of those who defied him.

On his throne, he leans back in calculated ease, draped in crimson, an embodiment of unshakable power.

The man in these portraits is a master of destruction, a creature whose empire thrives on fear and manipulation.

He isn’t immortal because of loyalty or respect—he survives because he’s willing to destroy anything or anyone to secure his place.

My jaw tightens as I move forward, my steps heavier now.

Then, I see it—the newest addition. Larger and more elaborate than the others, its presence feels almost mocking.

He stands tall in the painting, his white hair gleaming like polished silver under a darkened sky. His posture is confident, domineering, with one hand resting firmly on the shoulder of the woman seated before him.

Lailah. Her blood-red hair cascades over her shoulder, vivid against the deep black of her gown.

Her piercing blue eyes stare forward, striking and steady.

Even painted in oils, she looks commanding, but there’s worry there—a stiffness to her posture that betrays the truth.

She wears her silence like well-forged armor, but it’s the way her shoulders drop when no one’s watching that ruins me.

My gaze drifts to his hand. It isn’t protective.

It’s possessive. The way it rests on her shoulder in the portrait ignites a fury inside me, simmering hot and steady beneath my skin.

Anger clouds my eyes as I stare at the painting, every brushstroke a reminder of his arrogance, of the way he reduces her to nothing more than a trophy.

A pawn in his endless game of power and control.

She doesn’t even realize it—not fully—not yet.

And that knowledge burns deeper, twisting my anger even further.

I tear myself from the portrait, but the rage doesn’t fade.

His hand on her is another insult, another way he asserts his power, not just over her, but over all of us.

A reminder that he thinks he can take and keep whatever he desires.

But her eyes—they haunt me. The way they looked at me, brimming with awe and desire, was so real it made everything else fade.

That look lingers in my mind, cutting through the anger like a blade, reminding me that no matter how tightly he grips her, she is not his. Not entirely. Not yet.