Page 48 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

“Try not to drown,” he tosses over his shoulder, the faintest trace of mockery lacing his voice as he steps out.

The tent flap swings shut behind him, leaving me again with the oppressive silence, the suffocating disquiet, and the icy water that drips from my hands.

It does nothing to calm me. I strip away my shirt and unfasten my pants, letting them fall before stepping toward the wooden tub.

The cold water laps at my legs as I sink in, its icy grip stealing the breath from my lungs.

The stark contrast to the heat coursing through my body is both jarring and, for a fleeting moment, welcome.

The chill wraps around me, closing in like a vise, dulling the fever that’s burned beneath my skin all night. My breathing slows, steadying with the rhythmic lap of the water against my body. I lower myself further, letting it envelop me.

The cold water does little to settle the fire crawling under my skin, but I stay submerged, letting the silence press against me like a punishment.

When I finally break the surface, the chill clings to me, and the frustration claws deeper.

Her scent, her expression, the way she made me feel too much too quickly—it all lingers like a ghost I can’t exorcise.

I rub a hand over my damp face, inhaling deeply .

There’s no escape from her, no matter how much distance I try to create. The only way out of this is forward.

I step out of the tub, water trailing down my skin as I reach for the nearest cloth. I move to dress, each motion slow and purposeful, as if fabric might anchor me. I pull on my shirt and step out of the tent into the biting chill of the night.

Callum is there, leaning against a post, spinning his knife in his hand. He doesn’t glance my way, but the stiffness in his frame betrays him.

“You got too close to her.” Callum says, his voice low, the knife flipping once in the air before he catches it with ease.

I stop mid-step, his words digging deeper than I want to admit. My chest tightens as I exhale slowly, forcing the frustration back. He’s right.

Gods help me, he’s right —and that’s what pisses me off most.

I got too close. Let her in too far. Let myself feel too much.

And now, every breath feels like punishment for a moment I never should’ve let happen.

The mask I wear—detached and untouchable—slipped.

I lost control. I saw Jason with her, and something inside me cracked, feral and fast. But I can’t let it show. Not again.

My jaw feathers, but I keep my voice steady.

“Were you watching her again, brother?”

Callum doesn’t respond immediately. His dark eyes meet mine for a second before sliding away as if the question doesn’t warrant an answer. The silence that follows stretches impossibly long. The knife moves again, smooth and unhurried, before he finally speaks.

“Keep your head, or you’ll get us all killed.” His tone is flat, almost bored, but the bite behind it is impossible to miss.

I hold his gaze for a fraction of a second longer, but there’s nothing to read—no cracks, no tells. With an abrupt turn, I head for the camp, the cold air biting at my skin as I move. Behind me, the sound of his boots follows at just the right distance.

By the time I step into the main tent, the air is heavy with anticipation. The lanterns sway slightly, their restless light spilling across the map spread wide on the table. Its curling edges seem ready to fold in on themselves, like even the parchment can’t bear what’s coming.

Alias leans casually over the map, a grin plastered across his face as if he’s the only one in on some private joke. Gwyn stands beside him, arms crossed, her eyes fixed on the map. She radiates focus, her steady presence grounding, a stark contrast to Alias’s irreverence.

Malachi lingers near the edge of the room, his silence a constant. His light eyes scan the room as if seeing every angle we’ve yet to consider. I stride toward the table, my focus zeroing in on the inked lines and markings.

“Striden’s territory,” I mutter, jabbing my finger against the border with enough force to smudge it. The motion is a deliberate release for the irritation simmering just beneath my skin. “We’ll make it in five days if we push hard. A week at most.”

My voice is steady, but the weight of the journey—and everything waiting on the other side—settles heavily in the room.

“We’ll move the army through the west side,” I continue, my voice steady though the irritation bleeds through. “The forest will shield us from the sun during the day. It’ll let us cover more ground without slowing down.”

Across the table, Alias leans closer, a lazy grin playing at the edges of his mouth. He nods as if he’s listening, though I can see the gleam of mischief in his eyes.

“A week on the road with Lord Striden,” he says, drawing out the name like it’s an insult. “You going to make it without strangling him, or should we start digging the grave now?”

“Don’t,” I snap, glaring at him.

Before I can say more, Gwyn reaches over and smacks him hard across the back of the head. The thud is satisfying, even if it wasn’t my hand that landed the blow. Alias straightens with an exaggerated wince, rubbing the spot with mock indignation.

“You know I love it when you’re rough with me, Gwyn,” he purrs, leaning closer to her with a growl that’s equal parts playful and irritating. “Say the word, and we’ll ditch this whole army thing. Just you, me, and?— ”

“Your corpse,” Gwyn snaps, cutting him off with an eye roll. “If you don’t shut up.”

Her cheeks flush slightly, and she pointedly avoids his gaze as she leans back over the map, trying to refocus. Alias, of course, takes the reaction as encouragement and grins even wider.

“Can we focus?” I growl, dragging their attention back to the task at hand.

Alias raises his hands in mock surrender, his grin still firmly in place. Gwyn doesn’t spare him another glance as she shifts her attention to me, more focused now.

“I’ll attend the wedding,” I say, pulling the conversation back to what matters.

My voice lowers, the weight of the plan pressing heavier on my shoulders as I speak.

“Clyde will expect me to be there. After tonight’s theatrics, Vanessa will be coming into play.

That’ll keep Clyde distracted long enough for Callum to slip into his office and find what we need. ”

Callum, silent up to this point, doesn’t even shift. He’s leaning against the tent pole, arms crossed, his dark eyes fixed somewhere beyond us. For a moment, I wonder if he’s even listening. But I know better. Callum hears everything.

“Callum,” I say curtly, narrowing my eyes at him.

“ Brother ,” he replies, his tone calm but laced with that familiar, cutting edge as his gaze meets mine.

I step back from the table, crossing my arms as I keep my eyes fixed on him.

“Just don’t get caught.”

Callum shrugs, dismissive, as if the idea itself is beneath him. The tension in the tent grows, straining against the walls like a living thing. Callum doesn’t bother with a response. Instead, he adjusts the knife at his belt before leaning back against the pole.

Gwyn glances between us, her brow furrowed, but she doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to focus on the routes laid out in front of us.

Malachi steps closer into the tent without a word, his dark coat trailing behind him like a shadow.

He stops near the edge of the table, his presence quiet but heavy .

“You’ll stay behind with the princess,” I tell him, meeting his gaze. Malachi doesn’t speak—he never does unless it’s absolutely necessary—but he nods once, his expression calm as always. His silence feels more reassuring than any words could.

Alias raises an eyebrow, glancing between me and Malachi with a grin that’s all teeth and no sincerity.

“What, you don’t trust me with her?”

“I don’t trust you with anyone,” I deadpan, not bothering to look up from the map.

My tone earns a wide grin from Alias and a quiet, stifled laugh from Gwyn, though she quickly calms her expression.

“You really think she needs protecting?” Callum’s voice cuts through, dry and biting.

He finally moves, pushing off the tent pole. He removes the knife from its holster, spinning it lazily between his fingers as he speaks, not even sparing me a glance. My jaw tightens at the challenge in his tone.

“And what exactly are you suggesting, Callum?”

He shrugs, the motion as casual as it is irritating.

“The princess hasn’t lifted a finger since her arrival to the castle. She has guards for that.”

I snap my attention to him, my voice colder now.

“And you trust the guards?”

Callum rolls his eyes as if the question itself is ridiculous, the kind of look that makes me want to punch him just to see if he’d react. His knife stills in his hand as he raises it, pointing it lazily in my direction.

“I think you’re risking exposure by keeping eyes on her,” he says, as if he’s stating an irrefutable fact.

The bite in his words sinks deeper than I’d like, but I refuse to let it show.

“Are you offering to be her shadow again?” I ask, locking eyes with him.

His mouth tightens, like he’s swallowing the words he really wants to say .

“Not my job anymore,” he says, his eyes narrowing as if daring me to push further.

The room grows quiet again. Malachi doesn’t move, his presence steady and unshakable as always, a shadow in the corner.

Alias and Gwyn exchange a glance, their usual banter muted now, replaced by wariness.

I let the silence stretch, my gaze drifting over each of them, waiting for the weight of the moment to sink in.

Slowly, I straighten and carefully roll the map, tucking it under my arm.

“I’ll need all of you at the ball,” I say, the exhaustion tugging at my voice. I rub the bridge of my nose, forcing myself to focus. “Extra eyes on Clyde. No mistakes.”

Gwyn sighs, placing her hands on her hips as she tilts her head at me.

“Does that mean I actually have to dress for this mess?” she asks, her tone half-serious, though the edge in her voice suggests she’s already dreading it.

Alias’s grin breaks through the tension like a crack in stone.

“If you need help getting ready, Gwyn, I’m more than happy to lend a hand.”

“Or lose one,” she shoots back, narrowing her eyes at him.

There’s a faint smirk on her lips, though, as she steps back from the table. When her gaze shifts back to me, the humor fades, replaced by the anticipation of what’s ahead.

“One last night before we can finally be rid of all of this,” she mutters.

I nod, my exhaustion heavy on my shoulders.

“Five more days,” I say, my voice firm, cutting through the quiet. “We reach Striden’s borders, set up camp, and make our move. The stone is the only thing that matters now.”

Gwyn nods, her expression set, and Alias lets out a low hum, his usual humor subdued for once.

They leave together, Alias still grinning as Gwyn mutters something under her breath.

Callum, who’s been watching in silence, finally moves.

He fastens the knife at his belt before trailing out without a word, his footsteps fading into the night .

Malachi stays. The silence stretches as he steps forward, watching me with calm, yet heavy eyes before he finally speaks.

“Are you really going to leave her?” His voice is quiet but pointed, the kind of question that sinks its claws in and doesn’t let go.

My jaw clenches, but I don’t answer. The words stick in my throat. I stay rooted where I am, staring at the map on the table. The edges curl under the weight of everything it represents—territory, strategy, lives. None of it feels as heavy as the thought of what the day will bring.

Then I hear it.

The low, deep toll of the wedding bells rolls through the night like a death knell. My chest tightens as the sound reverberates through the camp, each chime striking with cruel finality.

She’ll be married today.

The thought grips me, harsh and unrelenting, but there’s no room to linger on it. I turn to the tent flap, exhaling deeply, bound to the decision I’ve already made.

There’s no turning back now.

For her sake, for all of ours, there never was.