Page 61 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

LAILAH

I t’s been five evenings since our wedding night, and not once has Jason attempted to sleep in our bed.

Our bed. And yet, there’s something soothing about his restraint.

Despite the vows we exchanged, the promises made under the force of duty, Jason has not once pushed me.

He hasn’t demanded, nor hinted at what might be expected of a wife.

And somehow, this only leaves me more unsettled.

He’s a gentleman, I remind myself. A man of patience and respect. More than I expected.

There’s a warmth in his presence, a quiet understanding that makes the space feel... safe. Like a comforting companion who holds back, who is cautious with me, even though I am his now. And that thought alone should make me feel secure. Shouldn’t it?

But it doesn’t. It makes me feel more confused. More conflicted.

The days have slipped by in a quiet haze.

No one has come to summon me to my duties.

Sera, ever the dutiful handmaiden, hasn’t knocked on my door to prepare me for any royal vampire obligations.

The usual tasks I once dreaded are now absent, leaving me with nothing but this strange silence, as if the world itself is giving me a moment to breathe.

I stand at the window of our shared chamber, the night sky stretching endlessly before me.

I realize with a pang that I might never get a chance to do this again.

Never again will I have the freedom to just be…

me. Not the princess. Not the pawn in my father's court.

But just me. I can almost feel my responsibilities calling me back, dragging me from this strange, fleeting moment of peace.

My father will not let me be idle forever.

With a sigh, I run my fingers through my hair, pulling it into a tight braid.

But as the dark smoke of magic swirls around me, I feel the familiar weight of my cloak draping across my shoulders.

A cloak of shadows, hiding my identity, hiding the woman I am from the world.

Beneath it, I pull on the familiar attire—dark slacks and a black shirt—simple, practical, and ready for whatever the night might bring.

I step out onto the balcony of our joined bedchambers, looking for some way to escape, something to climb, something to slip away unnoticed.

But the castle walls offer no such reprieve.

Frustration bubbles up inside me, and I roll my eyes at the irony.

This room—our room—was designed to keep both of us locked in. No one comes in, no one leaves.

I open the bedroom door, expecting the usual quiet hallway.

But as I step into the corridor, I am met by the same guard—the one with the bright blue eyes and auburn hair.

He stands there, his gaze fixed on me with quiet curiosity.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move as I pass.

I narrow my eyes, sensing something different about him.

No other guard has dared to stand so close.

They usually avoid making eye contact, let alone openly watch me.

But he... he simply observes me with a faint, knowing look.

I smile, walking past him slowly, almost daring him to stop me.

He doesn’t. I turn to glance back at him down the hallway, and he meets my eyes with a single raised eyebrow, his expression firm, but not hostile.

It’s as if he’s waiting for something to unfold. But I don’t wait. I keep moving.

I make my way down the stairs toward the servants' quarters, knowing exactly where my feet will lead me—the barn, where the King’s horses are stabled. When I arrive, I find a small, blonde boy filling a water bucket. He freezes when he notices me, clearly startled by my sudden appearance.

I lower my hood, revealing myself to him, and he drops the bucket, falling to his knees before me. The sight is so innocent, so pure, that I can’t help but smile.

“Please, don’t fear me,” I say softly as I approach him, placing a gloved hand on his trembling shoulder. “What is your name?”

The boy looks up at me, his blue eyes wide with both fear and awe.

"F-Fredrick, ma’am… Your Grace,” he stammers, his voice cracking as he tries to bow.

I tilt my head, amused by his nervousness, and gently raise his chin with my fingers, urging him to meet my gaze.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me, Fredrick,” I say softly. “I won’t harm you.”

I take the water bucket and fill it with a quick, fluid wave of my hand, the magic almost effortless. When I hand it back to him, he stares, shocked, his mouth agape, before looking back up at me in disbelief.

“Tell me,” I murmur, leaning closer. “Do you know of a stallion named Zander?”

At the mention of the name, the boy hesitates. He doesn’t seem to recognize it, and for a moment, he looks genuinely puzzled.

“No, ma’am. I don’t think I’ve heard of a Zander,” he says, his voice uncertain.

I can sense his discomfort. The boy is innocent, untainted by the darkness that lurks within the castle walls.

He’s just a child, doing his duties. I touch his cheek gently, and with a snap of my fingers, I use a simple spell to fill every stall with hay and water for the horses, magically completing his chores in an instant.

Fredrick looks at the stables in awe, his eyes wide, his jaw slack.

The child pulls off his green cotton hat, overcome with wonder at the magic he’s just witnessed.

I smile at his innocence, and before he can say anything, I place a hand on his shoulder, drawing his gaze to me.

I press a finger to my lips, signaling for him to keep the magic—and my presence—hidden.

He smiles shyly, dimples deepening in his cheeks, and I return his smile, though mine is tinged with sadness.

As I turn to leave, the shadows once again close around me, concealing my presence from the world.

The night feels endless as I move deeper into the forest, my steps leading me to the farthest edges, where the trees are thin.

There’s an ache in the air tonight, one I can’t shake, as if the forest itself understands my solitude.

I haven’t been alone in so long—not really.

Not since before the weight of duty pressed so heavily upon me.

Here, among the whispering trees, I feel a fleeting sense of freedom. I am unobserved, unseen.

The cool night air caresses my face, the silence of the woods deep and profound.

My breath is steady, yet my heart pounds with the thrill of being alone.

The darkness embraces me, and I let it, feeling the deep peace of my solitude.

There’s no one here to watch me, no royal court or guards to serve or dismiss me, no secrets I must pretend not to know. I’m just me—lost, yet free.

But then, a sound breaks the stillness.

A soft, startled neigh. My senses snap to attention and I slip into the shadow of a nearby tree, heart racing in my chest. From the corner of my eye, I see flashes of movement—shapes emerging from the darkness.

A torch’s flame flickers into view, and I lean in closer, drawn to the quiet murmurs of men concealed within the underbrush.

The figures become clearer—four men, cloaked and silent, their dark silhouettes slowly materializing. As they step into the dim glow of the torchlight, I recognize one of them.

Lord Striden.

His tall, imposing figure is unmistakable, and as he speaks to the others, I catch the low, hushed tones of a conversation meant to stay hidden. The men around him are not vampires, but humans—guards, it seems, though of a different sort than those who serve my father.

I watch as Lord Striden walks forward, handing gold coins to each of the four men. As the men take the money, they nod and leave without a word. No farewell, no explanation. Just silent obedience. I stand, frozen, trying to make sense of it. What are they planning? What is this secret meeting?

Before I can think any further, I feel the unmistakable presence of someone behind me. My breath catches in my throat, and without thinking, I spin around, my hand flying to the dagger at my thigh and forcing the cold blade against the thick flesh of a man’s throat.

His chest rises with a deep, steady breath, the sound making my grip tighten slightly. His eyes—dark and piercing—glance down at me with an intensity that sends a chill straight through me. He’s taller than me by a good head, and even in the dim light, the rugged strength of his body is undeniable.

A smirk plays at the corner of his lips, and I wonder if he’s amused.

"I’d be more careful if I were you," he warns, his voice steady, but there’s a strange flare of recognition in his eyes. As if he’s seen me before.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. He only watches.

Then, slowly, he raises his hands in surrender, lifting the edge of his cloak and pulling it back to reveal a deep, jagged scar that runs across his brow and down to his cheek.

It’s a vicious thing, a permanent reminder of past violence, and yet, it somehow only enhances his allure.

His dark brown eyes hold a quiet intensity, but one of them—once warm and inviting—has shifted.

It’s colder now, like steel. He’s dangerous, I realize, but not in a way I fear.

It’s the kind of danger that draws you closer, leaving you unsure whether to run or let it consume you.

“Who are you?” My question tastes like a command. Still, caution drips from my voice.

“Callum,” he answers, the brashness in his tone unnerving me.

I step back, studying him, my gaze never wavering. I can’t help but feel we’re both playing a game I don’t fully understand.

“What are you doing here, Callum ?” I demand, my voice hard but laced with a subtle manipulation—low and controlled, coaxing, as if softness might unearth the truth he’s too guarded to give freely.

He tilts his head, his smile deepening .

“What are you doing here?” he counters, his words soft, teasing.