Page 68 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

LAILAH

A s I ascend the castle’s east wing staircase, the air feels heavy.

Each step echoes faintly against the cold stone walls, amplifying the whirlwind of emotions building within me.

A deep yearning gnaws at my core—a longing for something elusive, like a forgotten memory just out of reach.

But beneath it is a restless pulse, an electric energy that makes my heart race and my thoughts scatter.

The walls seem to hum, their rough texture bearing the scars of centuries past. Faint drafts slither through the cracks, carrying whispers I can almost hear.

It’s as if the castle itself is alive, watching, waiting.

The suspense in the air is palpable, wrapping around me like invisible chains.

Jason’s father lingers at the edge of my thoughts, a ghostly presence in the puzzle I’m trying so desperately to solve.

The guard’s cryptic words replay in my mind, their weight growing heavier with each passing moment: “He will never find it.” What was my father searching for? And why does it feel as though I’m chasing shadows, stumbling after a truth that dissolves the moment I come close?

As we round a corner, Casper’s face takes shape in my mind, vivid and painfully clear.

I can still feel the warmth of his gaze, the way he made me feel seen, understood, cherished—as though I were the center of his world.

But that warmth, like a summer storm, was fleeting.

It vanished, replaced by a cold indifference.

Twice now, he’s bared what I thought were his true feelings, only to snatch them away. His words, his actions, shift with such ease that I no longer know where the truth lies. Who is the real Casper? And why do I still ache for answers he refuses to give?

Caught between Casper’s capricious affections and Jason’s guarded promises, I feel stretched to my breaking point.

It’s as if I’m a marionette, pulled in every direction by unseen strings.

Exasperation rises in me again, stronger now as I recall the way Casper dismissed me, handing me off like I was nothing more than a chore to be delegated.

The memory burns—his casual indifference, the ease with which he passed me to Callum as if I were an inconvenient task, not a person with worth or feelings.

And yet, walking back to the palace with Callum, I feel something I haven’t in weeks: relief. His presence, so unapologetically brash, is oddly comforting. His teasing remarks, laced with an ever-present smirk, force a smile from my lips despite myself.

“Idiot,” I mutter under my breath, the whisper carrying a grudging fondness.

Callum’s bluntness is maddening, but it’s real. In a world where everyone seems to be wearing masks, his quick wit and shameless flirtations are a strange kind of solace.

When I finally reach my chamber door, unease creeps over me like a shadow.

My new guard—the one with piercing blue eyes and rusted copper hair—is nowhere to be seen.

The corridor feels eerily silent. Jason had been called away earlier, summoned by my father for some urgent matter, but the absence of any guard at all feels wrong.

Shaking off the discomfort, I open the door. Darkness greets me.

The room is cold, untouched. The hearth lies dormant, its usual warmth absent. Even the faint scent of lavender oil, which the maids always burn before I retire, is missing.

Without pausing, I release a ripple of magic, subtle but sure, letting it flow through the chamber like a breath I’ve held too long. Flames spring to life in the hearth, but I don’t stop to admire them. I move instead toward the bathing chamber, driven by something I don’t want to name.

My gloves come off with ease, each finger slipping free like a confession I was never meant to utter, dragged from trembling lips and torn straight from the marrow of my shame.

I brace myself on the marble washbasin and turn on the faucet.

Cold water flows in a steady stream, and I lean over it, letting the chilled spray hit my face in bracing splashes.

It’s a lie—this cleansing. An action meant to mimic release, to wash away heat that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

But the heat remains, and with it, the guilt.

It rises slowly, not as a scream but as a whisper— quiet and insistent, threading its way beneath my skin, deeper than even the cold can reach. Jason’s name stirs in the void in my chest, uninvited, unwelcome, and unrelenting.

He betrayed me first. He shattered the fragile thing we had left with careless hands and careless words. And yet... I crossed a line that I cannot uncross. I let someone else touch what he once called his, not out of vengeance or hatred, but something far more serious.

I did it because I needed to feel something real.

I wanted something that clawed at the edges. That demanded I stop pretending. That stripped me down to the bone and left nothing hidden. I wanted to feel—truly feel—not just the heat of skin, but the ache beneath it. The hunger. The part of me that still bleeds and dares someone to touch it anyway.

And Casper… gods, Casper makes me burn.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he looks at me.

Nothing safe about the way he touches me.

He’s a wound torn open, a flame I should know better than to reach for—and still I did.

I reached. I begged. I let him in. And it felt like breathing.

Or like drowning, maybe. Being truly consumed.

Maybe it wasn’t love. Or healing. But it was real. It was mine .

And now, I stand here in the silence, cold water dripping from my face, my breath trembling as though my whole body might shatter.

There’s no one to witness the aftermath.

No one to see the way my hands shake or the way remorse settles in—not because I regret it, but because it meant something.

Because it tore through everything I thought I could still protect.

And maybe that’s what frightens me most. Not the sin.

Not the secrecy. But the fact that I didn’t feel broken.

I felt alive.

The thought lingers as I reach for a towel with numb fingers. The linen is cold against my skin, and I blot the water from my face slowly, as if scrubbing away the truth could make it less consuming. But the burn remains—beneath the surface, beneath the silence.

I drop the cloth and reach for my gloves. The satin slides over my fingers like a memory—familiar and necessary. A ritual I’ve done so many times, it no longer feels like a choice. Only now, the gloves don’t just hide me. They hold me together.

A second skin. A wall. A weapon.

My eyes lift to the mirror. What stares back is not a girl undone, not the woman who drowned in the hands of someone who shouldn't matter. It’s the version of me that survives. That endures. That wears her silence like armor and wields her past like a blade.

I inhale—slow, steady. One breath to hold the pieces in place. One breath to remember who I am. And then I turn to leave the bathing chamber.

But I freeze.

There, just beyond the threshold of firelight, a figure stands in the far corner of my room, wrapped in shadow as if the dark itself refuses to let them go. My breath catches. The heat I just tried to bury turns ice cold.

I don’t move. I don’t speak.

For a moment, I don’t even breathe. And when I finally do, the word barely escapes me. A whisper carried on fear and instinct.

“Who are you?”

The figure moves, stepping into the light.

A woman emerges, ethereal and haunting. Her eyes, a pale, chilling blue, lock onto mine with an intensity that shocks my core.

Her dark hair flows like liquid night, cascading over her shoulders and down to her waist. Around her neck, a silken scarf floats as if stirred by an unseen breeze, its edges vanishing into the shadows.

Her gray gown shimmers faintly, the fabric seeming to dissolve where it meets the floor.

She is stunning, almost unnervingly so.

I step forward, unable to resist the pull of her presence.

“Are you real?”

My voice comes out barely above a whisper, the words fragile and uncertain. I wonder if she’s part of one of my visions—a fragment of something shared between us, tangled in the strange threads of our abilities.

A smile tugs at her lips, soft yet enigmatic. Warmth blooms in my chest, chasing away the lingering chill, though my magic recoils in her presence. A tendril of it reaches out, hesitantly brushing her hand.

The sensation is fleeting, yet unmistakable—she feels solid, real.

"He cannot have it," she whispers.

Her words strike me like a bolt of lightning. My eyes snap to hers, the weight of her warning pressing heavily against my chest.

"Who?" The question slips from my lips, barely more than a breath. "What is it he cannot have?" I step forward, bracing for the answer.

She retreats into the shadows, her expression shifting to one of urgency.

“He cannot have it. It is not his to claim.”

Her voice trembles with fear, the words laced with an unspoken desperation. Before I can say anything, the door creaks open behind me. I turn quickly, startled, to see Jason standing in the doorway. He steps inside cautiously, shutting the door behind him.

“Lailah…” His voice is soft and steady, but I can sense a heaviness in it.

I glance back, half-expecting to find the woman still there, but she’s gone. The room feels colder now as Jason moves closer, his gaze darting between my face and the space around me.

"Who were you talking to?".

I hesitate, the words caught in my throat. The chill the woman left behind clings to me, but I force it down, straightening my posture.

"No one." I keep my voice quiet but firm and look away, refusing to let him see the crack in my composure. "It doesn’t matter."