Page 77 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

My silence must speak louder than words because Jason quickly adds, his voice quieter now, “I can ask for another tent if you’d prefer. I just want you to be comfortable, Lailah.”

My heart is conflicted. His sincerity is undeniable, the concern in his eyes genuine. Jason has always been this way—thoughtful, kind, steady in a way that should put me at ease.

“No,” I say finally. “You’re my husband. It’s our tent.”

The words are a weighty reminder of the roles we are meant to play. Jason’s expression softens, and he nods slowly, his golden-brown eyes never leaving mine.

“All right,” he says quietly. “Our tent.”

For a moment, I feel the faintest pang of guilt.

Jason is trying—truly trying—to be the man I need him to be.

And if that means anything at all, then I owe him the same effort in return.

There’s a pause, the kind of silence that feels full, heavy with everything unspoken.

Jason shifts, his hand brushing the map as he gathers it.

Then, he moves toward the carriage door, his actions unhurried but deliberate.

“Wait,” I say suddenly, my voice cutting through the quiet. “Where are you going?”

He glances back at me, his lips curling into a faint, boyish smile.

“Your husband is a very busy man,” he jokes lightly, his tone warm, but there’s no mistaking the sincerity beneath it.

I roll my eyes, unable to stop the faint smirk tugging at my lips.

Jason chuckles softly at my reaction, low and genuine, before he steps out of the carriage and closes the door behind him.

I feel his absence immediately as the carriage lurches forward again, its wheels groaning under the weight of this monotonous confinement.

Each jolt sends my frustration rising until it threatens to boil over. I can’t bear it any longer.

Without hesitation, I reach for the latch, throw the door open, and step out onto the rain-soaked earth.

The cold mud swallows my feet as the downpour soaks through my cloak, plastering it to my skin.

I don’t care how unseemly it looks—decorum be damned.

The chill biting at my cheeks is far preferable to the oppressive stillness of the carriage.

Behind me, the caravan jerks to a halt, startled by my sudden rebellion.

The horses stir, their restless neighing echoing through the rain as Callum’s steed turns to face me.

He sits tall in the saddle, his scarred brow lifting in mild amusement as though he finds my defiance both admirable and predictable.

“I would like a horse,” I demand, leaving no room for negotiation.

Callum’s grin deepens, a dark, knowing chuckle escaping him as he studies me.

Rain drips from the brim of his hood, but his demeanor remains infuriatingly calm.

Before he can respond, the sound of hooves approaches.

I turn to see another rider emerging from the mist—Casper, astride a black stallion that moves with quiet power.

My breath catches in my chest as I recognize the horse.

Zander.

The same stallion I saw in the forest, watching me from between the trees like a shadow. I haven’t forgotten his eyes, the way he held still as if deciding whether I was friend or foe. And now, here he is, bearing Casper with the ease of a creature that has already chosen.

They are companions.

And I’m not sure why that unsettles me.

Then—like a crack in the present—something shifts.

A memory rises to the surface, unbidden and jarringly vivid. A veiled stranger, his silhouette outlined by the sun, stands quietly as I reach for Zander’s velvet-soft nose, offering no objection. I am so small, my hands dirty and sunburnt, but the kindness in that moment stays with me.

The memory fades as quickly as it comes, leaving me unbalanced. Casper’s green eyes lock on mine, their intensity cutting through the rain. Concern flickers there, as if he thinks my sudden exit from the carriage is a cry for help rather than sheer impatience.

“I wish to not ride in this carriage,” I say, forcing my voice to remain steady as I meet Casper’s gaze head-on.

My tone holds an edge of defiance, though I can feel my heart racing. He studies me before he nods and turns to Callum with a silent command. Callum’s horse steps forward, its powerful frame towering over me as it snorts softly.

“Your steed awaits, Your Grace,” Callum says mockingly, the words laden with exaggerated reverence.

His dark chuckle, barely audible, lingers in the rain-drenched air. I glare at him, the corners of my mouth tightening. Callum’s enjoyment only fuels my resolve.

“No,” I say sweetly, turning away from him.

My gaze falls on Malachi, sitting still and stoic as a statue carved from marble atop his tan horse. Callum, still perched on his own mount, leans slightly forward, his expression faltering as he processes my words.

“I think I would much rather ride with Malachi.”

Callum’s head tilts, his scarred brow arching in genuine surprise, though his amusement lingers behind his dark eyes.

For once, he seems at a loss for words, his grip tightening on the reins as his horse shifts restlessly beneath him.

Around us, the guards exchange glances, their reactions ranging from suppressed chuckles to barely concealed curiosity.

Callum, usually the one who commands attention and deference with ease, has just been overlooked, and it doesn’t escape anyone’s notice.

Casper’s reaction is far more subdued, but infinitely more telling.

From his position, he sits perfectly still, his rain-slick hood casting a shadow over his face.

But his green eyes—so piercing, so difficult to ignore—flick toward Callum, then toward Malachi, and finally land on me.

There is no smirk, no mocking laugh, just a quiet, smoldering intensity that makes my pulse quicken.

“Interesting choice,” Callum finally drawls. “I’m sure Malachi will make for thrilling conversation.”

His lips twist into a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and for a brief moment, I think he might actually be offended.

Malachi, true to form, says nothing. His hand extends toward me, steady and unflinching, as if the entire exchange is beneath him.

The rain seems to bead off his cloak, refusing to touch him as he waits for me to take his hand.

Without hesitation, I place my palm in his, his skin rough but warm.

With a single, effortless motion, he pulls me up onto the back of his horse.

I adjust myself quickly, my hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

The moment I am settled, silence washes over the caravan, the rain doing little to drown the unspoken discomfort.

Jason’s carriage door creaks open, and he steps halfway out, his eyes darting between the scene unfolding before him.

His expression betrays no emotion, but his knuckles whiten as he grips the edge of the carriage frame.

“Shall we move on?” Jason calls out finally, breaking the silence with a calmness that feels forced.

Callum chuckles low under his breath, the sound almost drowned by the rain. He nudges his horse forward, casting a lingering glance in my direction.

“You’re full of surprises, Your Grace,” he says, his tone light but with a hint of something else—resentment? Admiration? It is impossible to tell.

As Malachi’s horse begins to move, I catch Casper’s gaze again.

His eyes have darkened, the concern from earlier replaced by something heavier.

I can’t decipher it, but the way his lips press into a thin line speaks volumes.

For a brief moment, I think he might say something—anything—but instead, he looks away, his attention shifting to the road ahead.

We pass Jason’s carriage, and I lean forward slightly, whispering to Malachi, “Thank you.”

Malachi gives no indication he’s heard me, his focus unbroken as his horse carries us forward. As the group begins to move again, the air crackles. Callum’s smug facade, Casper’s silent intensity, and Jason’s watchful stare—they all press down on me, stifling yet invigorating.

As time marches on and the first rays of sunlight fracture the horizon, the camp begins to unfurl like a well-rehearsed ritual.

It is expected, of course—when royalty travels, the path is never left untended.

A small group of guards had ridden ahead, tasked with ensuring that by the time we arrived, the clearing would already bear the shape of order.

Tents rise like silhouettes against the morning mist, a firepit already ringed with stones, smoke curling faintly into the dawn.

Malachi’s horse slows to a halt near the designated clearing. With effortless precision, Malachi swings his leg over the saddle and dismounts. Once on the ground, he steps beside his horse, standing tall and composed as his hand glides over the animal’s neck in a calming stroke.

He makes no move to help me dismount.

The omission isn’t careless—it’s intentional, a choice that speaks volumes.

He keeps his distance, his posture one of quiet restraint.

Watching him, I think back to earlier when I mounted his horse, careful to touch only his shoulders, avoiding anything more intimate.

It wasn’t simply about practicality; it was respect for boundaries I instinctively felt he’d appreciate.

Malachi doesn’t strike me as someone who tolerates unwanted touch.

Perhaps he assumes the same of me, or perhaps he’s wary of how even the smallest gesture might be misinterpreted under so many watchful eyes.

Whatever the reason, I’m not offended. If anything, his silence feels like an understanding—a shared preference for keeping a careful distance.