Page 8 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

LAILAH

T hat evening, I wake to the soft, golden glow of candlelight dancing across the stone walls of my chamber.

The room is still, save for the faint flicker of the flames.

I stretch slowly, the heavy silk sheets sliding off my body as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed.

My bare feet meet the cool, unyielding stone floor, and I shudder, a dull ache pulsing behind my temples—a lingering reminder of last night’s escapade with Sera.

Memorable? Yes. Discreet? Absolutely not.

I let out a slow sigh, pulling myself upright and making my way to the dressing table.

The air is heavy with the faint scent of lavender and smoke, the remnants of the extinguished fireplace mixing with the perfume I spilled last night.

My gloves and usual attire are waiting for me, meticulously arranged, as if daring me to falter.

They’ve become more than just clothing—they are armor, a part of me as vital as my own skin.

Reaching for the gloves first, I slip them on, precise and practiced.

The satin fabric clings tightly to my hands, concealing the pale scars that spiral around my fingers and wrists.

Faint and ghostly now, the scars look almost harmless, their once-vivid blue reduced to mere whispers of what they used to be.

But I know better. They are not harmless.

They are not forgotten. The darkness hasn’t disappeared; it’s merely lying in wait.

I shake the thought away and grab my dress, the cool black satin pooling like water in my hands.

I step into it carefully, letting the soft fabric settle over my body.

It clings to my curves, sleek and elegant, yet sturdy enough for swift movement if needed.

The high neckline hints at decorum, but the daring slit running along my thigh tells another story.

My eyes drift to the dagger laid neatly beside a perfume bottle.

I reach for it without thought, the motion as natural as drawing breath.

It slips into my hand with a familiar weight, cool and steady.

I hadn’t known how to wield a blade when I first arrived at the castle, but that changed quickly.

My father made sure of that—and this dagger he gifted me served as a constant reminder that magic may have marked me, but he made me something else entirely. Precise. Controlled. Lethal.

I slide the dagger into place and tighten the straps at my thigh, fingers moving with familiar precision. There’s a steadiness in the ritual, a quiet satisfaction in knowing everything is exactly where it should be—sharp, hidden, mine. I don’t need magic to be deadly. I never did.

I lift my gaze to the mirror.

My reflection stares back, my blood-red hair spilling over my shoulders like fire against the midnight black of my dress, a startling contrast. My blue eyes—cold, piercing, and bright as sapphires—lock onto themselves, daring me to flinch.

I don’t. I haven’t been that girl—the scared, scrawny child who cowered in shadows—for a long time.

This is who I am now.

The faint rustle of fabric follows me as I turn toward the door. That’s when I notice it—a letter resting on my desk, the king’s seal glinting in the candlelight. My stomach twists as I reach for the envelope, my fingers trembling faintly as I break the seal.

My Sweet ,

Your presence is required in my office. Do not delay. We have matters to discuss that cannot wait.

— Your Father

I fold the letter slowly, carefully, as the words sink in. Summons from my father are never casual. He doesn’t summon me unless it’s something significant, and the clipped tone of his note leaves no room for doubt. Whatever awaits me won’t be pleasant.

“Get a grip, Lailah,” I mutter, breaking the silence. “You’ve handled worse than this.”

Straightening my posture, I adjust my gloves and tuck the letter away. One last glance at my reflection confirms I’m ready. With a quick inhale, I push open the door and step into the corridor, where the faint hum of activity echoes from the distant halls.

At the far end of the corridor, I spot Sera, her hair a shimmering halo under the soft glow of the torches, like strands of sunlight spun into silk. Her bright blue eyes gleam with barely contained excitement, and her strides are purposeful, almost impatient.

Alarm bells go off instantly. That look? That combination of urgency and mischief? It never means anything good.

She reaches me in seconds, throwing her arms around me in an exaggerated hug that’s more dramatic than heartfelt.

“Did you hear?” she breathes, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes.

I arch an eyebrow.

“How bad is it? Should I start running, or are you here just to savor the chaos?”

Her lips twist into a grin, the kind that usually precedes trouble. “Both,” she says cryptically, grabbing my wrist before I can protest. Without another word, she drags me back into my room, shutting the door with a little too much enthusiasm.

“Sera, what the hell?—”

“Shh!” she hisses, pulling me into the bathing chamber. She twists the faucet on, the rush of water masking our conversation. Her eyes seem to shine brighter, a perfect mirror of her excitement, as she leans closer.

“Jason Striden is here. In the palace.”

The words hit me like a blow to the chest. I freeze, my heart pounding faster than I’d like.

Heat rushes to my cheeks before I can stop it.

Jason Striden. The name is a storm, sweeping through my mind and dredging up memories I thought I’d buried.

His boyish grin, the warm brown eyes that seemed to understand too much, the hours we spent together in the library when we were barely sixteen years of age—it all comes rushing back.

But so does the ache.

He was ripped away from me just as quickly as he had become mine, sent back to his father’s lands the moment duty called him home. As Lord Striden’s son, a human heir, he had no place lingering within the vampire court.

And yet, somehow, he’s here.

“I need to talk to my father,” I blurt, spinning toward the door.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Sera grabs my arm and yanks me back, stronger than she looks. “You’re really going to march into his office looking like that ?”

I glance at the mirror, taking in the sleek black dress and gloves. “What’s wrong with this?” I ask, feigning innocence.

“Everything,” she deadpans, dragging me toward the bed. “Your hair is blood red, your eyes are practically glowing, and you’re swathed in black like you’ve been cast as the villain in some tragedy. You know how predictable that is?”

“Black is classic,” I counter, rolling my eyes as I let myself fall back onto the pillows. “It works.”

“Black is boring,” she fires back, rummaging through the dresser like she’s hunting for treasure. “You should wear something that actually makes your eyes pop. You look like you’re about to assassinate someone—again.”

“That’s the idea,” I say, smirking. “It’s hard to catch people off guard if I show up looking like a princess. ”

She spins around, hands on her hips, glaring at me with mock exasperation. “Lailah, you’re the most beautiful woman in this castle. Stop pretending you don’t know it.”

Her words hang in the air as I glance at my gloves. Slowly, I peel them off, one finger at a time, and toss them aside. My eyes drop to the scars curling around my fingers and wrists. The darkness hasn’t loosened its grip—it never does. Under King Clyde’s watch, it has only grown stronger.

How my father came to understand such magic—so ancient, so potent—I still don’t know.

But he taught me to wield mine with precision, to transform chaos into control.

When he found me, I was a child buried beneath whispers of tragedy and ruin.

Tales of the dark magic that wiped out the human royal family had spread far and wide, though no one ever suspected the source—a frightened infant who didn’t understand the power she wielded.

My stepmother, who wasn’t related to me by blood, had taken me in out of duty, not love. She kept me alive, but that was all. To her, I was a secret to be hidden, a burden to be endured with bitter resentment. To the villagers, I was a ghost, a warning passed along in hushed tones.

“She’s diseased,” my stepmother would tell them, and they believed her.

The scars were enough to convince them. The boldest children steered clear of me, and even the most hardened adults avoided our small home, fearful of whatever curse they thought I carried.

I still wear gloves because of her. She insisted on it—not just to hide the marks, but to shield herself from the shame of my existence.

To her, I was a problem to be contained, a shadow to be ignored.

She went to great lengths to erase me from the world, whispering lies to anyone who dared approach.

The isolation became my prison, and she was its warden.

Her gaze was always cold, her every word laced with irritation, as though my very existence inconvenienced her. I learned early on not to hope for kindness or affection—only survival.

But survival wasn’t enough for me. I wanted more .

The day the soldier arrived at our door, I felt it—a shift, as though the world had finally begun to notice me.

He came cloaked in shadow and authority, his dark presence consuming the small space like a stormcloud.

My stepmother didn’t hesitate. Her voice was calm, her expression unyielding as she faced him.

“I have no daughter,” she said, the lie leaving her lips with an ease that made me ache.

And in a way, she was right. She had never treated me as her child, and I had long since stopped hoping she ever would. But this time, I didn’t cower behind the door. I didn’t slink into the shadows and let her words erase me. This time, I waited. And when the soldier left, I followed him.