Page 83 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

CASPER

I take a deep sigh, watching Lailah move across the campground toward the royal tent.

Frustration blooms inside me as I see her go, knowing she’ll soon share that tent with someone who’s not me.

The anger and frustration claw at me, but I understand that the only way to keep her safe—keep her here—is to let this charade play out.

I move toward the cart and pour myself another drink, the cold liquid sloshing around as it meets the glass.

I bring it to my lips, letting the burn of the amber offer a fleeting sense of numbness.

Then, the quiet of the tent is pierced by the soft rustling of the flaps, and the heavy sound of footsteps that announce someone’s entrance.

“You can’t be serious about letting her stay in that tent with him ? ”

Callum’s voice is low, dark, and filled with contempt.

I turn to face him, seeing the rigid set of his jaw, his chin raised in defiance, a storm brewing behind his eyes.

“They’re married, Callum. Or has that slipped your mind?”

I swallow the whiskey with a grimace, the burn stinging like an old wound.

Callum lets out a venomous laugh, but there’s no humor behind it—it’s bitter frustration.

The thought of Jason being near her— touching her—is an offense he can’t let go of.

I feel the heat rise in my chest, a muscle tightening in my jaw as I shake my head.

“The guards need to see them together for whatever this is to move forward. This is out of my hands.” The truth tastes bitter.

I won’t force her to choose me, and I can’t chain her to me. She needs to decide, on her own terms, when to trust me—not because I demand it.

“Fuck the guards,” Callum mutters under his breath, the disgust in his voice palpable. His eyes darken, brows furrowing in frustration as his fists clench. “How can you not see that she’s worth more than all of this?”

I meet his gaze, knowing what lies beneath his anger.

He cares for her as much as I do, though he’ll never admit it.

The resentment, the frustration—I feel it too.

But as much as he’s right—she is more important than anything else—I know this plan, whatever it entails, is about her now.

I won’t get in her way once she knows the full truth, and I won’t push her to trust me before she’s ready.

I step toward him, my hand landing on his shoulder, a silent acknowledgment of his loyalty and our shared bond.

“You, more than anyone, should know she can take care of herself.” I tap his cheek lightly with my palm, a gesture meant to convey both respect and something deeper, something more unspoken.

Callum doesn’t respond right away, stepping back and shaking his head as he turns toward the tent.

“She shouldn’t have to,” he mutters, his voice heavy with a burden I can’t lift.

He lingers in the tent, jaw tense, eyes flicking toward the entrance like he’s picturing her just beyond it, like he’s imagining all the ways this night might spiral into something we can’t fix. I don’t press him. I let the silence stretch, taut as a drawn bowstring, until it hums in my bones.

He doesn’t look at me when he speaks again.

“Are you going to tell her?”

The question cuts through the quiet like it’s already been gnawing at him for days. I turn my glass in my hand, watching the amber swirl, wishing it held answers.

“You told me not to.”

Callum’s jaw flexes, his teeth grinding.

“She was never supposed to be involved in this. She was never supposed to know what we were doing.”

I lift my eyes, meet his frustration head-on.

“Well, she knows now.”

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, illuminated by candlelight.

“No, she doesn’t.” His voice is a quiet growl, trembling beneath the control he’s always pretending to hold. “Not all of it.”

I shake my head, more bitter than angry, though the line between the two has blurred so much I can barely tell the difference anymore.

I set the glass down with a quiet clink, the last trace of warmth bleeding from my fingers.

Then my arms fold across my chest, a barrier I no longer have the strength to pretend isn’t there.

“So now you want me to tell her?” I ask, voice low, laced with something caustic. “After all this time, you think now is the right moment to tell her the truth ?”

Callum’s eyes flash, the mask slipping for a breath, for a heartbeat.

“I would.”

I don’t speak.

Because the words live too close to the surface. Because if I open my mouth, I might tell him the truth—that I want to tell her, that I’ve wanted to from the beginning, but doing so would unravel everything I’ve bled to protect.

My silence says more than I mean it to. And Callum knows it. He tips his head, the corner of his mouth pulling in the faintest, smug echo of a smile.

“But I know we aren’t the same, brother .”

The word lands with weight, not spoken with affection—but as a challenge. As if to remind me that while I hesitate, he would tell her every dark, gnarled truth without flinching.

“No,” I say, quietly. “We’re not. ”

His gaze cuts away abruptly, as if the sight of me disgusts him.

“She’s everything to me,” I say, softer now. “And if protecting her means carrying the weight of this alone, I’ll do it. Even if she hates me for it.”

He glances toward the tent flap, his voice quieter now, tinged with something close to regret.

“She thinks she’s making choices,” he finally says, almost to himself. “But we’ve already made most of them for her.”

Callum steps back, shaking his head once before turning away.

He doesn't look at me again as he slips through the flap, letting it fall closed behind him. Silence settles in the air as the guilt gnaws at me from the inside, relentless and consuming. The feeling of not being worthy of her, of not being enough, burns with every breath. I want to protect her, to keep her safe from all this madness—but the truth is, I don’t even know if I can anymore.

The plans in motion are too big. Too treacherous.

There are forces at play far beyond the scope of what she and I are, and I can’t help but feel the crushing weight of it all.

Callum doesn’t see it, doesn’t understand.

But when the time comes, I will tell Lailah everything.

She will know what’s really at stake, and she’ll see that there’s more than just us at the heart of this—there’s a war brewing, one we may not survive.

But it’s our duty, and we must endure it.

Together or apart—we must survive.