Page 3 of We Were Meant to Burn (Ashes and Ruin Saga #1)

Ishot Aitan a cocky smile as he led me through yet another labyrinthine route to the throne room. It had been half an hour of twisting passages, winding corridors, and enough gold-plated excess to make me sick.

Ornate candelabras hung from the ceilings, each one holding solar-powered lights in their delicate, teardrop-shaped holders.

The light cast a warm glow over walls encrusted with glittering gems and precious metals.

Thick green carpets muffled our footsteps on the polished obsidian floors, and even the ceiling trim sparkled with flecks of gold. Subtlety clearly wasn’t in Castillo Rive’s vocabulary.

“Stop looking at me like that,”

Aitan growled, not even bothering to glance back.

I let out a low chuckle.

"You drag me to the throne room a different way every week. I assume it’s meant to throw me off. The fact that you actually thought it would work is, frankly, insulting.”

Aitan grunted, which I took as his usual eloquence.

"I’m merely following orders. What you do about it isn’t my concern.”

His tone was clipped, his expression set in stone, but something about the comment made me tilt my head.

I didn’t press him, though.

Aitan wasn’t my ally, but he wasn’t my enemy either.

That was rare enough in this place.

With every step, the walls seemed to close in around me.

The air grew heavier, pressing down on my chest like a weight.

The castle itself felt alive, like it was bearing down on me, reminding me of where I stood: enemy territory.

I quickened my pace, eager to get this over with.

We passed a communication center buzzing with activity, its walls covered in rows of screens that blurred together like a roaring river of data.

The glow of pixelated spam and flashy advertisements spilled into the hallway, accompanied by the endless drone of commercials.

Even as we turned the corner, the sound stuck in my ears like a bad song.

A few minutes later, we walked past the kitchens for the third time, and my stomach twisted at the scent wafting through the air.

Cumin, chilies, and pork simmering over a fire.

The smoky spice stung my nose, making my eyes water.

I licked my cracked lips, desperate to taste something, anything, that wasn’t stale bread or watered-down soup. Even the faint hint of freshly chopped cilantro in the air made my mouth water.

I kept my face neutral, but my eyes were sharp, taking in every detail of the castle as we moved.

I’d thought the palace in Rojas was extravagant, but Castillo Rive made it look like a hovel.

This place wasn’t just opulent; it was obscene.

A macabre display of wealth and power.

We passed gardens so decadent they made my teeth ache.

Crystalline pools lined with sapphires and rubies shimmered under the sun, and vibrant cushions surrounded turquoise tables piled high with food and sangria.

Every path was lined with jade tiles, flanked by monstrous blooms of purple jacarandas and magenta pentas.

It wasn’t just a garden—it was an insult. A reminder of how much they could afford to waste.

Even the castle’s woodwork was an exhibition of Aguatitlan’s absurd wealth.

Cherry wood from Miyushima—goddess only knew what it cost to import it—was decorated with delicate sunflower patterns, just because they could.

Castillo Rive loomed over us like a monument to excess, its jade stone blocks rising so high the peak disappeared into the clouds.

Gold inlay adorned every inch, intricate designs carved into the smooth stone, murals painstakingly hand-painted across the walls.

It wasn’t just a castle.

It was a statement.

And it made me sick.

After yet another grueling pass by the kitchens—where the smell of pork and chilies mocked me like a cruel joke—we finally reached the double doors to the throne room.

My stomach growled loud enough to be embarrassing, but Aitan either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

The doors loomed before us, carved to look like two skeletons bowing together in prayer, their bony frames entangled with red and green vines.

Decorative? Sure. Ominous? Absolutely.

Aitan straightened his uniform with the kind of precision that screamed he’d been doing this dance his whole life.

The guards flanking the doors snapped to attention, as if the King himself might materialize from thin air just to chastise them.

“Keep your head down today,”

Aitan barked, his tone sharp enough to cut.

"And bow. Low.”

I turned my head slowly, my glare razor-sharp.

"I don’t bow,”

I said, my voice flat, absolute.

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He knew better. I bowed for no one, least of all a fraud like Rafael Aguirre.

The doors creaked open, revealing the throne room in all its nauseating glory.

The assault of colors and smells hit me like a slap.

Even after months of being dragged here every week, I still wasn’t used to it.

The room was an abomination of opulence, a cacophony of excess that screamed, Look at me! Worship me!

Every inch of the walls was covered with carvings of animals I didn’t recognize.

Probably some tech mutants Rafael had commissioned to prove his creativity or his bank account.

The floor was a dizzying pattern of blue and green tiles, so bright they made my eyes ache.

A shallow river cut through the room, winding between the decorations in an attempt to make this gilded nightmare feel “natural.”

It didn’t.

The air was thick with the syrupy sweetness of fresh fruit piled high on golden plates atop adamas tables.

Sunlight poured through the glass ceiling above, sending fractured rays of light across the dais like some celestial spotlight.

The whole thing was designed to awe.

It only succeeded in pissing me off.

As I walked, the room fell silent.

The buzz of conversation stopped as heads turned, necks craning to gawk at me like I was the main attraction.

Their stares burned into my skin, full of curiosity, malice, and something darker.

Hunger. They leaned forward, mouths slightly open, practically salivating at the thought of what might happen next.

At the end of the long golden carpet sat Rafael, draped in elaborate turquoise robes that looked like they weighed more than he did.

His beady eyes followed me, cold and calculating, tracking my every move like a predator sizing up prey.

At the foot of the dais, a pedestal held a golden crown on a plush red pillow.

I didn’t need anyone to tell me what it meant. That crown was for me. If I said yes. If I submitted.

Not in a thousand lifetimes.

Aitan bowed deeply at the waist, his voice taking on a reverent tone that I could’ve sworn sounded like mockery.

"Your Majesty,”

he said, drawing out the words.

"As requested, Nix Zaldanna, Princess of Rojas.”

I didn’t bow.

Rafael’s eyebrows crept up his forehead, but he said nothing.

Rumor had it that while his nephew—the actual heir to the throne—was still a boy, Rafael had filled the court with loyalists to cement his own claim.

When the boy came of age, Rafael had conveniently shipped him off to Miyushima as an emissary.

Exile disguised as duty. Smart politics, I supposed. Smarter than murder, anyway. The boy was probably still alive because it was easier to spin a story than clean up a royal body.

Rafael’s throne didn’t mean anything to me. He wasn’t a king; he was a usurper, a liar. And I wouldn’t bow to a liar.

My eyes swept the room, taking in the faces of the guards, courtiers, and servants.

They were all watching, their eyes locked on me, mouths slightly parted.

I saw it.

The hunger in their stares, the way they leaned forward to get a better view, to savor every moment of my defiance.

They wanted me to break.

Craved it.

They licked their lips like they could taste my fear.

Like watching me submit would feed them, would send the perfect message across the Somertos Ocean straight to Mother.

I met their gazes, one by one, and made sure they knew: if they wanted me to break, they’d be waiting a long damn time.

Aitan shifted uncomfortably beside me, clearing his throat like he thought it might change my mind.

His narrowed eyes locked onto mine, silently begging me to bow.

I didn’t budge.

Instead, I lifted my chin higher, daring him or anyone else to try and make me.

“You’ve had another week to consider my offer,”

Rafael said, his voice slithering out like venom.

"What do you say now?”

My hands curled into fists at my sides, the nails biting into my palms.

"Every week, you ask me the same question,”

I said, my voice cold and steady. Rafael growled, low and primal, but I didn’t stop.

"And every week, I give you the same answer.”

The room held its collective breath. A sea of eyes watched, waiting for my next move, but I wasn’t here to disappoint.

“I’d rather die than be yours,”

I sneered, throwing the words like a weapon. The shock that rippled through the crowd was music to my ears.

Rafael’s jaw tightened, his amber eyes narrowing into slits.

"I had a feeling you’d say that.”

He jerked his head toward Aitan, who stepped forward and lifted the golden crown from its pedestal.

“Which is why,”

Rafael continued, his smirk twisting into something monstrous, “I had this new piece of technology developed.”

Aitan hesitated just long enough to give himself away. He didn’t like this, not one bit, but he still placed the crown on my head. It slipped past my forehead, resting heavily on my temples. Cold. Wrong. Before I could react, pain exploded through my skull.

I hit the ground hard, crashing to my hands and knees as tendrils from the crown burrowed into my head. The sensation was unbearable, like claws shredding through my mind, tearing apart everything that made me, me. Blood trickled down my forehead, blurring my vision as it dripped into my eyes.

Through the crimson haze, I caught sight of Rafael lounging on his throne, a glass tablet in his lap. His fingers swiped across the screen, and the crown responded. My limbs jerked against my will, moving like they belonged to someone else. Commands slammed into my mind, sharp and invasive, like a Mentedor’s magic—but this wasn’t magic. This was a perversion of it. A mechanical abomination that twisted Las Madres’ creation into something vile.

I stood on shaky legs, my body moving without my consent, and then . . . I danced. Circles, sways, sensual movements that weren’t mine. The courtiers erupted in laughter, their voices cutting through me like blades. I was a puppet, a toy, and the shame of it coiled in my gut like a snake, hissing and biting.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Aitan flinch, his face twisting in something that might’ve been disgust—or guilt—as he turned away.

The doors to the throne room burst open, slamming against the walls with a force that silenced the crowd. All heads turned, mine included, as a tall, striking figure strode in.

The man practically glowed in his white suit, the golden embroidery catching the light as it flowed down his shoulders and the sides of his pants. The turquoise crown nestled in his brown curls marked him for what he was: Tadeo Aguirre, the Crown Prince of Aguatitlan.

He moved with a predatory grace, his amber eyes burning with fury as they swept across the room. The dusty scent of incense clung to his clothes, a reminder of his time in Miyushima. When he reached the dais, he finally looked at me—just a glance—but it was enough.

Shame surged through me, hotter than the blood on my face, hotter than the fire of my own humiliation. I wanted to disappear, to tear the crown from my head and obliterate it, to be anywhere but here. But all I could do was stand there, a grotesque display, under the Crown Prince’s searing gaze.

“What is this debauchery, Uncle?”

Tadeo’s voice rang out, commanding the room with a sharp authority that even Rafael couldn’t ignore. His gaze flicked to me, still spinning and swaying like a doll on strings.

"What have we come to, that we should debase ourselves in this way? Has Aguatitlan lost all sense of decorum? Are we no better than Rojas, with no regard for the rules of engagement?”

I hated the comparison, but I hated my body’s betrayal more, twisting and twirling under Rafael’s control. Every movement felt like an insult, like a crack in my already fragile dignity.

Rafael glared at his nephew, his beady eyes narrowing.

"You, of all people, should not be surprised. I have always done what is best for our people.”

He set the glass tablet on the arm of his throne with deliberate care, like he was showing the world how magnanimous he could be.

The crown released its hold on me, and I collapsed to the floor, my knees hitting the cold tiles with a dull thud. My head pounded, every nerve alight with exhaustion and the phantom claws of the crown still scraping at my mind.

“If it means I must make an example of this witch,”

Rafael continued, his tone flat and venomous, “then so be it.”

Tadeo’s eyes swept the room, landing on my face. His expression didn’t betray much, but his words did.

"Yes, I’m sure making an example of her will inspire the people’s undying loyalty,”

he said, the sarcasm cutting through the air like a blade.

“This is the price of defiance,”

Rafael growled, his voice low and menacing. He leaned forward, his gaze heavy with unspoken threats.

"Do you have a solution for that?”

The room went still. Even I could feel the weight of the question, the warning in it. Rafael wasn’t just talking about me. He was sending a message. A reminder that no one, not even his golden boy of a nephew, was untouchable.

Tadeo’s nostrils flared, his shoulders stiff as he held his uncle’s gaze.

"This is not how we behave,”

he said, his voice firm but steady, even as his anger rippled beneath the surface.

Rafael’s mouth twisted into a sneer, his dismissive wave cutting through the tension.

"Commander, return her to her cell. Let’s see if another week of confinement will change her mind.”

Aitan stepped forward, his hand firm as it closed around my arm. I swayed as he hauled me upright, the world tilting dangerously as I forced myself to stay conscious. My skull felt like it was splitting open, every pulse of pain a reminder of Rafael’s cruelty.

We’d barely made it halfway across the room when Rafael called out, his voice dripping with mock concern.

"Oh, and Commander?”

Aitan stopped, his jaw tightening. I could feel the tension radiating off him.

"Yes, Your Majesty?”

he said, his tone neutral but strained.

“Do fix that unsightly gash on her face,”

Rafael said, his lips curling into a cruel smile.

"I don’t want to see a scar when I breed the bitch.”

The room fell silent, the words hanging in the air like poison. Aitan’s grip on my arm tightened, his knuckles turning white. He didn’t say a word, just gave a curt nod before pulling me forward.

My legs moved on autopilot, my brain struggling to process anything beyond the searing pain and the suffocating shame. I couldn’t look back. I didn’t need to see Rafael’s smug face to feel the victory radiating off him.

But I made myself a promise, right then and there: if I ever got the chance, Rafael Aguirre wouldn’t live long enough to regret those words.

The doors to the throne room shut with a dull thud, sealing us in the corridor’s cold silence. Aitan hissed from the corner of his mouth, his voice low but sharp.

"Took you long enough.”

Tadeo’s eyes darted left and right, a quick scan of the area before he whispered back, “Not here.”

He motioned for Aitan to follow and strode off, his turquoise crown gleaming even in the dim light.

I winced, wiping the blood from my eyes with trembling fingers. The sting brought clarity, though it didn’t do much for my mood.

Tadeo led us through the castle’s endless corridors, his pace quick and purposeful. The further we went, the less grandiose the surroundings became, until the polished obsidian and shimmering gold gave way to plain stone walls and dusty neglect. Finally, he stopped in front of a narrow door and ushered us inside, closing and latching it behind him.

The room was small—more of a closet, really—and the stark contrast to the rest of the castle wasn’t lost on me. Not a hint of ornamentation anywhere. No gold leaf. No jeweled embellishments. Just a battered desk with years of scratches etched into its surface and a faint musty smell that made my nose twitch.

“Sit,”

Aitan ordered, pointing to a chair tucked into the corner like it had been shoved there and forgotten.

I hesitated but obeyed, collapsing into the chair with more effort than I cared to admit.

"What is this place?”

I muttered, my words slurring as exhaustion weighed on me.

“My office,”

Tadeo said over his shoulder, his voice clipped as he rummaged through the shadows of the room. I caught snippets of his muttering, punctuated by the occasional curse. A moment later, he turned back, holding a bowl of water and a rag.

Aitan leaned against the door, arms crossed over his chest, his face set in a permanent scowl. Tadeo ignored him, his focus on the rag he was now dunking into the bowl.

“I’m sorry,”

Tadeo murmured, wringing out the cloth.

“Not your fault your uncle’s a psychopath,”

I muttered, but the retort died the second he pressed the cool rag to my forehead.

A sharp gasp tore from my throat before I could swallow it down.

Pain flared, hot and blinding, lancing through me like lightning as he wiped away the blood with excruciating care. My fingers curled into fists, nails biting into my palms.

“Give a girl some warning next time,”

I ground out through clenched teeth.

Tadeo hummed, and for the briefest moment, the corner of his mouth twitched—the barest hint of amusement flickering before it vanished.

“Apologies,”

he said, voice smooth, unreadable, the moment gone and forgotten as he sobered.

Tadeo glanced at Aitan, who remained by the door like some silent sentinel.

"What does he want with her?”

he asked, his tone careful, like he didn’t want to name names.

Aitan growled, shaking his head.

"What else? Power. Rojas delivered to him on a golden plate. Heirs that’ll wield her magic.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, but I didn’t let it show. It was one thing to know the direness of my situation. It was another thing entirely to hear it spoken so plainly as if we were talking about the weather.

I stared at the floor, my jaw clenched tight. Heirs. My magic. As if I was nothing more than a tool to be used, a means to an end.

“A weapon,”

I muttered, the bitterness in my voice cutting through the heavy silence.

Tadeo didn’t respond, just dipped the rag back into the bowl, the water now tinged pink. For a moment, I swore I saw something flicker in his eyes—anger, pity, regret—but it was gone too fast to pin down.

I wasn’t sure which of those would’ve been worse.

Tadeo scoffed, his disbelief cutting through the stale air.

"Rafael hates Bruja.”

“He loves power more,”

Aitan shot back, his voice flat but sharp as his finger jabbed toward the golden device still circling my head.

"And now that the mCon is in beta testing, he’ll finally get what he wants.”

“MCon?”

Tadeo asked, his eyes narrowing as he reached for the device. His fingers brushed against it, sending a jolt of pain straight through my temples. I winced, biting back a hiss.

"As in mind control?”

Aitan grunted.

"He’s had the scientists working day and night to get a fully functioning prototype. If today’s spectacle was anything to go by, I’d say they’re right on schedule.”

I stayed silent, my mind spinning with the flood of information they were handing me. Espionage had always been part of my training.

Keep quiet. Listen. File it away for later.

You never knew when a tidbit of knowledge could turn the tide.

“What took you so long?”

Aitan snapped, pushing off the door to pace the small room. His boots scuffed against the floor as his frustration spilled over.

"I sent my message months ago.”

Tadeo hung his head, his hands momentarily still.

"I couldn’t leave without raising suspicion,”

he said, his voice low and measured.

"I had to finish the job Rafael sent me to do.”

“And what was that, exactly?”

Aitan asked, stopping mid-step, his eyes narrowing like he already knew he wasn’t going to like the answer.

Tadeo’s expression darkened, his amber eyes shadowed with something I couldn’t place.

"Trust me,”

he muttered, shaking his head.

"You don’t want to know.”

Aitan snarled, his pacing resuming with a new intensity.

"Things are getting out of hand, Tadeo. We have to act. Now.”

Tadeo didn’t look up. He focused on the rag in his hand, carefully cleaning the blood from my face. The water in the bowl had turned crimson, swirling in lazy patterns as he wrung out the cloth.

"The pieces aren’t in place yet,”

he said, his voice tight.

"We don’t have the funds. I need more time.”

“We don’t have more time!”

Aitan hissed, his head snapping back as he stared at the ceiling like he was searching for patience.

"Rafael is this close—”

he held his fingers mere inches apart, the gesture brimming with tension, “to controlling more than half of Corinea.

With her by his side, he’ll have his own personal weapon to wield however he damn well pleases.

And the second she pops out an heir? You’re done.”

The thought made my stomach twist, cold and sick.

I’d rather die than be tethered to that man in any way, let alone bear his child.

But after today, I couldn’t shake the truth staring me in the face.

The mCon—this grotesque invention—was proof that the Aguatitlans were close to replicating Bruja magic. Too close. And that thought scared me more than anything.

“I know,”

Tadeo whispered, his voice barely audible. His amber eyes met mine, steady and unflinching.

For a moment, I thought I saw something in his gaze. Determination. Maybe regret. Whatever it was, it felt like a silent promise. But promises didn’t mean much in a world like this.