Page 170 of Tower of Ash and Darkness
The looks on their faces—terror, not pity.The whispers behind closed doors. The punishment that followed. I remember every word, every silence. The way they treated me like a curse, and worse—how I started to believe them.
I thought I’d buried that shame. That version of myself.
But it never really died. It just waited.
Now, it crawls up my throat, cold and bitter, a reminder that I’ve always been something to fear.Something broken.
I glance at Casper. His gaze is steady, with no judgment in his eyes, but that only makes it worse. Because even though he doesn’t look as though I am a curse.I know I already am.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice almost too soft to hear.
His brows knit together, confusion playing across his face.
“For what?”
I swallow hard, looking to the ground as I fight to form the right words—who I am, and who I wish I were, feel like two different people I’ll never be able to reconcile.
“For not looking at me like I’m a monster.”
The silence deepens, the fire the only witness to the unspoken truths lingering in the air. He doesn’t answer, and perhaps he doesn’tneed to. Instead, he looks at me with a steady gaze that feels like a promise: no matter what, he sees me.Only me.
The hours pass in stillness, marked only by the soft crackle of the embers and the muted hum of the wind outside the cave. The light from the entrance shifts gradually, from the pale glow of morning to the golden haze of afternoon, until it fades into the dim blue of twilight.
I spend most of the day beneath the heavy furs, the warmth easing the chill that has taken residence in my bones. My strength is returning, little by little, though the ache in my chest lingers. Casper is a constant presence, moving around the cave with the silent grace of someone who doesn’t need light to see. He tends the fire, collects water from a nearby stream, and occasionally places a bowl of food or tea in my hands without a word.
We speak only sparingly, and the quiet feels heavier than the furs draped over me. It isn’t the awkward silence of strangers, nor the comfortable quiet of friends. It’s something in between, something restless, as though we’re both waiting for the right words to form but neither of us dares to speak first.
I try to distract myself by watching him. There’s a rhythm to the way he works—stacking firewood, sharpening a blade, adjusting the stones around the fire—that makes me wonder how he might fight: controlled, calculated, and fiercely protective. He catches me looking more than once, his dimple appearing in a brief, knowing smile before his gaze shifts back to his task. Each time, my heart stumbles, as if it’s trying to find a rhythm of its own.
By the time night falls, I feel strong enough to sit up without my head spinning, though my limbs still feel heavier than they should. Casper notices immediately and is at my side in an instant, his brow furrowed with something between concern and relief.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, his voice low and quiet, as though he’s afraid to disturb the fragile peace we’ve managed to carve out here.
“Better,” I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds. “Still weak, but... better.”
He nods, though his eyes linger on me a fraction longer than necessary.
“Good. You need to rest more.”
I bite back a smile, something about his protectiveness both infuriating and endearing.
“I’ll be fine.”
His lips twitch, as if he’s holding back a retort, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he hands me another cup of tea, the warmth seeping into my fingers as I cradle it in my hands. I want to say something, to fill the space with words that don’t sound vacant, but everything I think of feels inadequate. So I stay quiet, letting the quiet settle over us.
It’s Casper who finally breaks the stillness.
“You scared me.”
I glance at him, surprised by the admission.
“I scared myself.”
He looks at me then, his eyes darker and softer than I’ve ever seen them.
“I thought I was going to lose you.”
The rawness in his voice cuts through me, and for a breath, I don’t know what to say.
