Page 135 of Tower of Ash and Darkness
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 carriagedoor 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, standingtall 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.
Without a word, I grip the saddle and swing my leg over, letting myself slide to the ground. My boots hit the damp earth with a soft thud, mud clinging to the hem of my cloak as it drags behind me. Malachi doesn’t react, his gaze fixed ahead as if my dismount was inevitable and needed no acknowledgment. His restraint isn’t cold—it’s almost considerate. A small, unspoken agreement not to overstep.
The sounds of the camp bustling to life draw my attention forward. My eyes catch on a figure moving toward a nearby tent.Casper. Even among the chaos, his steps are steady, his posture commanding without trying to be. He doesn't spare me a glance as he disappears into his tent—far enough away to provide some privacy, yet close enough to be tempting. Yet, something about the stillness he leaves behind feels unbearably loud.
I draw a steady breath, bracing myself as I make my way toward our royal tent. The structure’s regal embellishments are a striking contrast to the rugged, practical camp surrounding it. As I step further into the tent, I’m enveloped by its rich interior—a bed draped in cream sheets embroidered with delicate gold patterns, a wooden bathtub in the corner already filled with steaming water, and neatly arranged buckets alongside it. It’s expected, of course, that suchcomforts would follow me, even here. But then something catches my eye—a single black baccara rose, vibrant and out of place, resting on a small stool beside the bath.
Drawn to it, I approach, furrowing my brow in curiosity. The delicate petals shimmer faintly in the dim light, and as I lean closer, a familiar scent drifts toward me. Sweet, with a faint trace of something deeper—an intoxicating musk that stirs a memory, one I can’t ignore. My heartbeat quickens as I pull off my glove and brush my fingers against the velvety bloom. I bring it to my face, inhaling deeply. The scent is unmistakable, hauntingly familiar.Him.The realization takes hold—this flower is not part of the carefully arranged luxuries that follow me. It doesn’t belong, yet it feels as though it was always meant to be here.
I lower the flower slowly, my gaze drifting to the tent’s entrance.
