Page 63 of Tower of Ash and Darkness
The light streaming through the high windows casts long shadows across the floor, broken only by the occasional flutter of pages as I pull books from the shelves. The silence wraps around me, comforting in its completeness, allowing my thoughts to quiet. My bare fingers skim the cracked leather of a book’s spine, the restlessness of the night still lingering in my trembling hands. I let the scent of parchment and ink ground me, allowing me a momentary reprieve.
It isn’t until the hairs on the back of my neck prickle that I realize I’m no longer alone. The notion of another presence presses against the silence, subtle but undeniable. My fingers pause mid-page turn, and a chill sweeps through me. With a snap of my fingers, black gloves weave themselves over my hands, their smooth, cold fabric anchoring me. I close the book gently, not daring to make a sound, and turn to face whoever has intruded on my sanctuary.
Jason stands at the edge of the aisle, framed by the soft gold light spilling through the windows. The silence stretches, heavy and taut, as though the room itself is holding its breath. For a moment, neither of us moves, our gazes locked in an unspoken exchange.
I see the hesitation in his stance, the way his fingers brush against the hilt of his sword as though seeking something solid to hold onto. He’s caught between duty and something far more fragile, and though his mouth remains closed, his eyes speak volumes.
I try to return my focus to the book, but his footsteps grow nearer,more heavy, each one unraveling the fragile threads of my concentration. He settles beside me, his presence oppressive and impossible to ignore. My grip on the book tightens as my heart quickens, every fiber of my being alert to his nearness. Then his hand moves toward my chin.
I freeze, the gesture almost tender—but not enough to erase the intrusion. Before his fingers can brush my skin, my magic rises, unbidden and unrelenting.
It surges from me, coiling around his wrist like a phantom chain. Icy and unforgiving, it grips him mid-motion, halting him as if the air itself had turned solid. My skin won’t touch his. It can’t. I won’t allow it.
“Fuck!” Jason snarls, the curse slipping out as he jerks back, cradling his hand like he can still feel the sting of my magic.
The coldness lingers, a tangible barrier he should have known better than to cross. My magic isn’t just a shield; it’s a warning, an extension of the unspoken boundaries I’ve set. Jason knows this better than anyone, and yet he still tried.
He stumbles back to the other side of the table, his hands gripping its edge as though he’s fighting to stay grounded. His breaths are shallow, his chest rising and falling with a pace that matches the tightness in my own. When he finally meets my gaze, his golden-brown eyes betray a storm of emotions—hurt, iniquity, and something dangerously close to desperation.
The library falls silent except for the faint crackle of the fire, its light dancing against the walls. Jason leans forward slightly, his broad shoulders slumping as though the distance is finally wearing him down.
“Lailah… Can we please talk about this?” His voice is quiet, almost pleading, the edge of desperation slicing through the stillness.
I lift my head slowly, studying him. The dark circles under his eyes speak of a sleepless night, of regrets too heavy to carry. His loose shirt, the undone buttons, and the disheveled state of his hair tell me more than words ever could. This isn’t the polished, controlled Jasonmy father chose to stand at my side. This is someone unraveling, someone undone.
I rise, the scrape of my chair against the stone floor cutting through the stillness. My steps echo softly as I round the table, keeping my gaze fixed on him. Jason doesn’t move, though I see his shoulders relax, just barely, as if my approach might signal the beginning of something close to forgiveness.
It isn’t.
“She meansnothingto me.”
His words tumble forward like he’s trying to outrun their implication. His eyes meet mine, wide and pleading, but his apology feels feigned.
“She means nothing?” I repeat, my voice low and quiet, laced with disbelief. My gaze pierces his, unrelenting, searching for the truth he’s so desperate to bury.
“Then who is she, Jason?” I demand, my jaw tightening with every word, anger rising like a tide that threatens to consume me.
Jason’s hands twitch at his sides as though he wants to reach for me, but he hesitates. His fingers hover just shy of my gloved hands, and the atmosphere thickens unbearably, charged with emotion. Disgust twists like a vise around my lungs. He drops his hands, shoving them into his pockets, his shoulders stiff with tension.
He exhales, his teeth gritting as though wrestling with words he doesn’t want to speak.
“Do you even have an answer, or is this just some act to win my heart?” I snap, my voice slicing through the silence.
I’m done waiting for him to piece together excuses.
Jason shakes his head slowly, his brow furrowing as though my words cut him deeper than he’s willing to admit. His lips part, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low, steady, and devastatingly certain.
“We both know I already have it.”
The air leaves my lungs, shock flooding my system and rooting me in place. I stare at him, frozen, as his gaze holds mine with a quiet intensity that feels like both a challenge and an admission.
Anger churns within me as I lift my chin, forcing a composure I don’t feel. I search Jason’s face, desperate to find something—remorse, an apology—but all I see is smug certainty, as though betrayal could never unseat what he thinks he already owns. Bile rises in my throat, bitter and unwelcome.
“How dare you speak as if you still know me,” I whisper, trembling with restrained fury. “As if you know anything about my heart.”
The weight of it builds like a tide too long held back. For years, I waited for him to choose me, to claim me, but that longing has eroded, leaving only emptiness behind. It’s a gaping void where hope once lived, and it’s spreading, consuming every ounce of feeling in its path.
Jason doesn’t flinch. He only nods, once, as if he’s prepared for this.
