Page 112 of Crown of Light and Ashes
Love. The word tastes bitter now, coated with the ashes of everything I believed we were building together.
All the moments replay in my mind as I ride—his gentleness when bathing my wounds after Aslan's attack, his vulnerability in the shadow gardens, the way he created beauty for the orphaned children, the tenderness in his eyes when he held me close at night. Has it all been pretense? A careful performance designed to lull me into the same fatal trust that Isil gave him?
Hot tears streak my face, immediately cooling in the biting wind. I brush them away angrily, despising this weakness. I am Nesilhan Alari, trained assassin of the Order of the Silent Blade. I survived a marriage to the most dangerous man in the realm. I will not break now, when my child's life depends on my strength.
My fingers brush against the small crystal vial in my inner pocket—Aslan's potion that Banu rescued from the cottage and returned to me. The potion he claimed would break the blood bond between Kaan and me. I kept it, uncertain if I would ever use it, uncertain if it truly works as Aslan claimed.
Now it represents my only hope.
After hours of hard riding, I reach the first of the outer villages—a cluster of ramshackle buildings huddled together like forgotten toys, their windows glowing with faint amber light against the gathering darkness. I dismount, my legs cramping from the punishing pace I've maintained since fleeing the palace.
The shadow steed snorts, red eyes glowing eerily in the twilight. These creatures are born of the Shadow Court's magic, trained to return to their master if abandoned. It won't be long before this one does the same, carrying news of my location back to Kaan. I need to find shelter, need to decide what to do next.
An ale house stands at the village center, warm light spilling from its windows onto the icy ground. The promise of warmth draws me forward, exhaustion and hunger temporarily overriding caution. I secure the shadow steed to a post outside, though I know it will break free and return to its master once I'm out of sight.
Inside, the ale house is crowded with boundary dwellers—those who live in the space between Shadow and Light Courts, owing allegiance to neither. Their clothing is a mix of styles, their faces bearing the weathered look of those who live hard lives in uncertain territory. Conversations quiet momentarily as I enter, hooded and travel-worn, before resuming with deliberate casualness.
I find a table in the corner, positioning myself to keep the door in sight—old assassin's habits die hard. A serving girl brings me mulled wine without asking, the spiced drink warming my hands through the thick ceramic mug.
"You look like you've journeyed far," she comments, eyeing my travel-stained cloak. "We've rooms upstairs if you're needing a place for the night."
"Thank you," I reply, keeping my voice low. "I might."
She nods and moves away, leaving me to my thoughts and the growing realization of what I'm about to do. The vial feels heavier in my pocket, its contents representing both salvation and sacrifice. Once I drink it, there's no going back. I'll be free of Kaan, but at what cost? Will the severing be as painful as Aslan implied? Will it truly protect my child?
My fingers close around the vial, uncertainty gnawing at me. What if it doesn't work? What if it's poison? Aslan hadn’t been in his right mind when he tried to force it on me. Can I trust anything that came from him?
"The potion you carry weighs heavy on your mind, child."
The voice startles me from my thoughts. An elderly woman hasappeared across from me, settling into the chair without invitation. Her face is a map of wrinkles, her eyes a cloudy blue that somehow sees right through me. She wears the traditional garb of a boundary fortune teller—layers of mismatched fabrics in faded purples and blues, adorned with small mirrors and trinkets that catch the light.
"I didn't ask for company," I say coldly, hand moving instinctively toward the dagger at my hip.
She chuckles, the sound like dry leaves rustling. "No, but you need it all the same." She places a gnarled hand on the table between us. "I saw you enter, carrying more than just travel bags. You carry fate itself in your pocket... and in your womb."
Ice runs through my veins. "Who are you?"
"Just an old woman who sees what others miss." She signals to the serving girl, who brings her a steaming cup without comment. "They call me Mother Wren around these parts. I read fortunes, mix remedies, deliver babies when needed." Her cloudy eyes find mine with unsettling precision. "And occasionally, I warn travelers about the dangers of blood magic."
I start to rise, unwilling to engage with this strange woman and her too-perceptive gaze. But her next words freeze me in place.
"That vial you're carrying—the one meant to break soul bonds—it comes with a price you haven't considered."
Slowly, I sink back into my chair. "What do you know about it?"
"I know that no blood magic comes freely," she replies, sipping her drink. "Especially not the kind that severs connections forged by ancient power. The price is high, child. Higher than you can imagine."
Despite myself, I lean forward. "What kind of price?"
Mother Wren's eyes soften with something like pity. "Pain beyond measure. Agony that will tear through body and soul alike. Few survive such a severing intact." She reaches across the table asif to touch my face, but stops just short. "And even those who do are never the same."
"I don't care," I say firmly, my hand instinctively moving to my stomach. "As long as my baby is safe, that's all that matters."
"And you believe breaking this bond will keep your child safe?" she asks, her cloudy eyes studying me intently.
"I know it will," I reply, thinking of Isil's journal, of Kaan's terrified reaction when he suspected I carried his child. "He would destroy us both otherwise."
Mother Wren tilts her head, studying me with those unsettling, cloudy eyes. "Are you certain? Or are you running from something else entirely?" She sighs, the sound heavy with the weight of untold wisdom. "History repeats itself because we refuse to learn its lessons the first time, child."
