Page 30 of Crown of Light and Ashes
"The potion," I say, holding out my hand.
Banu places the tiny vial in my palm with a flourish. "Drink it all," she instructs. "The effects will begin immediately. Try not to make that scrunched-up face you do when something tastes bad—it's unbecoming."
I uncork the vial, hesitating only briefly. "You're sure this won't harm me?"
"It won't harm your body," Banu says, dropping her sarcastic tone for a moment. "But his presence in your mind... it can be overwhelming. The potion essentially makes you a magical sponge for his emotions while protecting your own. Some find themselves influenced by their bonded's thoughts, adopting their perspectives without realizing it. Be careful, Nesi. Don't lose yourself while trying to hide from him." Then, unable to maintain seriousness for long, she adds, "I'd hate to have to train a new human friend. The learning curve is exhausting."
Without further hesitation, I tip the vial to my lips and swallow its contents.
The effect is immediate and shocking. Fire spreads from my throat to my chest, then outward along my limbs. For a terrifying moment, I can't breathe, can't think, can't feel anything but the burning.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the sensation vanishes, and with it, the openness of the bond. My grief for Aslan, my hatred for Kaan, my fear and determination, all remain vivid within me, but I can feel a barrier forming, shielding these emotions from flowing through the bond to him. Simultaneously, I become acutely aware of a foreign presence in my mind—distant for now, but unmistakably Kaan's consciousness, hovering at the edges of my awareness like a storm on the horizon.
"It worked," I breathe, feeling the strange duality of privacy and invasion.
"For now," Banu says, her typical flippancy subdued. "But, Nesi, be careful. The potion shields him from your thoughts, but it leaves you more vulnerable to his. The stronger his emotions, the more you'll feel them. Don't let his mind influence yours. I rather like you as you are—annoyinglynoble and all."
I nod, though her warning seems distant and unimportant through the new filter of calm that settles over me—a side effect, I realize, of the magical barrier.
Banu moves to the window. "Two weeks," she reminds me. "And, Nesi—" she turns back, her light dimming slightly, "—I'm sorry about Aslan. He deserved better than to be caught in this mess."
The grief surges at his name, raw and undiminished, but I take comfort in knowing that Kaan can no longer sense it through our bond. "Yes," I agree, my voice steady despite the storm inside me. "He did."
As Banu slips out through the window, her silver light fading into the light, I move to my dressing table, composing myself. For the first time since Kaan claimed me, my mind feels like my own again—separate, protected, shielded from his awareness.
A knock at my chamber door makes me jump. When I open it, I find a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair cut close to his head, wearing the uniform of Kaan's personal guard. The silver insignia on his shoulder marks him as someone of rank.
When he sees me, he stands straighter, his posture shifting from casual to formal. But it's his eyes that stop me in my tracks—a particular shade of amber, so familiar it makes my heart stutter. Not identical to Aslan's, but close enough to be his brother's or cousin's.
"Lady Nesilhan," he says, bowing slightly. "I am Damir, assigned to your personal guard by Lord Kaan himself, I just wanted to make a brief introduction."
I can only stare, fighting the surge of hope and pain that threatens to overwhelm me. The way he looks at me, that slight tilt of his head, the almost imperceptible softening around his eyes—reminds me painfully of someone I've lost.
"You... you remind me of someone," I manage to say, my voice barely steady.
For a heartbeat, his composure cracks. Pain flashes across hisfeatures, raw and familiar, before the mask slides back into place. "Loss has a way of marking us all, my lady," he says, his voice rougher now. "Some marks run deeper than others."
I want to ask what he means, want to demand answers to questions I can barely form, but he's already stepping back and walking away like he can’t speak anymore words.
Chapter Ten
Blood and Steel
Kaan
THERE'S SOMETHING DEEPLY satisfying about watching someone's confidence crumble right before their eyes. The moment when arrogance transforms into realization, then fear, and finally—my personal favorite—desperate survival instinct. Some people call it cruelty. I prefer to think of it as educational.
Today's continuation of yesterday's lesson: don't challenge a Shadow Lord to a fucking duel.
"Again," I command, circling my wife as she picks herself up from the dirt for what must be the tenth time in the past hour. Sweat darkens her training clothes, her chest heaving with exertion. A fresh bruise blooms on her cheekbone where my practice sword caught her moments ago.
The training yard is more crowded thanusual this morning. After yesterday's initial confrontation drew attention, word spread quickly that the Shadow Lord and his new Light Court bride would be continuing their sparring sessions, and now half the court pretends to be engaged in their own training while watching our little performance from the corners of their eyes.
Nesilhan glares at me, golden eyes blazing with a hatred so pure it makes my shadows ripple with anticipation. Blood trickles from a split in her lower lip, and I find myself transfixed by the crimson droplet, remembering the taste of that mouth, the softness of those lips against mine that one night, three nights ago. My body responds instantly to the memory, a hunger rising that I immediately try to suppress. This inconvenient desire for her is becoming a dangerous distraction.
"Pick up your sword," I tell her, tapping my practice blade against my boot to mask my momentary lapse in concentration. "Or are you surrendering already? I thought Light Court warriors had more stamina."
"I haven't begun to fight yet," she responds, her voice steady despite her ragged breathing. She retrieves her fallen practice sword, assuming a fighting stance that's far too polished for a diplomat's daughter.
