chapter 20
1472 Words
Chapter 20– The Night Before Ashes
The citadel never slept.
Its walls breathed fire, veins of molten gold threading through black stone like arteries feeding a heart that could never stop. The halls pulsed with heat, alive, as though every torch flame was an eye, watching, whispering, judging. Isabella had once believed she would grow numb to the constant burn. That if she lived long enough in this furnace, the searing air would dull, and her lungs would learn to accept fire as oxygen.
She had been wrong.
Every inhale was a brand. Every exhale a surrender. The citadel did not let her forget for even a second where she was—or worse, whose she was.
Tonight, though, the silence pressed heavier than usual. No council voices, no chants of soldiers drilling below, not even the metallic ring of weapons. Only the endless, low hum of fire vibrating through stone. It felt like waiting. Like the whole world held its breath before something broke.
She sat on the edge of her bed, her crown abandoned on the table, her fingers clutching the sheets as though she could anchor herself to something human. Something not forged by fire.
The crown mocked her from where it gleamed—a circlet of blackened iron carved with veins of gold, burning faintly as if even metal could carry his pulse. Damian’s pulse.
Her stomach turned.
The door opened without a sound. No creak, no knock—just a command made flesh. The flames in the room bowed inward before she even looked up. They always bent to him first.
Damian.
He filled the doorway, tall and sharp as a blade, dressed in black threaded with molten gold. His eyes glowed brighter than the torches, molten orbs that never softened. He shut the door with a flick of his hand, and the sound echoed like chains locking.
Her body stiffened. Her breath caught. She hated herself for it—how her chest reacted to him before her mind could resist.
“You didn’t wear it,” he said. His gaze flicked to the crown resting on the table. His tone was quiet, dangerous, far deadlier than a shout.
“I’m not your queen.” Her voice cracked on the word, betraying her fear.
“You already are.”
He crossed the room with unhurried steps, the predator who knew the prey couldn’t escape. He picked up the crown, weighed it in his hand as if measuring her soul.
“You can resist in words all you like. But every time you sit beside me, every time they kneel at your command, you prove the truth.”
Her throat tightened. “That’s not me. It’s you forcing—”
The bond struck like molten claws, fire spearing through her chest until her knees buckled. She gasped, clutching her ribs, falling half to the floor.
“Stop—”
Damian crouched in front of her, golden eyes trapping hers, his presence caging her more completely than chains could.
“Do you want me to stop?” His voice was a velvet whisper—mercy or mockery, she couldn’t tell.
Her throat closed, strangled by the bond. It pulsed, demanding, wringing her silence into a confession.
“I…” The word trembled, withering into nothing.
His lips curved. Not triumph, not kindness. Something darker. “You see? Even silence betrays you.”
Her tears burned hotter than the fire. “I hate you.”
“And yet you tremble.”
He rose, crown still in hand, and set it gently on her head. His fingers lingered, threading through her hair, sealing the weight into place. The metal burned her scalp.
“Wear it. Feel it. Every beat of your heart is fire. And fire belongs to me.”
She shoved his hand away. Weakly. Pathetically.
“You twist everything.”
“No.” He leaned down, lips grazing the shell of her ear, his breath scorching. “I reveal what’s already there.”
Her stomach knotted. The bond throbbed like a drumbeat inside her veins, traitorous, alive.
He straightened, hand outstretched. “Come.”
She didn’t move.
The bond pulled. Her body betrayed her, legs rising before her mind consented. She walked to him like a marionette, fury burning but useless.
Damian led her onto the balcony.
The night sky glowed with smoke, stars drowned in orange haze. Below, the citadel sprawled, veins of fire carving streets where soldiers marched in perfect rhythm. Shadows carried weapons that shimmered like embers.
“Look.” His arm slid around her waist, pulling her against him, as if she were part of the view he commanded. “They are yours as much as mine. They saw you today. They will follow you tomorrow. You are queen, Isabella. Stop lying to yourself.”
“I’ll never accept this.”
“You already have.”
His lips brushed her temple, hot and unbearably gentle. “Every time you obey, even when you call it hate—you make yourself mine.”
She twisted, shoving at his chest. “You can control my words. My body. But you’ll never touch what’s inside me.”
Damian caught her wrists in one hand, unshakable. His other hand tilted her chin, forcing her to face him. His eyes glowed like liquid gold, terrifying and beautiful.
“Then show me,” he murmured.
Her breath hitched. “What?”
“Show me you can resist. Look at me and say you don’t crave the fire.”
Her lips parted. The denial burned in her throat. She wanted to scream it. She wanted to spit in his face. But the bond twisted, melted the syllables before they could escape.
“I—”
Silence.
His smile curved, wicked. “Exactly.”
His grip loosened only to stroke his thumb across her lower lip. She trembled. She hated that tremble most of all.
“You tremble every time I stand this close,” he whispered. “Your body knows the truth.”
“Stop.”
“Then stop me.”
She froze. The bond roared, molten iron binding her limbs. She couldn’t.
And he knew it.
Damian lowered his face until his lips brushed hers, a hair’s breadth of contact. “You can’t.”
Her tears spilled. “You’ll break me.”
His voice softened, terrifyingly tender. “No. I’ll crown you.”
Then he kissed her.
Not a brutal claiming—yet. A brush, searing, molten. A kiss that stole her breath, branded her lips, melted her knees. She trembled, fists curling against his chest, but she didn’t pull away.
When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against hers. His breath was hot, ragged but steady.
“This is the truth you fear,” he murmured. “And the truth you will not escape.”
Her knees gave way. He held her upright, unyielding, while the bond purred in cruel satisfaction.
“Sleep,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Tomorrow, the world bows to its queen.”
And he left her trembling, crown still burning on her head, his prophecy echoing like chains.
---
Far across the mountains, Adrian’s camp stirred.
Torches stabbed the night, illuminating faces hollowed by hunger but fierce with resolve. Blades were sharpened, armor patched, wounds bound. Every man and woman knew what tomorrow meant—life, death, fire.
Adrian stood apart at the edge of the camp, cloak torn by travel, sword strapped to his back. His eyes fixed on the horizon glowing faintly orange with Damian’s citadel.
He had heard the whispers of spies. He had seen the smoke. He knew what was being done to her—that Damian was bending her, binding her, parading her in chains disguised as crowns.
His fists clenched. “No more.”
The rebels gathered behind him, ragged, desperate, but burning with the same fire that lit his veins.
Adrian raised his sword high, its steel catching the torchlight. His voice thundered across the camp:
“Tomorrow, we strike. We take her back. She is not his. She is not their queen. Even if the fire swallows us whole—we strike.”
A roar answered him. Hundreds of voices, fierce, unafraid. A vow sealed in the night.
Adrian’s heart pounded. He could almost feel her heartbeat across the flames, chained, trembling, breaking.
Hold on, Isabella, he thought. I’m coming.
---
In the citadel, Isabella lay awake.
Damian’s kiss still seared her lips, the crown still burned on her head. The bond coiled inside her chest like a second heart. She turned her face to the ceiling, tears sliding silently.
I will burn you, Damian, she vowed in the darkness. Even if it kills me.
And somewhere beyond the smoke, the storm of war gathered.
The night before ashes.
---
- Writer
