chapter 18
1368 Words
Chapter 18– The Ashes of Defiance
The fire never slept.
It roared in every corridor of the citadel, veins of molten light threading through black stone, so that even silence was heavy with the whisper of flame. Isabella had not slept either. Her body had folded against the heated floor of her chamber, curled like a child trying to shield herself from a storm. The ashes of Adrian’s words clung to her palm, gray smudges staining her skin as though the fire itself had branded its victory there.
When dawn came, it did not soften. It rose in a sky of smoke, the sun nothing more than a red disc drowning in haze. The citadel trembled awake, its servants moving silently, their faces pale, their eyes hollow. None dared speak to her. None dared meet her gaze. To them, she was already queen—claimed, bound, untouchable.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to claw the walls until her nails bled. But every cry in her throat was swallowed by the memory of Ethan’s scream. One thought kept circling in her skull like a vulture: If I fight him, Ethan suffers. If I resist, Ethan dies.
And so she stayed silent.
Damian came for her when the sky was still ash-colored. He did not storm in like a conqueror—he walked as though he had all eternity, golden eyes glowing with the certainty of power. The guards at her chamber door bowed so low their foreheads touched the scorched stone.
He dismissed them with a flick of his hand.
His gaze fell on Isabella, who was still kneeling by the ashes of Adrian’s note. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, with a slow, almost reverent gesture, he reached down and brushed the ashes from her palm. His fingers lingered, warm, searing.
“You burn yourself clinging to ghosts,” he said softly.
Her head lifted, tears blurring her vision. “You destroyed my only hope.”
“No,” Damian corrected, his tone sharp but calm, like a teacher correcting a stubborn pupil. “I destroyed your illusion. Hope lies in truth, Isabella. And truth is me.”
Her lips trembled. She wanted to spit in his face, to scream that she hated him. But the bond pulsed, warning, reminding her of Ethan’s fragile breath. So she stayed silent.
Damian’s smile curved, faint and knowing. He offered her his hand. “Rise.”
The bond tugged at her chest, pulling against her will until her fingers slipped into his. He lifted her easily, guiding her through the corridor. The walls glowed with veins of ember, painting their shadows as though the citadel itself bowed to his presence.
He led her to the great hall.
It was vast, domed, lined with banners of flame. At its center stretched a long table set for two, laden with food that shimmered with heat. Fruits that glistened like rubies, bread steaming with molten crust, wine that glowed like liquid fire.
“Sit.”
The word cracked in the air, subtle yet commanding. Isabella froze. Her legs wanted to resist, but her chest tightened until her knees nearly buckled. She lowered herself onto the chair, her body trembling.
Damian sat across from her, every movement deliberate, his gaze fixed on her like a predator watching prey. “Eat.”
Her hand shook as she reached for the bread. It scorched her fingers but she bit into it anyway, the taste ash and flame on her tongue. She could not swallow.
He watched her struggle, silent, patient. Only when she choked back the bite did he speak.
“You think this is cruelty,” he said. “But it is discipline. You will learn that obedience is not weakness. It is strength. A queen who cannot bow cannot rule.”
“I don’t want to rule,” she whispered.
His eyes gleamed. “You will.”
The words were a sentence, not a promise.
Silence stretched. Then, without looking away from her, he lifted the goblet of fire-wine and drank deeply. The liquid gleamed down his throat, catching the light of his golden eyes. He set it down with care, then leaned forward, his hand extending across the table.
“Give me your hand.”
She hesitated, her stomach twisting.
The bond pulsed. Ethan’s scream flashed in her skull.
Her hand trembled forward, landing in his palm. His fingers closed around hers, warm, firm, unyielding.
“You see,” he murmured, “you submit not because you are weak. You submit because you cannot bear to see him suffer. That is love. That is loyalty. And I will make you see it for what it truly is—power.”
Her tears spilled, falling onto the table. “You twist everything.”
“I reveal everything,” he corrected.
Then, before she could breathe, his other hand rose to her throat—not cruel, but steady, claiming. His thumb pressed gently against her pulse, feeling the racing beat beneath her skin.
“Even your heartbeat belongs to me.”
She wrenched back, breath breaking. But his gaze only softened, cruel in its patience.
“Do you know what I will show you tonight?” he asked.
She shook her head, too afraid to answer.
Damian leaned closer, his voice low, intimate. “The throne. And the kingdom that waits for its queen. You will not see chains. You will see worship. And when you stand beside me, you will understand what it means to belong.”
---
Far from the citadel, beyond the black mountains that burned against the horizon, Adrian staggered through smoke.
His body was scorched, his arms blistered where the flames had hurled him back. He had barely escaped alive, his sword blackened, his lungs burning with every ragged breath.
But worse than the pain was the memory.
Isabella, on her knees. Isabella’s voice breaking as she begged. Isabella’s eyes—drenched in firelight, chained not by steel but by her own desperate vow.
He sank to the ground, fists slamming into the dirt.
“No…” His voice cracked, raw and feral. “I won’t let him take you. I won’t—”
The words broke into silence. Smoke drifted around him, carrying the faint, terrible echo of Ethan’s scream.
Adrian’s eyes widened. Ethan was alive. Weak—but alive.
A surge of hope, sharper than pain, ignited in his chest. He would not give up. He would not let her be consumed by fire.
Even if it meant burning himself alive, he would fight.
---
That night, the citadel gathered.
Torches flamed high, their smoke rising in columns that reached for the ash-thick sky. At the heart of the throne room, a dais glowed with molten veins, and upon it sat a throne carved from blackened stone, its arms wrapped in coils of fire.
Damian led Isabella forward. She moved like a puppet, her gown dragging across the burning floor, her chest aching with every step. The bond yanked at her like invisible chains, pulling her toward the throne whether she wanted it or not.
The courtiers bowed. The servants lowered their gazes. The fire hissed and roared in anticipation.
Damian stopped at the throne. His hand pressed to the small of her back, guiding her forward. “Sit.”
Her knees trembled. She looked at the throne as though it were a blade poised at her throat. If she sat, she knew—something inside her would shatter forever.
But Ethan’s scream tore through her mind again.
Her body lowered. She sank onto the throne.
The hall erupted in fire.
Damian’s smile gleamed like victory itself. He raised his hand to the crowd. “Behold your queen.”
The word struck her chest like a blow. Her heart raced, her tears spilled, and yet—the bond pulsed with dark satisfaction, feeding on her silence.
And in that moment, she knew: if she could not defy him, she would have to deceive him.
She would play the role of queen. She would wear the crown of fire.
And in the shadows of her obedience, she would find a way to bring him down.
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