chapter 19
1898 Words
Chapter 19– The Queen of Ash
The firelit hall was still echoing with Damian’s words. Behold your queen.
Isabella’s body trembled on the throne, her fingers curling into the stone arms until her nails scraped. Every eye was on her—hundreds of courtiers bowing, their whispers rolling like a storm. She wanted to vanish, but the bond pulsed in her chest, rooting her to the chair.
Damian stood beside her, tall, composed, every inch the ruler of flame. His hand brushed her shoulder, light but searing, reminding everyone watching—and her—that she belonged to him.
“Raise your head,” he commanded softly.
Her chin jerked upward against her will.
The crowd roared with approval.
Inside, Isabella screamed.
Damian leaned close, his voice for her alone. “Do you feel it? The throne answers you. They see a queen. All you must do is accept it.”
She forced out a whisper, teeth clenched. “I never will.”
His smile cut like fire. “You already have.”
---
Later, when the court dispersed, he led her through the citadel again. This time, he did not walk in silence.
“You played the part well,” he said.
“I wasn’t playing.”
His golden eyes slid to hers. “Liar. Even your silence is a performance. But I will break through every act until only truth remains.”
She bit back the words she wanted to hurl at him. The bond throbbed like a leash, warning her that every defiance risked Ethan’s life.
Damian stopped in front of a chamber door carved with flames. He pushed it open, revealing a room draped in silk the color of embers, a balcony opening to the burning horizon. A bed sat at its heart, vast and shadowed, its sheets black as coal.
Her pulse hammered.
“No,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he answered simply, guiding her inside.
He did not throw her onto the bed. He sat her at the edge instead, crouching before her like a man at prayer, though there was nothing humble in his gaze.
“Do you know why I haven’t touched you yet?” he asked.
Her breath shook. “Because you enjoy tormenting me.”
He chuckled softly. “Because I want you to want it.”
Her stomach twisted. “That will never happen.”
Damian’s hand slid to her ankle, fingers wrapping around it, slow, deliberate. Heat surged through her leg. “It already has. In your heartbeat. In the way you shiver every time I stand close. Deny it all you like—your body betrays you.”
“Stop,” she hissed, yanking her leg back.
He released her instantly, rising with predatory calm. “Then show me.”
She blinked, confused. “What?”
“Show me you can resist.” His eyes gleamed. “Look at me. Tell me you do not crave the fire.”
Her throat closed. She opened her mouth, but no words came. The bond burned, twisting every denial into ash before it could leave her lips.
Damian stepped closer, his hand braced on either side of her, caging her in. “You see? Even silence is confession.”
“Damian—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “Say my name like that again.”
Her chest heaved. She wanted to spit, to scream. But what left her mouth was a broken whisper: “Damian.”
His eyes darkened, molten gold swallowing her reflection. “Better. Soon, it will not be agony. It will be surrender.”
---
Far beyond the citadel, Adrian staggered to his feet. His burns ached, his breath came ragged, but his resolve was harder than the blade in his hand.
He could still hear her voice. Broken, begging. He could still see the flames swallowing her.
“No more,” he muttered, teeth gritted. “I won’t watch her fall.”
Figures moved in the smoke—men loyal to him, scarred survivors who had followed him even into ruin. They approached cautiously, hope flickering in their eyes.
Adrian raised his sword. “We march on the citadel. I don’t care if it burns us alive—we take her back.”
The men bowed their heads. The vow was made.
---
In the citadel, the night stretched endless. Damian poured wine into two cups, one glowing faintly red, one clear. He handed Isabella the clear one, watching as she hesitated.
“What did you put in it?” she whispered.
“Nothing,” he said. “The poison is in your fear.”
She took it, sipping despite herself. Cool water slid down her throat, easing nothing.
Damian leaned against the balcony, the flames painting his profile. “Tomorrow, you will stand beside me as queen. You will greet the people. You will smile. And you will see that they do not see a prisoner. They see salvation.”
“I am not salvation,” she whispered.
He turned, eyes locking onto hers. “No. You are fire. And fire destroys or saves depending on who holds it.”
He stepped closer, kneeling before her again, his hand rising to cup her jaw. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, lingering there. “Do you know what I want, Isabella?”
Her voice was barely breath. “To own me.”
“To keep you,” he corrected, his tone a razor wrapped in velvet. “You could burn the world with me—or burn me if you dare. That choice will always be yours. But you will not escape me.”
Her tears slid silently down her cheeks.
His lips brushed her temple—not forceful, not yet a kiss, but a mark. A promise. “Sleep now, my queen.”
He left her trembling in the chamber, the bond in her chest pulsing with fire, his words echoing long after the door closed.
And in the hollow dark, Isabella whispered into her hands, a vow no fire could steal:
“I will burn you, Damian. From within.”
---
The crown still burned on Isabella’s head.
Morning came not with light but with smoke bleeding through the windows. The citadel never knew softness. The fire roared even at dawn, and Damian’s voice was the first thing she heard.
“Rise.”
She sat up, breath catching. He was already there, standing at the foot of her bed, dressed in black and gold, his presence filling the chamber like heat. His gaze lingered on her hair tangled against the pillow, her lips still swollen from sleepless whispers.
“Today,” he said, “you stand beside me in council. Today, they will see not just a queen—but my queen.”
“I am not—”
Her words broke as the bond tightened, stealing the strength from her throat.
Damian stepped closer, fingers brushing her wrist as though he owned even the blood in her veins. “You still resist with words. But your body obeys. Watch.”
He tugged, and though she wanted to pull away, her hand rose into his. The fire thrummed in her chest, forcing compliance.
Her jaw trembled. “You’ll never have me.”
His smile curved, sharp as a blade. “Then why are you in my hand?”
---
The council chamber was worse than the throne hall.
Dozens of generals and advisers bowed when they entered, the floor glowing beneath their knees. Isabella felt the heat radiating through her shoes, searing her skin. Every eye darted to her, some fearful, some reverent, all heavy with expectation.
“Bow to your queen,” Damian commanded.
The room obeyed.
Her stomach lurched.
Damian guided her to sit beside him at the head of the table. Maps sprawled across it—lines of cities, marks of armies. His hand covered hers, pinning it to the table.
“Speak,” he murmured. “Order them.”
She froze. “I can’t.”
“Then Ethan screams.”
Her throat tightened. The bond throbbed like iron claws.
Her lips parted before her mind caught up. “March east.”
The generals bowed. “As the queen commands.”
A sick tremor ripped through her chest. She hadn’t meant it. She hadn’t wanted it. But they obeyed.
Damian’s smile widened, golden eyes gleaming. “Do you see? The world bends to your voice. And soon… so will you.”
---
Later, when the council dispersed, he did not release her hand. He led her back through the blazing corridors, every step echoing like chains.
“You’re learning quickly,” he said.
“I’m destroying lives.”
“You’re shaping them,” Damian corrected, leaning close enough for his breath to brush her ear. “Do you know what makes a ruler, Isabella? Not kindness. Not cruelty. Will. And yours is stronger than you admit.”
She spun, glaring. “You’re confusing strength with surrender.”
Damian’s grin was wicked. “Perhaps they are the same thing.”
His hand rose to cup her cheek. She slapped it away—only for the bond to punish her, heat lancing through her chest until she doubled over.
“Stop!” she gasped.
He caught her, pulling her against him. “Then don’t fight it.”
She shoved weakly, her voice breaking. “I hate you.”
He lowered his face to hers, so close her lips tingled with his heat. “And still you tremble.”
Her heart hammered, traitorously fast. His thumb brushed her lower lip, lingering there, daring her to break.
“You will learn,” he whispered. “Hate burns into something else when the fire is close enough.”
---
Far beyond the citadel, Adrian stood at the edge of the mountains, his cloak torn, his sword strapped across his back.
The rebels had gathered—ragged, desperate, but burning with the same fire he carried.
He raised his blade, voice raw with command. “She is not theirs. Not their queen. Not his. We strike before the sun sets. Even if the fire swallows us—we strike.”
A roar answered him. The sound of resolve. The beginning of war.
Adrian’s grip tightened. He could almost feel her heartbeat across the flames, chained and breaking.
Hold on, Isabella, he thought. I’m coming.
---
In the citadel, night fell again. Damian did not leave her chamber this time. He poured two cups of wine, placed one in her hand, and stood close—too close.
“Drink with me,” he said.
Her hand shook. “And if I refuse?”
His golden eyes gleamed. “Then I drink from your lips instead.”
Her breath caught.
The bond pulsed. Her choice vanished. She drank.
Wine scorched down her throat, leaving her trembling.
Damian’s fingers tipped her chin upward. His lips hovered, a hair’s breadth away, heat rolling off him like a storm. “You see?” he murmured. “The queen does not ask. She obeys.”
Her tears stung, but she held his gaze, whispering through clenched teeth: “One day, this crown will burn you.”
Damian’s smile was molten. “Then I’ll gladly burn.”
And for the first time, his mouth brushed hers—light, claiming, sealing her vow in fire.
---
- Writer
