Page 32 of A Shattered Kingdom of Steel

“Why didn’t I leave?” Asheros echoes. “I think it’s more than obvious why I didn’t leave.”

“Because for some selfish reason you won’t name, you need me alive,” I spit. “Trust me, I know.”

“Selfish?” His voice brims with anger, amplifying the coldness of his stare. “You mean to tell me that saving your life is selfish?”

My scowl deepens. “It is when it’s motivated by selfishness.”

A dangerous darkness bleeds through his voice. “You don’t know what motivates me, Bladesinger.”

“Then tell me,” I demand, throwing out my arms. “Tell me why you kidnapped me. Tell me why I’m here.”

Shaking his head, he bares his teeth in what can only be described as a humorless, breathless laugh. “The better question is why didn’t you leave?”

I freeze. “What?”

“You heard me.” Staring into my eyes, he takes a step forward, closing the gap between us. “You had an opportunity to escape without anyone stopping you. We were all distracted by the troll. You could have left, but you didn’t. So I ask you, Bladesinger, why didn’t you leave?”

Clenching my jaw, I don’t back down. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

He cocks his head, sharpened amusement playing at his mouth. “Ah, but you just did.”

“No, I didn’t,” I counter. But the anxiety gathering at the bottom of my stomach says otherwise. Fear that he sees right through my bravado.

“I think,” he starts, bitterness sharpening with each word, “that you don’t want to go to Illnamoor. I think, that despite your prevailing sense of duty, you’re afraid of what awaits you there.”

My voice drops low with warning. “You should watch your tongue.”

But Asheros only pierces me with his stare, as if he could pin me in place with just one look. “What are you so afraid of?”

Dread clogs my lungs, rising into my throat. The realization that he sees right through me is enough to summon the very feeling I’m aiming to suppress.

The fear of my own weaknesses coming to light.

“Fear should have nothing to do with this,” I hiss through staggered, controlled breaths.

“So, you are afraid, then.”

“I’m not—” The words lodge in my throat. Staring at him with my brows knit together, I ball my hands into fists.

“Deny it,” he challenges, eyes alight like he knows he’s won this battle. “Tell me that I’m wrong.”

I can’t. And he knows it.

My frustration and shame bubble to the surface in a sickening tempest. A string of insults forms on my tongue, but I don’t unleash them.

Instead, I press my palms to his chest and shove.

Hard.

As if he immediately realizes his mistake, he says, “Bladesinger.”

But I storm off, leaving him at my back.

“Damn it all, Bladesinger.” Guilt rushes into his voice. “I—”

My steps quicken, and I break into a jog. Then a sprint.

I let the tears fall.

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