Page 39 of A Shattered Kingdom of Steel

The chamber door swings open abruptly.

“Bladesinger, I know you’re angry, but what in the gods’ names are you—” Asheros freezes in the threshold, his eyes immediately falling to my hands, and then the pillows.

“It looks worse than it is,” I explain. “The pillows—”

“Should be wary of getting on your bad side, yes, I know.” Despite the veil of sarcasm, every drop of annoyance fades from his voice.

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“I know what you were going to say.” He approaches me, closing the gap between us. “May I?”

I nod and let him take my hands in his. His thumbs brush against my fingers, careful not to touch my bloody knuckles.

“Orim,” he calls, without turning his head to the door. His feet stay planted, and he doesn’t release my hands. “I need a bucket of water, fresh pillows, a cloth, and bandages.”

“Right away,” comes Orim’s response. In a few moments, he returns with everything Asheros asked for. He places the bucket of water on the floor by the bed, drapes the bandages and cloth over Asheros’s arm, and then sets the pillows on the bed where they belong.

I watch him work, my cheeks hot.

Orim doesn’t seem to notice. He flashes me a smile. Maintaining his warm expression, he takes the bloodied pillows from atop the dresser and leaves without saying another word, closing the door behind him.

“Are there no staff here?” I ask. Every home belonging to wealthy fae that I’ve been to have some kind of staffing, whether they be cooks, maids, or stablemen.

“The staff accompany Orim’s parents, leaving this manor empty while they’re away,” Asheros answers. “That’s what makes it such an ideal choice for us.”

“Ah.” My eyes fall to the floor. “I see.”

Asheros tugs lightly at my hands and leads me to the bed. “Sit.”

I do. The mattress gives way beneath his weight when he joins me. It tilts my body toward him, bringing our faces closer together.

Asheros lets go of one of my hands and pulls the bucket of water closer to him. He dips the cloth into it and squeezes, letting the excess drip back into the bucket. Bringing the cloth to my right hand, he hesitates, looking to me for permission before touching my skin. I nod, and he begins to gently pat my knuckles with the damp cloth. He furrows his brow, seemingly intent on my hand.

I turn my face, head angled to the floor.

“So,” he says, breaking the silence, “do you make it a habit of punching walls?”

“Not usually,” I answer, keeping my attention fixed on a point on the wall behind him.

Asheros presses his lips together. He removes the cloth from my skin and dips it back into the bucket before returning it to my hand.

“When there’s something on my mind, I train,” I tell him, feeling the need to explain.

“Ah.” He tilts his head back slightly.

There you go again, Lymseia, I chide myself.

Now he knows there’s something bothering me. What is it about Asheros that makes it so easy to open myself up to him?

“I took you here because I…” He closes his mouth, and then opens it again, as if he’s searching for the right words. “I wanted to you to help me convince Viridian to step down from the throne.”

“You honestly thought I’d help you do that?” I ask, balking at the idea.

“Not at first, no. You’re too loyal to him.” Asheros’s tone loses some of its strength. “But aside from your loyalty to his crown, you care for him, and for this kingdom. I’d hoped that once I convinced you to see my side of things, you’d realize my intentions aren’t nefarious.”

I laugh bitterly. “And then what, you’d take the crown for yourself?”

“Yes. No.” He sighs, briefly closing his eyes. “I hope not.”

---