Page 33 of A Shattered Kingdom of Steel

I know they’re pointless, because he’s right. I don’t want to go to Illnamoor. I am afraid of what awaits me there.

“Bladesinger,” Asheros calls from behind me. “Stop.”

But I don’t stop. I can’t. All it took was one straw, and the damn I’d so carefully built around my deepest emotions, has weakened, allowing the ugly things I don’t want to face to slip through. My defenses are crumbling, and right now, it doesn’t feel as if I can repair them.

Not before Asheros reaches me.

“Stop running,” Asheros shouts, voice thick with emotions I can’t name. “Please, Lymseia.”

Lymseia.

Not Bladesinger, not Captain, not even Lady Wynterliff, but my given name.

I slow to a stop. Taking deep, heavy breaths so that my shoulders visibly rise and fall with each one, I hang my head down and close my eyes. I make no move to wipe my face. My eyes are surely red and puffy, enough for him to know that I’ve been crying. So what’s the use in hiding it now?

I feel Asheros’s steps slow when he approaches, his palm cupping my elbow when he positions himself in front of me.

The gods must be teasing me, sending us in circles. Not even a week ago, he pursued me when I ran from his tent, trying to escape. So often, we find ourselves in similar situations, and time and time again I find myself in frustratingly close proximity to him. Only this time, he didn’t have to tackle me.

This time, I want him to catch me.

And I can’t help but wonder if it’s all by design.

Asheros stills. He doesn’t remove his palm from my elbow, and although I can stand perfectly fine on my own, I lean into it like I’m unsteady on my feet.

“What?” I ask, my voice hollow and lacking in strength.

“I—” he swallows. “I overstepped my bounds. For that, I’m sorry.”

That has me opening my eyes and tilting my face up to his for a moment, before I turn away. For some reason, I can’t look him in the eye. “You were right, though. I am afraid.” I let out a dry laugh. “Perhaps I’m not truly fearless.”

“Don’t,” he murmurs.

“Don’t, what?” I ask, keeping my gaze trained on the ground a few paces ahead. “Speak the truth?”

“Don’t use my words against yourself.” His voice is rough, as if there’s something below the surface that he’s wrestling with. “I never would have uttered them had I known you’d forge them into weapons.”

I turn to him, now. My wide eyes find his instantly, as if they were the only place in the realm that I could ever want to lose myself. It’s then that an unsettling truth settles into my very being, my soul, my existence.

Fear of my diplomatic position at Illnamoor, of my mother’s disapproval, isn’t what would have stopped me from leaving, even aside from my quest to learn Asheros’s plans. In his crystal blue eyes, that truth is ever so prevalent, even if I don’t want to admit to myself what it could mean.

“Being fearless isn’t the absence of fear, Bladesinger,” Asheros tells me, leaning closer. His voice softens, as does his expression. “It means you look fear in the eye and refuse to let it stop you.”

His tone is entwined with such conviction, that I find myself nodding slowly, as though I’m under his spell.

“You are fearless, Bladesinger.” He pauses, touching his lips together before parting them again. “Don’t ever let anyone make you think the opposite is true. Not even me.”

His words hang between us, a tether we can’t shed. Neither of us says anything for a long while. Straightening my posture, I lift my head and take a breath. “We should rejoin the others.”

Asheros’s stare lingers on me. Something in his demeanor gives me the sense that there’s more he wants to say, but he doesn’t have all the words yet. He makes no move to leave, and part of me wonders if he would rather stay here, alone with me, for just a bit longer.

If he does, he surely doesn’t act on it.

“Of course,” he agrees, swallowing whatever it is that waits on his tongue. “But first, give me your hand.”

“My hand?”

Gently, he takes my left hand, fingertips grazing along the underside of my wrist. He mutters something under his breath, and the troilite cuff snaps open. Lightly removing it from my wrist with his free hand, he tucks it into his pocket.

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