Page 11 of Crown of Ashes and Desire

“Which is?” Kaya challenged.

“The Crown of Ashes,” I revealed, and watched their expressions shift from confusion to dark understanding.

“That ritual hasn’t been attempted in?—”

“Centuries,” Kaya breathed. “Since your father’s rivalry with Gün Ata’s began.”

I let the implication sink in. The ritual wouldn't just transfer Ada's power to me—it would fundamentally destabilize the balance between realms. Shadow territories would expand, consuming neutral lands. Light magic would weaken across all domains, potentially ending the equilibrium that had prevented total war for millennia."Ada's divine light, once bound to me through marriage, can be harvested to tip the balance permanently in the shadow's favor."

“The ancient texts speak of power transference,” Lady Narin said carefully. “The light-bearer’s essence channeled…”

“Her divine essence harnessed to strengthen our realm, her power flowing through me to claim both light and shadow territories.” I repeated what my father had told me, though the specifics had always remained frustratingly vague.

A collective murmur rippled through the council. They understood now—this wasn't about protecting a light-bearer but about the ultimate power source.

"The winter solstice," I continued. "When the boundaries are thinnest. Her essence harvested, the balance tips permanently to shadow."

Lady Narin's eyes gleamed with dark hunger. "And our territories expand."

"Exactly."

My father had sought this for centuries—the Crown of Ashes Ritual would prove my worthiness to rule Kara Cehennem. Erlik had decreed that whoever could successfully harvest a divine light-bearer’s essence would inherit his throne. It was the ultimate test of shadow mastery.

I stood, allowing shadows to crawl up the walls, extinguishing torches while they spread. The air grew cold as breath misted before startled faces. All the while, Ada’s emotions churned through our connection—rage, despair, and something that might have been longing, though I told myself I imagined that last part.

“Do you wish to challenge my authority directly? Because that would mean challenging Erlik’s will—and we all know how that ends.” I let darkness consume the room’s remaining light. “I am here by his design, carrying out his centuries-long plan. Question me, and you question him.”

None met my gaze. They understood now—this wasn’t about my authority, but Erlik’s, channeled through me.

“You refuse us, then?” Kaya asked, caution in every syllable.

“I refuse you,” I confirmed. “And should any of you attempt to circumvent my decision—should Ada report even the slightest unwelcome approach—I will consider it an act of rebellion.”

They nodded, some more reluctantly than others. Lord Yilmaz shifted in his seat, his ambition warring with caution.

“The Karanlikoglu faction will not be pleased,” he murmured, referring to the ancient shadow clan that had served Erlik for generations, the purists who believed in shadow supremacy above all else. “They’ve waited centuries for this opportunity.”

“The Karanlikoglu serve me now,” I replied coldly. “Their loyalty to my father transfers to me as his heir—especially once I prove my worthiness through the Crown of Ashes Ritual. They’ll accept my methods or face the consequences.”

When the Council dispersed, I remained at the table, waiting until the last of them had gone before allowing my rigid control to slip slightly.

Ada's torment hammered against my consciousness through our bond—rage, grief, determination burning as fiercely as her former love. The truth clawed at my insides: every tear she shed was a wound I'd inflicted on myself, and still I couldn't cut out this love that devoured me from within.

I stood in the shadows outside her chamber, despising myself for each second I remained. What was I doing here? What was I, some lovesick fool? I should focus on consolidating power, not wasting time watching her as if five years hadn't passed, as if we were still madly in love.

Yet I couldn’t tear myself away while Ada methodically brushed her hair—the same irritating ritual she’d always performed. One hundred strokes. I told myself I was merely observing a potential threat, nothing more.

Lies. Even to myself.

I clenched my jaw when unwanted memories surfaced—memories I’d spent years trying to bury beneath shadow and ambition. Her hair wrapped around my fist in the darkness. The sound of her laughter. Worthless sentimentality that deserved to be burned away.

As I watched her, my body betrayed me in ways my words never would—heartbeat accelerating, fingers twitching with the desire to touch her, breath catching when she tilted her head in that achingly familiar way. When she sighed softly, I found myself unconsciously stepping forward, only catching myself at the last moment.

I hated her for making me feel anything at all. Hated how even now, after everything, some traitorous part of me still responded to her. The darkness my father had cultivated warred constantly with recovered memories, creating this maddening contradiction between what I'd been trained to feel and what I actually felt.

She wore a simple white nightgown—deliberately modest, no doubt to spite me. To deny me even the satisfaction of looking at what was rightfully mine.

Her brush paused mid-stroke. Her spine stiffened, and I realized my mistake. The bond between us—despite my efforts to suppress it—flowed both ways.

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