Moments later, Sapphira sat silently at the edge of a grand, king-sized bed, its frame carved with the symbols of ancient pacts and victories long past. But there was no triumph here.
She gazed at the man lying still beneath the heavy quilt—his white hair clinging to his clammy forehead, his breaths shallow and too far apart. Her fingers trembled as they hovered over his skin, deathly pale and marred by patches where flesh had festered and been scraped away, now covered by pungent herbs pressed into torn muscle. The apothecary had done all he could. And still, nothing.
A hollow ache gnawed at her chest as understanding finally dawned—his body wasn’t just resisting treatment, it was rejecting force itself. The herbs, laden with natural force, had no effect. Magic, even her own essence, seemed to drift uselessly around him, like sunlight against iron.
It was as if Asher had chosen not to return. As if something deep within him had already stepped past the threshold.
Her vision blurred. “Asher…” she whispered, his name trembling on her lips like a prayer that had lost its god. A single tear slipped down her cheek, dangling at her chin for a moment before falling, soundless, onto the quilt that covered his chest.
She bent forward, her raven-black hair cascading over the covers, brushing his skin as if to shield him from the world. She kissed his cold forehead—a kiss that trembled, and broke. Her lips lingered there, wishing she could give him her breath, her strength, her soul.
She lifted her face to the ceiling, teeth clenched against the onslaught of tears rising like a tide in her chest. Her hands fisted on her lap, helpless. He was dying, and there was nothing she could do.
In all her years, since the moment her healing gifts first awakened under moonlight, Sapphira had never failed to save someone. And now, fate chose him—the one who carved a space deep in her guarded heart.
The door creaked open.
Soft footsteps tapped the polished black stone floor—Mia entered, her face tight with worry, boots muffled as though the air itself was mourning. Katarina followed, arms folded and expression unreadable.
When Sapphira turned to them, her gaze turned sharp, icy with fury. It landed on Katarina like a blade.
“Priestess,” Mia began gently, anxiety drawing her brows together, “you weren’t supposed to say that at the council. Now you’ve become a symbol… not of hope. Of betrayal. They’re saying your own people attacked Ashbourne, and while your husband fought to protect it and nearly died, yet you defend your kin instead.”
Sapphira’s eyes, swollen with emotion, slid from Mia to Katarina. Her voice was brittle as frost. “Why are you here?”
Katarina’s arms dropped to her sides. She sighed—not dismissively, but as one exhausted by the weight of unspoken truths. “Because despite what the others say, I saw some truth in your words. But this… this isn’t a tale of right and wrong. It’s war. And in war, perception becomes fact.”
She stepped closer, not unkindly. “Fairies, vanished for centuries, reappeared—and the first thing they do is raze a city to ash. How do you think people will respond? With gratitude?”
She gestured to Asher, whose chest barely rose. “Even he once butchered a jackal town when they slaughtered fifty of our own. His sword was justice. But now? Now he’s a martyr. And the world sees you as the cause.”
“That was before, when he couldn’t see past vengeance,” Sapphira hissed, her fists trembling. “We can punish Cyrenia, but if we don’t rebuild Paradise, if we don’t unite the people… humans will turn against the other races. Fear spreads like fire.”
Katarina’s gaze flickered—approval, perhaps, but distant. “That may be true. But if the call had come from me—or from Aquila, perhaps it would have swayed the court. Instead, Baron Claude hears betrayal. Count Alec stays silent, but you know he’s stood beside Asher since his first battle. Now that same lord lies at death’s door… because of a woman. A fairy woman.”
Sapphira flinched. Her composure cracked, just a little. Katarina saw it.
“They already whisper that your heir will be impure. Now they wonder what bloodline will rise to claim the throne if Asher passes.”
Silence fell. Thick, choking.
Katarina’s tone softened, not out of pity, but something older, heavier. “You are kind, Sapphira. Too kind. And I fear that in this world, kindness is not currency, it is weakness. The hearts of men are deep… and that depth is often shrouded in darkness. Gross, festering darkness.”
Sapphira’s voice was hoarse. “W-What do you mean?”
Mia’s voice broke the silence, hopeful but strained. “They speak of gains in the war. Cyrenia’s technology, their vaults, their secrets might help us rebuild stronger—richer.”
Katarina shook her head. “That’s not why the lords hunger for war. They envy you. They loathe what they admire. You’re radiant, powerful… ageless. I am in my seventies, and beside you I look like your grandmother.”
She smiled, but it was thin and sharp. “You’ve been loved. But love does not equal loyalty. The court listens to the regent now. Whatever future you seek—it will pass through his hands.”
And with that, the room seemed to still. Sapphira sat in silence, Asher’s cold hand in hers, and felt the weight of a world balanced on grief, envy, and the sharp edge of politics.
Asher’s presence alone snuffed the life out of politics.
He was a warlord—terrifying, unreachable, and yet, somehow, soothing.
None dared question his orders. None dared speak back.
Because they all knew—he rose Ashbourne from the ashes with his own bloodied hands.
He was the foundation, the walls, and the heart of Ashbourne.
And with the love the people bore him… it was only natural for Cyrenia to receive the brunt of their hatred.
After Katarina left the room, Mia gently took Sapphira’s hands.
“Priestess, we should return to the temple. If His Lordship passes on and your heir isn’t accepted, it—”
“He won’t die.” Sapphira’s voice cut like a blade.
“And I shall not take a step out of this city’s walls.
It belongs to me as much as it does to him.
I am Sapphira Ashbourne. They might see me only as a priestess… but I can wield a sword.”
The cold fire in her tone made Mia flinch.
___
“This has never happened before?”
A man’s voice echoed low within the glacial cavern, filled with unease.
His breath frosted in the air, his black coat brushing his knees, the high collar obscuring his jawline.
Long, dark hair spilled down to his shoulder blades.
A longsword hung at his side.
He was Vladimir Nubis, the first son of Archduke Joseph Nubis…
A cripple in the mortal world but in dreams he could walk.
Everyone knew of his younger brother—Slade Nubis. Not him.
As if drawn by some unseen force, Vladimir continued walking, his boots crunching against the frostbitten floor.
He stopped before a wall. It was like the others in this place—frozen and ancient.
But here… something was different.
Behind the ice…
a white-haired man lay frozen—eyes closed, limbs still.