Asher sat quietly on the bed after the confrontation, the pain from Rowan's slap still radiating through his cheek and lips. Blood trickled down the corner of his mouth, and yet his spirit remained unbroken. His fists trembled, not with fear—but with fury.
Rowan had stormed out of the room after his declaration, his cold threat lingering in the air like poison.
Minutes passed in silence, and then the door creaked open once more.
A tall, stoic woman with brunnet hair braided into a crown stepped inside. She didn't speak, only set down a change of clothes beside Asher—an intricate outfit composed of velvet, silk, and satin, tailored perfectly to his lean but elegant frame. Without saying a word, she bowed slightly and left, closing the door with a soft click.
Asher stood, wincing slightly. He wiped the blood off with the back of his hand and stared at the outfit. It was royal—a deep midnight-blue doublet embroidered with silver threads forming oceanic patterns and seafaring emblems. The cuffs were flared and lined with pale, almost ethereal pearls. The matching trousers were snug and accentuated his long legs, while the cloak draped over his shoulders like a whisper of moonlight, shimmering with hidden runes. Even the boots were carved from black leather, polished to perfection with silver buckles.
He dressed slowly, letting his anger simmer beneath his skin. If Rowan wanted a show, then he'd give him one.
When he emerged from the chamber, a servant silently led him down a spiraling, bioluminescent staircase. The deeper they descended, the more he noticed the otherworldly glow of the walls, the carved siren heads watching him from above, water flowing through crystal veins embedded in the stone.
The dining room was enormous, gothic in structure, illuminated with floating candles suspended in globes of water. At the long obsidian table sat Rowan, clad in royal black and red, looking every bit the sovereign prince he claimed to be.
He motioned for Asher to sit beside him.
"Asher," Rowan said, his voice cold but tinged with something unreadable, "You'll dine with me. Tonight. No scenes. No drama. Just grace."
Asher said nothing. He walked over, sat down, and folded his hands elegantly over the silverware. The servants poured seafoam-colored wine into his crystal goblet, while a plate of exotic food—seared eel with glowing herbs, golden kelp crisps, and roasted moon-fruit—was placed before him.
He picked up his fork and knife and began to eat with ease. Graceful, slow, and calculated.
He was from Silver Hill. Trained in etiquette and bred among elites. He knew how to carry himself—even in the presence of monsters.
Rowan's gaze, though feigned to be casual, never left Asher.
He watched the way Asher's lips touched the rim of the goblet. The way his emerald eyes shimmered in the candlelight. His silver hair, now tucked beneath a dark wig, still seemed to glow faintly. Rowan's fingers curled around his own goblet, his throat dry.
He had never felt like this before.
"You wear royalty well," Rowan muttered.
"I'm not here to play royal dress-up," Asher replied, his voice soft but laced with venom.
Just as Rowan was about to respond, a knock echoed against the coral-encrusted doors.
Rowan's face shifted instantly, becoming sharp and calculated.
"Stay seated," he ordered coldly. "Do not rise. Do not speak. No matter what."
Asher was about to argue when he noticed it—movement in the shadows outside the windows. Twisted silhouettes, swimming along the currents, some gliding against the glass with talon-like claws.
Sea creatures. Not sirens.
Worse.
He obeyed, sitting still as two men entered the room.
They were both tall, draped in salt-ridden cloaks and robes woven from abyssal threads. Their skin was pale as bone, and their eyes were clouded like those long drowned. One held a trident etched with ancient markings; the other had a glass orb in his skeletal hand.
Their eyes landed on Asher immediately.
"Who's the boy?" one asked, his voice like gravel sinking in mud.
"A servant," Rowan said with fake calmness. "Dumb. Loyal. Mute."
Asher blinked but lowered his gaze, playing the part.
The two men stared a bit longer, suspicious.
"He's pretty. Almost divine." The one with the orb chuckled. "Your taste has improved, Prince Rowan."
Rowan's jaw flexed. "He's none of your concern. Speak of the ritual."
They turned serious.
"It is time," one said. "The Torch of Light has been located. Only a descendant of the Sea Crown can take it. That is you. The stars align in three days. You must be ready."
Rowan's eyes flickered to Asher, a dangerous gleam forming.
"I'll be ready."
The men nodded. "Good. For if you fail, the Shadow Trench will awaken—and not even the Deep Ones will protect your kin."
They left as suddenly as they arrived, dragging the cold of the deep with them.
Silence reigned once more.
Rowan slumped slightly, tension leaving his body.
Asher remained seated, still holding his goblet.
"You lied to them," he finally said.
"I protected you," Rowan replied.
"I don't need your protection."
Rowan leaned close, his voice dangerously low. "You will. Once they discover what you are… they will feed on your soul. Piece by piece."
Their eyes met—intense, unrelenting.
And though Asher hated it, a part of him shivered not in fear—but in awareness.
Rowan was the predator and him was a valuable piece in the game in which after it's use will be disposed off.
The moment the feast ended, the guests dispersed like shadows melting into darkness. Servants scurried about, clearing the silverware and enchanted goblets, but Rowan didn't move from his seat. He simply watched Asher rise, still composed, still beautifully calm despite the boiling storm in his eyes.
Asher turned to leave, his footsteps light, his shoulders held with unnatural poise.
"You didn't touch your wine," Rowan said behind him.
Asher paused mid-step, then turned, eyes narrowing. "Would you have liked to see me drunk? Easier to devour?"
Rowan's chair scraped as he stood.
"I'd like to see you behave real," he said, voice dark and rich like velvet soaked in blood. "This cold, icy mask… It's not fooling me."
Asher smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "And what do you think the real me looks like?"
Rowan took a step forward. "Scared. Furious. Reckless." Another step. "Wounded."
Asher didn't flinch. "Is that what you want from me? To scream? Beg? Cry?"
Rowan stood inches away now, towering. "No," he said softly. "I want you to understand. There is no escape from me."
Asher's lips parted slightly, but he held his tongue. He wouldn't let Rowan see the cracks forming in his resolve. Not now.
Rowan's hand shot out and grabbed Asher by the wrist. Not harshly, but firmly. The pulse beneath Asher's skin betrayed him—it fluttered like a caged bird.
"You're too perfect," Rowan murmured. "Everything about you is wrong. And yet... so beautifully made. Like a prince carved by a god who hated mercy."
He leaned closer, his breath warm against Asher's neck. "i know you're the divine being but your scent feels so good and distracting especially the strawberry scent it's so maddening."
Asher yanked his hand free. "Let me go."
"You're hiding something from me aren't you," Rowan said darkly.
"And so are you," Asher snapped. "You speak of power, but you think using evil ways to get it will guarantee your success no! it only makes way for your downfall ."
Rowan's expression flickered—anger, amusement, something almost like admiration.
Then he laughed. "Careful, darling. You're dancing on a blade."
"I've lived on blades my entire life," Asher said, stepping back. "The difference is, I know how to bleed without dying."
He turned and walked away before Rowan could reply, his boots echoing like drumbeats in the grand corridor. But once he was out of sight, Asher broke into a run, fleeing through the dimly lit hallways until he reached his chamber.
He slammed the door shut and locked it.