The northern tower had long been condemned—its upper halls gutted by an old fire, its lower passages sealed after the Plague of Virest.
Which made it the perfect place for ghosts to meet.
Ashara moved silently beneath the crumbling arch, hood drawn low, the hem of her cloak whispering against ash-streaked stone. The sconces here had long since rusted. Only moonlight filtered through narrow slits in the wall, pale and cold as silver water.
She passed the old sigil of House Vel Siran carved into the stone: a crown of roses bleeding thorns. Fitting.
Footsteps echoed behind her. Measured. Deliberate. She didn't turn.
"General Ezekiel," she said softly.
The shadows behind her shifted.
From them stepped a tall man clad in dark leathers and chainmail, sword slung across his back. His presence was like a drawn blade—quiet, precise, dangerous.
Ezekiel Rhain had changed little in five years. Same storm-grey eyes. Same crooked nose,
broken in three campaigns. Same low voice that always sounded like a warning.
"I should slit your throat," he said calmly.
Ashara turned, her gaze steady. "You could try."
He stepped closer. "The Ashara I knew died on the pyre."
She raised her sleeve. Beneath it, the skin bore the unmistakable lattice of healed fire scars—faint, but real.
"I burned," she said. "But I didn't die."
He studied her. Unreadable.
Then: "Say something only she would know."
Ashara didn't hesitate. "When I ordered you to poison Lord Karthis, you switched the vial with a sleep draft and told me later I 'wasn't ready to be a killer.' I was furious. You said if I ever wanted blood, I'd better wield the blade myself."
Ezekiel's expression didn't change—but something behind his eyes flickered. Recognition. Memory.
And then… guilt.
He lowered his head. "Ashara."
"You bowed when they sentenced me," she said coldly. "But you didn't speak."
"I couldn't save you," he said quietly. "They said you confessed."
"I never did."
"I know that now." His jaw clenched. "Why come to me first?"
"Because," she said, stepping closer, "I don't know who else is real anymore. The Council. The priests. Kallad…"
A pause.
"You were the only wolf I had," she whispered.
His hand flexed by his side, as if restraining the urge to touch her.
"You died seven days from now," he said. "What's your plan?"
Ashara pulled something from her cloak—a tattered map of the palace's inner tunnels, marked with sigils only three people alive could read.
"I'm going to unbury the traitors before they bury me again."
He looked down at the map. Then up at her.
"I'll follow," he said, "but I'll need proof."
Ashara arched a brow. "Of what?"
"That you're still the Empress I swore to."
She leaned in, voice low. "No, Ezekiel. I'm not."
A pause.
"I'm worse."