After the physician had done checking his vitals, muttering strange words under his breath as he packed away silver instruments reeking of herbs and something metallic, the old man slinked away to a shadowed corner of the room, whispering with Rowan in hushed tones.
Asher, now left alone in the eerie silence of the grand chamber, slowly pulled himself from the silk-draped bed. His limbs were weak, and his head throbbed as if a thousand bees buzzed within it. The marble floor beneath his bare feet was cold, almost biting, and each step toward the mirror felt like dragging a chain behind him.
Standing before the tall, oval mirror framed with thorns of black steel, he stared into his reflection—almost unwilling to believe what he saw. He looked the same, yet entirely foreign. His skin had a faint glow to it, unnatural and luminous like polished moonstone. His once pale lips now seemed redder, richer. His long silver hair—usually messy and disheveled—now cascaded down in soft waves, smooth and glistening like strands of molten platinum.
He tilted his head, and that was when he saw it.
A golden mark pulsed like a living creature at the side of his neck, shaped like an ancient mark, and it glowed softly with an ominous light. It throbbed with life, as if following him. Asher's breath caught in his throat. He reached up and brushed his fingers over it—but it was warm, like a brand beneath his skin.
"What the hell...?" he muttered.
Then he saw it—out of the corner of his eye. A thick mist, grayish-white, slithered across the floor like a silent snake. It crawled upward, wrapping the corners of the room in a chilling fog.
He turned around sharply.
Nothing.
The room was pristine, the velvet drapes untouched, the carved pillars still as statues. But the air was wrong. It felt dense. Watchful. He turned back to the mirror. The mist was gone. His reflection remained.
Was he hallucinating? Or was something—someone—playing with his mind?
Then Rowan's voice pierced the stillness.
"Asher dear, follow me to the cabinet meeting. It's time I introduce my soon-to-be bride," Rowan announced as he strutted into the room, his smile smug, his tone mocking.
Asher didn't move. "I'm not leaving this room, Rowan. Not until I understand what's happening to me. This isn't right—none of this is right."
The room grew colder.
Rowan's smile faded into something darker—his face twisting into a sardonic grin that made Asher's shoulders sink involuntarily. Then his voice dropped, low and cruel.
"You there," he barked at the guards stationed at the door. "Bring me Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. I think a good beheading will remind this boy what happens when he dares defy his king."
Asher's breath hitched. His eyes widened in horror.
"No...you wouldn't—" he began.
But before the words could form completely, one of the guards whispered something into Rowan's ear. Asher took a step forward, ready to beg, but Rowan raised a single hand, silencing him.
"Where are they?" Rowan asked coldly.
Asher dropped to his knees.
"Please," he begged, the tears welling in his eyes despite the fire of anger inside him. "They don't deserve this. Forgive me. I'll do what you want—just leave them out of it."
Rowan tilted his head, looking down on him as though he were nothing more than an amusing pet.
"So dramatic, aren't you?" he chuckled, turning away. "You beg now, but you were so bold before."
Asher's heart pounded in his chest as Rowan waved him forward. Unable to fight without risking more blood, Asher followed, his emerald and black robe flowing behind him like spilled ink. It was soft and intricately designed, embroidered with golden vines and moon symbols, its high collar wrapping around his neck. The silk hugged his frame in the worst ways, clinging to his waist and accentuating his curves—something Rowan had chosen deliberately, to degrade him.
His bare chest peeked through the thin opening of the robe. It was ceremonial, something meant for a mate... not something to be worn in the presence of strangers. He felt exposed, violated. Yet he walked behind Rowan, knowing what awaited would be far worse.
When they arrived at the door to the chamber, Rowan turned and smiled wickedly. Without shame, he reached out and slid his hand down Asher's side, gripping his butt firmly.
Asher flinched.
His breath caught in his throat, his muscles tensing at the disgusting touch. The guards didn't flinch. They didn't dare. But Asher saw the craving looks mixed with horniness in one of their eyes—a flicker of lust before it was masked again.
"Stop it, Rowan. This isn't right. People are watching. It's degrading."
Rowan laughed softly, sinisterly. "Oh, Asher... In our culture, it's an honor to share one's mate. With permission from the king, of course."
Asher's eyes widened.
Before he could say another word, Rowan's other hand yanked up the robe, tearing away the thin undergarments beneath, exposing him fully from behind.
A gasp escaped Asher. "No...no, please—"
"Don't be shy. You're beautiful, and soon you'll be mine entirely," Rowan whispered.
Shame washed over Asher. His dignity shattered, and every eye on him felt like knives. He turned his face away, his cheeks burning with rage and humiliation.
"I won't accept this!" he shouted suddenly, stepping back. "Not like this. You can't own me like a pet."
Rowan's expression shifted. The lust vanished. In its place was rage—pure and unfiltered. Something began to glow in his hand: a green, scaly stone. The aura around him shifted, turned sinister.
And then, without a word, the doors to the chamber swung open.
Two people were dragged in.
A woman with a horrid scar slicing across her once-beautiful face. A man with blood on his shirt and chains dragging at his wrists.
Asher's knees buckled.
"Mom? Dad?!"
Rowan stepped forward, smiling darkly. "Still feeling righteous, Asher?"
"No... Rowan—"
But the sword was already in his hand.
And in a single motion, he plunged it through Hayley Anderson's skull, splitting it clean. Her head hit the floor with a dull thud. Blood spread like a river of sin.
Asher screamed. The pain that tore through him was worse than anything he'd known.
He fell to his knees, trembling, broken.
"No... no, this can't be real," he muttered, eyes locked on the blood pooling near his knees.
Then he saw it—the mist, again. It slithered into the room like death, coating the air.
Asher's eyes lit up.
"You failed, Lamia..." he whispered.
Rowan turned, confused.
In one swift motion, Asher raised his hands and gripped Rowan's throat. Power surged from his palms. Rowan gasped and began to vomit blood.
"You don't get to defile me and walk away."
Rowan screamed as golden light erupted from Asher's hands. A blinding aura wrapped around them, forming a golden thread of divine energy.
"This is for Ezekiel. And for underestimating a divine being."
Asher's voice was thunder.
Then—BOOM.
The explosion rocked the world, a wave of divine power flattening everything. And then—silence.
When Asher woke up, his body floated, weightless. He was somewhere else.
And then—he opened his eyes.
Ava stood before him, her shirt soaked in blood, her eyes tired but alive.
"You're back," she said, smiling faintly. "The others didn't make it... but you did."
Asher blinked. "What happened to you?"
Ava looked into the distance, bitter.
"Humanity is crumbling. I'll tell you everything. But first—we help the others. Lamia is winning. We don't have time."
Asher hugged her, his body shaking.
"I thought it was real. I thought he really..."
"I know. I know." Ava gripped him tighter. "But you're free now."
Asher nodded, wiping his tears. "Let's finish this."
And as they turned away, Ava whispered, "Let me tell you how I survived the stone chamber... and the gods who wanted me dead."