Chapter 30: A King’s Respite_Shattered Soul, Boundless World

Asher was awash in pleasure and relief, the weight of war momentarily lifted from his shoulders.

Vorlath had been Annihilated, and the Veinforged had retreated for now.

The battlefield was behind him, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he could simply breathe.

His generals knew it. His soldiers knew it. Sylthara and Aetheros knew it.

But more than anyone else—his queens knew it.

And so, before he could so much as issue an order or even begin to process the enormity of what had happened, Brynn and Vicky had taken him by the arms, guiding him—no, forcing him—down the palace halls.

A flicker of surprise coursed through him.

Vicky?

Normally, she was the last person to initiate something like this. He had grown used to her jealousy, her reluctance to share. And yet, here she was—laughing, teasing, just as eager as Brynn.

It had been a long time since he had seen them. Since he had been with them.

Perhaps that had changed things.

"Where exactly are we going?" Asher asked, though he already knew the answer.

Brynn shot him a wicked grin, her fingers trailing down his chest.

"To bed, my king."

Vicky’s breath was hot against his ear as she murmured, "And you’re not getting any sleep."

They turned a corner, the dim torchlight flickering across the grand paintings lining the palace halls—works of art that Asher hadn’t seen before.

He blinked.

"Wait. When did—?"

Brynn smirked.

"You were gone for a while. I had time to redecorate."

Asher’s gaze landed on a newly commissioned portrait, larger than the others, depicting himself in regal armor, standing over a battlefield. His painted expression was fierce—determined—but something about it felt off.

“…Hey, Brynn,” he said, pointing at it. “Whatever artist you commissioned made me at least three inches shorter. I won’t stand for this.”

Brynn burst into laughter, while Vicky nearly doubled over in amusement.

"Oh no, you’ve been artistically diminished," Brynn teased, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

"Truly a tragedy," Vicky added, her voice mockingly solemn. “Shall we have the painter executed?”

Asher rolled his eyes. “A public trial should suffice.”

They laughed together, the sound echoing down the halls, mixing with the soft murmurs of the palace staff who wisely averted their eyes as the king was herded toward his chambers.

But humor quickly gave way to heat.

Asher inhaled sharply as Brynn pressed her lips against his neck, trailing kisses down his throat, while Vicky’s hands traced the lines of his chestplate, fingers toying with the buckle of his belt.

He let out a soft chuckle, but there was a lingering shock beneath his amusement.

Vicky wasn’t holding back.

There was no hesitation, no jealous scowl, no lingering insecurity. Instead, she was pulling him forward, demanding his attention just as much as Brynn.

His voice was husky as he murmured, “Vicky, you’re… surprising me.”

She paused, her amber eyes flicking up to meet his.

And for just a moment, something unspoken passed between them.

You were gone.

Her fingers tightened slightly on his belt, but then she smirked, tilting her head.

"Well," she said, her voice lower now, sultry, “I had a lot of time to think while you were off getting yourself nearly killed.”

Brynn chuckled against his ear.

"She was so moody in the beginning, Asher—you remember. But after a while, she came around."

Vicky huffed, rolling her eyes.

*"I prefer the term ‘emotionally recalibrating.’”

Asher laughed, basking in the warmth of their touch, the playful energy between them, the sheer joy of being home.

They reached the doors to his chambers, and Brynn pushed them open, the scent of lavender and spiced candles greeting him.

The door shut behind them.

Vicky’s smirk widened.

"Enough talking."

And then—

They claimed him.

It was like making love to fire and ice.

Fiery heat and delicate warmth.

Icy pain and numbing pleasure.

Brynn and Vicky were polar opposites, yet together, they were perfect—one a slow-burning seduction, the other a wild, untamed inferno.

And Asher was lost between them, claimed by both, needed by both.

They knelt before him, bodies bare and glistening, their Aether-bound runes pulsing in unison, glowing hot against flushed skin. The bond between them was stronger than ever—not just between him and them, but between the two of them as well.

Brynn’s long, raven-black hair tumbled down her shoulders, her piercing blue eyes filled with wicked intent. She was unapologetically dominant, taking him in ways she knew unraveled him, pushing herself further each time, only relenting when her lungs burned from lack of air, her cheeks flushed a deep, dazed red.

Vicky was more hesitant—not out of reluctance, but out of uncertainty.

Her light brown hair clung to her damp skin, her green eyes flickering with nerves and desire. She wasn’t used to sharing like this—wasn’t used to being this open with her affection. But the moment Brynn took him fully, her own hesitation shattered.

She leaned in, pressing kisses along his thighs, her hands restless, exploring, teasing, memorizing. She wasn’t competing with Brynn—she was complementing her.

And Asher was losing himself in them both.

Then Brynn was above him, straddling him, moving with the same fluid grace she wielded in battle. She knew exactly how to unmake him, how to leave him helpless beneath her, and she used that knowledge mercilessly.

Vicky watched at first—breathless, awestruck, her fingers teasing her own skin as if to ease the ache building inside her.

But she didn’t stay still for long.

She pulled Asher into a kiss, moaning softly against his lips, pressing her body flush against his, her hands roaming lower, her touch begging for more.

And then—

They switched.

Vicky had been waiting for this, and the moment Asher turned his full attention to her, she melted.

She tried to play it cool, to match Brynn’s confidence, but the moment his hands were on her, the moment she felt the full weight of his passion, she came undone.

She had thought she would feel jealousy. She had thought that watching Brynn take him first would make her resentful.

But it didn’t.

Instead, she felt something deeper.

Relief.

Relief that they could all be together like this. That she no longer had to fight for his love. That she no longer had to hide her own desire for Brynn behind sharp words and fleeting glances.

It was liberating.

And Asher felt it too.

Time lost all meaning.

They didn’t stop after the first time. Or the second.

They claimed each other again and again, shifting, tangling, changing positions, until their bodies felt like they were sculpted into one another.

Brynn took her turn, sitting back, watching with a wicked smile, her fingers busy as she moaned encouragement, urging them both to go further, to take more.

And then she was back in, reclaiming her place, refusing to be outdone.

Hours passed.

The candles burned low, their golden light flickering across slick, sweat-sheened skin. The sheets beneath them twisted and tangled, a testament to their exhaustion and hunger alike.

And still, they didn’t rest.

Even when their movements slowed, even when their breaths came in ragged gasps, even when they had nothing left to give—

They couldn’t stop touching.

Couldn’t stop kissing.

Couldn’t stop pulling each other closer.

When it was finally over, they lay tangled together in the aftermath of pure, blissful ruin, the sheets a wreck around them, their bodies damp with sweat, their limbs wrapped around each other in a way that made it impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

Asher exhaled slowly, his body thrumming with satisfaction, the weight of war, of responsibility, of everything momentarily forgotten.

"…That was incredible," he murmured, his voice hoarse, his lips curling into a lazy grin.

"I never thought I’d experience something like that."

Vicky gave a breathless, satisfied laugh, stretching out beside him, her skin still flushed.

"Yeah, me either… but, damn, that was fun."

Then, to Asher’s shock, Vicky turned—not to him, but to Brynn.

And she kissed her.

Not a teasing kiss. Not just a fleeting brush of lips.

A deep, lingering, loving kiss.

Brynn’s breath hitched, startled—but only for a second.

Then, she sighed into it, returning it just as deeply, her fingers threading through Vicky’s hair.

And Asher—Asher just watched.

Watched as Vicky finally let herself go.

Watched as the last of her walls crumbled.

Watched as the two women he loved most in this world found love in each other, too.

When they finally parted, Vicky turned to Asher, kissing him next, slow and unhurried, as if she wanted to savor every second of what they had shared tonight.

When she pulled back, her voice was softer now, raw with emotion.

"I love you both," she whispered. “I don’t ever want to lose this again.”

Brynn let out a shaky breath—then smiled, her eyes glistening.

"Me too," she whispered. “I was so scared that we’d never have this again. That we’d never… have anything.”

Asher held them both, pressing soft kisses to their foreheads, feeling the steady rise and fall of their chests against his.

For the first time in a long, long time… he felt truly at peace.

But even as he smiled…

He knew this peace would not last.

Asher awoke to warmth, his body tangled between two soft, satisfied figures.

Brynn lay on his left, her long black hair splayed over his chest, the slow rise and fall of her breath steady and peaceful. Vicky was curled against his right side, her arm draped lazily over his stomach, her skin still warm from the night before.

For a rare, fleeting moment, there was silence. No battle horns. No war cries. No weight of duty crushing his shoulders.

Just them.

He exhaled slowly, letting himself sink deeper into the bed, drifting somewhere between sleep and contentment.

And then—

The door swung open.

"Good morning, Master."

The voice was silk and shadow, a sultry melody of reverence and amusement.

Asher barely had time to blink before Sylthara glided into the room, carrying a silver tray laden with fresh fruit, bread, and honeyed tea.

She was… dressed strangely.

The outfit clung too tightly, the fabric cut in a way that was far too intentional. It mimicked the servant attire worn in Aetherhold—but warped.

The top was a tight corset of black lace, leaving her shoulders bare, the deep neckline emphasizing far too much pale, luminescent skin. Long sheer sleeves cascaded down to her wrists, a delicate spider-silk fabric, adorned with obsidian threading that shimmered faintly like trapped starlight.

The skirt? That was barely a thing at all.

Two long, dark panels trailed down her sides, leaving her legs completely exposed, save for lace garters that wrapped around her slender thighs.

Her shadowy wings folded neatly behind her, shifting with the slow, unnatural grace of something not entirely bound by the material world. Her dark grey tail flicked lazily, brushing against the sheer fabric of her own clothing.

And her hair—black and violet starlight—cascaded in waves down her back, flowing like celestial ink dissolving in water.

She was a vision.

A dangerous, wicked vision.

Brynn, who had just begun to stir, let out a half-choked laugh upon seeing her.

"Well. This is new."

Vicky, still groggy, blinked once. Then twice.

Then sat bolt upright.

"What in the actual—"

Sylthara ignored them both, her silver-violet eyes gleaming as she gracefully set the tray down on the bedside table.

She turned her full attention to Asher.

"You must be starving, Master," she purred, easing onto the bed without hesitation. Her fingers ghosted over his bare chest, trailing down toward his stomach.

"Allow me to serve you."

Vicky made a strangled noise.

Brynn actually snorted.

"Oh, this is incredible," Brynn muttered, shaking her head. "You’re really embracing the whole ‘devoted servant’ thing, huh?"

Sylthara smiled, tilting her head as if she didn’t understand what the issue was.

"Of course. It is my duty—and my pleasure—to care for our Master in every way."

She reached for a piece of fruit, breaking it in half with deliberate slowness, the juices dripping down her fingers.

Then she brought one half to Asher’s lips.

"Eat, Master."

Asher, still processing all of this, opened his mouth—

"Sylthara."

The voice echoed through the room, but no one was there.

Vicky flinched. Brynn’s amusement only deepened.

Sylthara, however, merely sighed.

"Aetheros," she drawled, popping the second half of the fruit into her own mouth. "So good of you to join us."

"I am not joining you," Aetheros’s voice snapped. "I am merely witnessing—and I have to say, this is highly inappropriate."

Sylthara smirked, licking the juice from her fingers before leaning into Asher’s side, resting against him as if she belonged there.

"What exactly is inappropriate, Aetheros?" she mused. "The way I serve him? The way I touch him? Or the fact that I can, and you cannot?"

Vicky nearly choked.

Brynn howled with laughter.

"By the gods, Sylthara, I might actually start liking you," Brynn wheezed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

Vicky, meanwhile, looked like she had been forced to drink spoiled milk.

"I still don’t know how I feel about this," she muttered.

"It is not about what you feel," Aetheros interjected. "Sylthara, you are a creature of immense power. A former enemy. You cannot simply prance around the castle dressed like a—"

Sylthara’s smile sharpened.

"Careful now," she warned, her silver-violet eyes flashing. "Choose your words wisely."

A pause.

Then, Aetheros exhaled, her tone clipped but controlled.

"I am saying it is unseemly. You are his bonded servant, yes, but that does not mean you should drape yourself over him in such a way—"

Sylthara rolled her eyes dramatically.

"Oh, please, Aetheros. Don’t be such a prude."

The air grew heavier.

The room seemed to darken at the edges.

Sylthara turned her head just slightly, whispering,

"Remember, he's your Master too. You should be serving him as well."

Aetheros fell silent.

The weight of those words hung in the air, thick with finality.

Vicky crossed her arms, scowling. "That’s still weird."

"You’ll get used to it," Sylthara said sweetly, tracing soft, lazy circles over Asher’s chest.

Brynn, still grinning, swung her legs off the bed.

"Alright, enough fun," she said. "I actually have work to do. Aetheros, I’ll meet you soon to see what you found in the archives."

"See that you do," Aetheros replied, her presence fading like a sigh in the wind.

Asher finally sighed, sitting up.

"Sylthara," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "I need you to start knocking before you enter my chambers."

Sylthara blinked, as if the thought had never occurred to her.

"And," he continued, "you must respect my queens just as much as you respect me. That means making sure my queens are comfortable."

Something flickered across Sylthara’s face—realization, maybe even guilt.

She slowly pulled back, glancing at Brynn and Vicky.

"I see," she murmured. Then, lowering her head slightly, "I apologize. Have I made either of you uncomfortable?"

Brynn grinned. "Not me, but watching you fluster Aetheros was the highlight of my morning."

Sylthara’s lips curled slightly before she turned to Vicky.

Vicky hesitated… then exhaled. "I mean… maybe a little. But…" she sighed, rubbing her face. "Just… maybe tone it down around us, alright?"

Sylthara nodded once. "Understood."

Then, smoothly, she plucked a grape from the tray, popping it between Vicky’s lips before she could protest.

"Eat, Queen."

Brynn burst out laughing again.

Vicky groaned.

Asher just shook his head.

It was going to be a long day.

The palace was alive with movement in Aetherhold. Though the sun had barely risen, the great halls thrummed with the sounds of servants going about their morning routines—folding linens, scrubbing floors, polishing silverware, and ensuring that every chamber gleamed with meticulous care. The scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and honeyed fruits wafted through the corridors, mingling with the faint traces of lavender and candle smoke from the night before.

Asher strode into the grand dining hall, his steps leisurely, his body still pleasantly sore from the night’s activities. He had already enjoyed a private breakfast with Brynn, Vicky, and—of course—Sylthara, who had made quite the spectacle of her “devoted service.” Yet despite that, his appetite had been thoroughly satisfied.

Or so he thought.

The moment he stepped inside, a wave of heat, laughter, and the scent of freshly seared venison hit him. His generals sat gathered at a massive oaken feasting table in the center of the hall, tankards raised, voices boisterous, and plates overflowing with roasted boar, buttered potatoes, thick sausages, and golden loaves of bread.

Jorven, his ever-rowdy commander of the vanguard, spotted him first and grinned through a mouthful of food. "Ah, look who finally decided to join us!"

Asher chuckled, shaking his head. “I already ate.”

Jorven scoffed, tearing a chunk of venison from the bone before pointing at him with it. “That was a private breakfast. This is a warrior’s feast! Sit, eat—hells, you might even make a new friend.”

At that, Asher arched a brow. It was only then that he noticed a new face among his officers. A broad-shouldered, thick-armed brute of a man, with a scarred face and dark eyes that gleamed with sharp intelligence. He sat comfortably among the others, though his posture carried an air of quiet menace. The type of man who didn’t need to boast about the blood on his hands—it was already evident in the way he carried himself.

Asher took a seat, nodding toward him. “And who is this?”

Jorven grinned, clapping the man on the back. “This, my king, is Tormund Blackfang.”

Tormund set down his goblet and met Asher’s gaze. There was no bow, no unnecessary posturing—just a measured nod of respect. "An honor, Your Majesty."

Asher’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Blackfang? I don’t recall that name among my officers.”

Jorven leaned forward, grinning like a man about to share a particularly good war story. “Aye, that’s because he wasn’t one of your officers until recently. I promoted him myself. Field commission.”

Asher’s brows lifted. “You promoted him?”

“Aye,” Jorven said, tearing another bite from his meal. “Had no choice. After Vorlath fell, we had a situation—Veinforged remnants, cornered but desperate. Their commander tried to stage a final push, kill as many of our men as he could before being crushed.” He pointed a greasy knife at Tormund. “This bastard? He ended it before it started. Saw the enemy's hesitation, exploited their fear, and tore through them like a rabid hound.”

Tormund smirked slightly. “A hound? I like to think of myself as more of a butcher.”

Jorven barked a laugh. “Aye, that too! The brutality of the man—Gods, Asher, you should’ve seen it. Didn’t just break their formation. He broke them. Snapped their morale like a rotten branch. By the time we moved in, half of them had already surrendered.”

Asher turned his gaze fully onto Tormund now, studying him. There was no arrogance in the man, no attempt to justify or defend his actions. Just cold, unwavering confidence.

“Strategic and brutal,” Asher murmured. “A dangerous combination.”

Tormund inclined his head. “Effective, Your Majesty. War isn't won by hesitation.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment—then Asher’s lips quirked into a smirk. He reached for a goblet and poured himself a generous measure of mead.

“I suppose I’ll drink to that,” he said.

Jorven let out a victorious laugh, slamming his fist on the table. “HA! See? I knew you’d come around! Now eat, damn you—can’t have a king wasting away in his own hall!”

Tormund smirked. "Besides, Your Majesty, if I may—a king should always be prepared for a second battle. Even if it’s against his own appetite."

Asher chuckled, shaking his head as he took a bite of venison. Perhaps second breakfast wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

The feast carried on, filled with laughter, clanking goblets, and the smell of roasted meats. Asher leaned back in his chair, finally satisfied, letting the warmth of the mead settle into his bones. But as he set his goblet down, he felt Tormund’s eyes on him—studying, measuring.

The man had been silent for the past few minutes, but now he set his own drink aside, his gaze sharp with contemplation.

Finally, he spoke.

"They say you're powerful, Your Majesty."

The words were simple, but the weight behind them was unmistakable.

Jorven chuckled, nudging Tormund’s arm. “Oh, you really want to go down this road, do you?”

Tormund ignored him, his focus locked onto Asher. “I’ve heard the stories. That you’ve slain gods, shattered armies, conquered death itself. That you wield Aether as if you were born from it. And yet—” he tilted his head, voice even, unreadable. “I don’t believe in stories. I believe in what I see.”

The hall grew quieter. Some of the generals exchanged glances, some amused, others wary.

Asher wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin and arched a brow. “And what exactly are you suggesting?”

Tormund grinned, leaning forward. “A spar. Just you and me, steel and skill. Nothing fancy. No armies. No magic. Just a test between warriors.”

Jorven groaned. “You’re a damned fool, Blackfang.”

“I’m a curious fool,” Tormund corrected, smirking. “And curiosity demands answers.”

Asher studied him for a moment. The man wasn’t being disrespectful—just skeptical. He needed proof.

He wasn’t the first.

Asher was used to lords whispering behind their hands, warriors questioning the stories, challengers looking to test their mettle. Tormund wasn’t being insolent—he was simply the type of man who would only trust what he felt for himself.

Asher smirked. “Alright. Let’s settle your curiosity.”

The moment the words left his lips, a new voice filled the room.

“This is a waste of time.”

The air grew heavy.

Aetheros materialized at the head of the hall, folded arms, a scowl etched into their ethereal features.

The once-lively atmosphere dimmed. Some of the generals shifted in their seats, uneasy under Aetheros’s piercing gaze. Even Tormund stiffened, though he masked it well.

Aetheros glared at Tormund with something dangerously close to disgust.

“You stand before a man who has torn the Veil, who has walked between life and death, and you question his strength?” They scoffed, stepping forward, their silver-blue robes whispering against the stone. “You think a mere duel will give you understanding?”

Tormund met Aetheros’s glare evenly. “Aether and sorcery are well and good, but I measure a man by his blade.”

Aetheros let out a short, mirthless laugh. “Then you are blind.”

And then—

A shadow moved.

A presence rippled through the room.

And before anyone could blink—

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Sylthara burst from Asher’s shadow.

The air itself shuddered as she materialized, her dagger pressed to Tormund’s throat.

The room froze.

Tormund didn’t even have time to flinch.

Sylthara’s eyes were no longer their usual shifting blend of green and blue.

They were pure crimson.

Rage billowed off her in waves.

Aether pulsed in the air, thick with malice. The glow of her dagger shimmered dangerously, a hair's breadth away from piercing flesh.

Tormund’s fingers twitched toward his weapon, but he stopped himself. He knew if he moved, she would end him before he had the chance to blink.

Sylthara’s voice was a whisper of death.

"How dare you."

The words slithered from her lips, filled with a venom so potent it made even the most hardened men at the table shudder.

Jorven stiffened, hand on his sword. "Sylthara—"

She didn’t even acknowledge him.

Her gaze was locked onto Tormund, burning with something deeper than mere rage.

Tormund held his ground, but there was no mistaking the tension in his jaw.

"Sylthara," Asher said, his tone steady.

She didn’t move.

Her breathing was sharp, controlled, dangerous.

The red in her eyes did not fade.

Asher slowly rose to his feet, stepping toward her.

"Sylthara," he repeated, softer this time. "That’s enough."

She shuddered.

Her grip on the dagger tightened.

"Asher," she murmured, voice laced with something desperate, something dangerous.

His hand touched her shoulder. Firm, grounding.

A slow inhale.

A pause.

And then—

The crimson bled from her irises, fading back into their usual swirling blend of green and blue.

Her breath hitched.

She blinked—as if suddenly realizing where she was, what she was doing.

Slowly, she withdrew the dagger.

The room remained deathly silent.

Tormund exhaled, relaxing his posture—but he did not look away from her.

Sylthara swallowed hard, and when she finally turned to face Asher, her expression was unreadable.

Asher held her gaze.

No anger. No disappointment.

Just quiet understanding.

She clenched her jaw, looking away.

"...Forgive me, Master."

Asher’s voice was calm. "We will talk about it later."

Another pause.

Then she nodded, stepping back, vanishing back into the shadows at his feet.

The room remained frozen for a few moments longer—until Jorven let out a low, uneasy laugh.

“Well,” he muttered, rubbing his neck. “That was exciting.”

Tormund was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he turned back to Asher.

His lips twitched into a smirk.

“...I really need to fight you now.”

The hall had long since emptied.

What had once been a grand feast had now turned into something primal, something ancient. The kind of test that only warriors understood—a battle of bodies, of skill, of endurance.

Asher and Tormund stood alone in the training pit, the torches casting long shadows over the ring of stone. The onlookers—Jorven, the generals, even Aetheros—watched in silence from the edges of the pit, the weight of the moment pressing down like a storm waiting to break.

Tormund rolled his shoulders, cracking his knuckles.

"No blades. No armor. No magic." His lips curled into a grin. "Just fists, Your Majesty."

Asher smirked, stepping forward, his muscles loose, his stance relaxed. "That works for me."

And then—

The fight began.

Tormund lunged, fast for a man of his size, his fists swinging with brutal efficiency. He wasn’t wild—he was precise, calculated.

Asher sidestepped effortlessly, letting the punch graze past his jaw by mere inches. He didn’t counter. Not yet.

Tormund snarled, his next strike coming even faster—

Asher ducked. His movements were fluid, effortless. A predator at play.

Tormund growled in frustration and came again, his fists a flurry of hammering blows, each one carrying the weight of a mountain.

Asher dodged them all.

He was smiling.

A thrill ran through him. Gods, it had been too long since he’d had a fight like this. A real fight.

Tormund was strong. Savage. He fought like a man who had spent his life in war, who had torn through armies, broken men with his bare hands.

And yet—

He was already breathing harder.

Asher wasn’t.

Tormund clenched his teeth and lunged again, aiming a brutal knee for Asher’s ribs—

This time, Asher caught it.

His grip was like iron, unmovable.

Tormund’s eyes widened.

Asher twisted.

With a single fluid motion, he sent the massive man crashing to the ground, the impact shaking the stone beneath them.

Tormund grunted, rolling back to his feet, panting. But the first trace of doubt flickered in his eyes.

He didn’t understand.

Asher wasn’t even tired.

Tormund came again, throwing everything he had left. His fists were like boulders, his knees like battering rams.

Asher met him this time.

A fist slammed into Asher’s ribs. He didn’t even flinch.

Tormund snarled and aimed a hook at his jaw.

Asher tilted his head at the last second—barely. The fist whiffed past his face.

Tormund was slowing.

Asher was not.

He grinned, rolling his shoulders. “That all you’ve got?”

Tormund roared and swung again—

Asher caught his wrist.

And for the first time—he let a fraction of his strength show.

Tormund gasped.

His muscles seized.

His very essence shuddered.

And then—the truth was revealed.

The void and Aether inside Asher churned, spiraling endlessly, feeding into one another.

A never-ending vortex of opposing forces, each one desperate to consume the other. An infinite pull.

Magic bled from the air into Asher’s core, siphoned away by the force within him. He did nothing to draw it in— it was simply the nature of what he was.

It had always been there.

The unstoppable consumption of the Void.

The endless expansion of Aether.

Two opposites, forever spiraling.

Tormund felt it.

He wasn’t just fighting a man. He was fighting something bottomless.

Something that shouldn’t exist.

Tormund’s breath hitched.

His legs shook. His body screamed at him to run.

But before he could process it—

Asher struck.

A single, clean blow.

His fist slammed into Tormund’s gut—not even at full force, but enough.

The air rushed from Tormund’s lungs. His knees buckled.

And then he collapsed.

The pit was silent.

Jorven let out a low whistle. "Well… shit."

Tormund was on his hands and knees, gasping for breath. He stared at the ground, as if trying to understand what had just happened.

Asher crouched beside him, still grinning.

"Do you believe the stories now?"

Tormund let out a breathless laugh. He looked up at Asher with something new in his eyes. Respect.

And, perhaps, just a little bit of fear.

“…Yeah,” he rasped. “I think I do.”

The training grounds were silent as Tormund hit the dirt, gasping for air. Sweat dripped from his brow, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged breaths.

Asher stood over him, barely winded, rolling his shoulders as if the fight had been nothing more than a warm-up. His smirk was easy, relaxed—but his eyes gleamed with something dangerous.

Tormund, still kneeling, let out a low, breathless laugh. "Alright… I see it now."

Jorven grinned, clapping loudly. "Well, Blackfang? Still think he’s just a legend?"

Tormund shook his head, grinning despite the pain. "No. He’s real."

Asher extended a hand, pulling Tormund to his feet. "Good fight."

Tormund exhaled, shaking his head. "For you, maybe."

Asher laughed, stretching his arms before turning to the others. "Now, since I’ve had my fun… it’s only fair Sylthara gets hers."

At the mention of her name, Sylthara emerged from the shadows, her mismatched eyes flashing. She had been watching the fight from a distance, leaning lazily against a post, but now, her gaze turned sharp.

"Indeed," she purred. "I’ve been waiting."

Brynn wiped the sweat from her brow and arched a brow. "For what, exactly?"

Sylthara smirked. "To test my queens, of course."

Vicky folded her arms. "You’re joking."

Sylthara’s eyes gleamed with amusement. "Am I?"

Brynn grinned, cracking her knuckles. "Alright then. Let’s see what you’ve got, shadow-witch."

Vicky sighed but rolled her shoulders. "Fine. But don’t start crying when we break that smug little smirk off your face."

Sylthara only laughed, stepping onto the training grounds, her daggers flashing in the light.

Asher, still grinning from his fight, took a seat on the sidelines. "Now this, I have to see."

Aetheros groaned. "This is undignified."

The duel was set.

The training grounds buzzed with anticipation as Sylthara faced off against Brynn and Vicky, her expression brimming with confidence. The air between them was charged, a clash of power and precision waiting to unfold.

Asher sat on the sidelines, arms resting lazily over the back of the bench, watching with keen amusement. He had just finished his own fight with Tormund, and now, it was time for someone else to get bruised.

Sylthara rolled her shoulders, twirling her daggers effortlessly in her hands. "Two against one," she mused, her silver-violet eyes gleaming. "Hardly seems fair."

Brynn cracked her knuckles. "You could always surrender."

Vicky smirked, loosening her stance. "Or run. I hear shadows are good at that."

Sylthara's lips curved into a slow, wicked smile. "Oh, sweet queens… you mistake me for something human."

Then—

She vanished.

The battle erupted in a blur of movement.

Brynn’s first attack came like a warhammer. She lunged, swinging a massive downward punch—fast, brutal, overwhelming.

Sylthara sidestepped. Effortlessly. As if she had seen it coming before it even began.

Vicky was already in motion, twisting behind Sylthara, aiming a well-placed kick at her ribs.

Sylthara moved like liquid shadow. She arched backward, bending in a way that looked almost unnatural, letting Vicky’s kick swipe through empty air.

Then, without hesitation, she countered.

Her dagger flicked out, the flat of the blade tapping Vicky’s stomach before she could react.

Vicky grunted, stumbling back. "Damn it, she’s fast!"

Brynn roared and came again, throwing a vicious hook. A hit like that would break bones.

Sylthara didn’t block. She didn’t need to.

Instead—she ducked, swept her leg out, and sent Brynn crashing to the dirt.

The crowd gasped.

Jorven let out a low whistle. "Well, shit."

Brynn rolled back up, grinning despite the dirt on her face. "Alright, shadow-witch. Let’s see you dodge this."

She charged.

This time, Vicky moved with her.

The two queens attacked in perfect sync.

Brynn was raw power, her punches and kicks coming with bone-crushing force.

Vicky was finesse, adaptability, striking from angles Sylthara shouldn’t have been able to dodge.

But—she did.

Sylthara weaved between them, her movements impossibly smooth.

A twist, a pivot, a sidestep—every attack missed by inches.

She wasn’t just fighting them.

She was playing.

And every time she slipped away, her gaze flicked to Asher—just for a second.

Brynn and Vicky were breathing harder now, frustration seeping into their stances.

Sylthara?

She wasn’t even winded.

Asher noticed.

And so did she.

She smiled at him, as if waiting for his approval.

Then, finally—she ended it.

Vicky lunged—Sylthara turned her momentum against her.

A flick of her wrist—Vicky’s feet were swept from under her. She hit the dirt hard, groaning.

Brynn saw her chance—she threw one last, devastating strike.

Sylthara caught her wrist mid-air.

A pause.

Then—she twisted, flipping Brynn onto her back.

Silence.

It was over.

Sylthara stood victorious, her daggers twirling once before vanishing into her sleeves.

Brynn and Vicky lay in the dirt, panting, sweat dripping from their brows.

Jorven let out a bark of laughter. "Veinforged General to obedient puppy—what a change!"

The soldiers roared with laughter.

Asher smirked, watching as Sylthara turned to him.

Her eyes gleamed with something expectant.

Approval. Praise.

She wanted it from him.

She took three quick steps forward—then dropped to her knees before him.

The crowd went silent.

Asher arched a brow as she pressed her forehead to his knee, her voice low.

"Did I do well, Master?"

His hand instinctively moved to her head. He ran his fingers through her soft, silken hair, scratching lightly at her scalp.

Sylthara exhaled, eyes fluttering shut.

Aetheros made a deep, exasperated sound. "Utterly disgraceful."

But their gaze lingered. Aetheros’s arms were crossed, but there was a subtle tension to their stance.

Something unreadable.

Something jealous.

Brynn groaned from the ground. "You have got to be kidding me."

Vicky laughed, still flat on her back. "First, she tries to kill us. Now, she’s getting head pats?"

Sylthara smirked against Asher’s knee.

"Perhaps if you two fought better, you’d get them too."

Brynn threw a handful of dirt at her.

Jorven laughed so hard he nearly fell over.

Asher?

He just kept smiling.

Laughter still echoed across the training grounds as Brynn dusted herself off, grumbling about Sylthara’s newfound smugness. Vicky stretched, wincing from the fight, while Sylthara remained exactly where she wanted to be—kneeling at Asher’s feet, eyes closed, enjoying every second of his touch.

Aetheros, of course, was simmering with frustration.

"Enough of this nonsense," they finally snapped, their patience reaching its limit. "Asher, there are far more pressing matters than indulging your pet's… behavior."

Sylthara's lips twitched in amusement at the word pet, but she said nothing. Instead, she nuzzled against Asher’s knee one last time before rising to her feet, stretching lazily.

Asher sighed, removing his hand from her hair.

"You’re right," he said, standing. The playful glint in his eyes remained, but his tone carried something firmer now. "Time to remind my dear lords that I haven’t forgotten about them."

Brynn groaned dramatically. "You should have let me knock you out. Then you could’ve claimed unconsciousness and skipped the meeting entirely."

Vicky snorted. "Wouldn't have worked. Aetheros would have just dragged his limp body into the council chamber."

Aetheros lifted their chin. "Finally, someone understands my efficiency."

Asher smirked, stretching his arms. "Let’s get this over with."

With that, the warriors left the training grounds behind—and stepped back into the world of politics.

The council chamber hummed with quiet energy, the weight of Asher’s decision settling over the gathered nobles, generals, and scholars.

Maps lay sprawled across the long oak table, covered in parchment, sigils, and diplomatic missives waiting for his seal.

At the head of it all, Asher sat, one leg draped over the arm of his chair, a goblet of dark wine swirling in his grip. His easy smirk belied the sharp focus in his eyes. He had listened. He had let them talk. But now?

Now, it was his turn to speak.

He set the goblet down and leaned forward, his fingers tapping against the table.

"We're done thinking small."

Silence rippled through the chamber.

Even Aetheros, ever composed, tilted their head slightly in curiosity.

Asher let his gaze sweep the room before he continued.

"This kingdom isn’t just a fortress. It’s a beacon." His voice was calm, measured, yet carrying the unmistakable weight of a decree. "The world is shattered. Empires have fallen, kings cling to dying thrones, and war has left entire lands in ruin. But we? We are building something new."

Jorven grinned, already liking where this was going. "Aetherhold stands tall."

"Exactly." Asher leaned back. "And it’s time the world knew it."

THE GREAT DIPLOMATIC SUMMONS

He gestured to the map, his fingers brushing over the scattered kingdoms, the fractured realms, the isolated strongholds of power.

"We send envoys. Diplomatic delegations to every kingdom, every tribe, every forgotten people who still call this land home. We offer them something no one else can."

A noble hesitated. "Which is…?"

Asher’s smirk sharpened. "A future."

The council room stilled.

He tapped the parchment before him. "We don't just expand by taking land. We expand by giving them a reason to want to join us."

The nobles and generals exchanged glances.

Aetheros folded their arms. "And if they refuse?"

Asher shrugged. "Then they refuse. But if they’re smart, they’ll see what we’re offering."

Jorven chuckled. "And if they’re not smart?"

Asher grinned. "Then they won’t be a problem for very long."

Laughter rippled through the chamber, but the message was clear.

This was not conquest through war. This was conquest through inevitability.

The first diplomatic missives were already being written, messengers preparing their banners, riders readying their mounts.

But two factions required special attention.

1. THE KHARTHAI DOMINION – THE STONEBORN OF THE DEEP

* The Kharthai were an ancient race of obsidian-skinned, four-armed giants who lived beneath the shattered mountains of Kordath.

* They were legendary craftsmen, miners, and warriors, their subterranean strongholds untouched by the wars above.

* They had never bent the knee to any kingdom. Not through fear. But through disinterest.

* Asher would change that.

"Send word to the Kharthai Dominion," Asher ordered, his voice firm. "Tell them that Aetherhold is rising. That the age of isolated kingdoms is ending. If they join us, their craftsmanship will shape the world itself. If they remain alone? The world will pass them by."

Aetheros raised a brow. "You expect them to listen?"

"I expect them to be curious," Asher corrected. "And curiosity is all we need."

2. THE VIRIDIAL ENCLAVE – THE ETERNAL GROVEKEEPERS

* The Viridial were an ancient race of plantlike beings, part humanoid, part living forest.

* Their elders, known as Verdant Speakers, were said to commune with the land itself.

* They had withdrawn deep into their sacred groves after the wars, refusing to acknowledge mortal rulers.

"The Viridial have no love for kingdoms," one of the nobles pointed out. "They see themselves as caretakers, not conquerors."

"Then we speak their language," Asher said smoothly. "We tell them the truth: Aetherhold is not a kingdom of tyrants—it is a kingdom of builders. And the world is dying."

His fingers drummed against the table.

"They either help us rebuild it… or they watch it burn."

With the envoys dispatched, Asher turned to the next phase of his expansion.

"Begin construction. Roads, homes, fortifications—expand the city outward. If moats and walls are needed, build them."

The construction foreman nodded sharply. "Understood, Your Majesty."

And finally—the last piece.

A single parchment remained. The funding for the Aetheric College.

Brynn had fought for it.

She had stood before the greatest scholars in the land, arguing for the two greatest advancements of their time.

* Teleportation – Aetheric Gates that could connect the kingdom in ways never seen before.

* Golem-crafting – An army that did not need food, rest, or mercy.

Asher glanced at Aetheros, who watched him carefully. Waiting.

He dipped the quill in ink.

Jorven grinned, raising his goblet.

"Well then. Roads, cities, magic colleges—sounds like an empire in the making."

Asher took the goblet in one hand, his smile unreadable.

"No," he said simply.

"It already is one."

The council chamber had emptied. The weight of decisions made still lingered in the air, the scent of parchment and candle smoke settling in the vast room. The kingdom was in motion—envoys dispatched, roads to be built, alliances to be forged.

And yet, Aetheros did not move.

Asher noticed.

They stood by the tall arched window, staring out at Aetherhold’s growing skyline, the wind rustling their silver-blue robes. Their posture was rigid, their hands clasped tightly behind their back.

Something was wrong.

Asher sighed, stepping toward them. "Alright, what is it?"

Aetheros didn’t look at him. "You are too careless."

Here we go.

Asher leaned against the table, crossing his arms. "That’s not new. You’re going to have to be more specific."

Aetheros’s jaw tightened. "You let your queens wrestle like common soldiers. You let that shadow-woman throw herself at your feet like some adoring pet. And instead of maintaining the dignity of a ruler, you—"

"—treat people like people?" Asher interrupted, his tone half-amused, half-exasperated.

Aetheros finally turned, their piercing gaze locking onto his.

"You are a king."

"I’m also Asher."

Silence stretched between them.

For once, Aetheros wasn’t arguing out of duty or frustration. There was something else beneath their words. Something unspoken.

Worry.

Jealousy.

Fear.

Asher saw it now.

He stepped closer, reaching out—but Aetheros stepped back.

That hesitation cut deeper than any blade.

Asher let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "You think I’m going to forget you."

Aetheros’s expression remained unreadable, but that slight shift—the tightening of their fingers, the small drop in their shoulders—was all the confirmation he needed.

Sylthara.

Aetheros had never said it outright. Never complained. Never accused. But Asher knew her better than anyone.

And Aetheros had been watching. Watching Sylthara grow closer to him. Watching her bask in his touch, his attention.

They were afraid of losing their place.

And Asher would not let them carry that fear alone.

And yet, Aetheros did not move.

Asher noticed.

They stood by the tall arched window, staring out at Aetherhold’s growing skyline, the wind rustling their silver-blue robes. Their posture was rigid, their hands clasped tightly behind their back.

Something was wrong.

Asher sighed, stepping toward them. "Alright, what is it?"

Aetheros didn’t look at him. "You are too careless."

Here we go.

Asher leaned against the table, crossing his arms. "That’s not new. You’re going to have to be more specific."

"—treat people like people?" Asher interrupted, his tone half-amused, half-exasperated.

Aetheros finally turned, their piercing gaze locking onto his.

"You are a king."

"I’m also Asher."

Silence stretched between them.

For once, Aetheros wasn’t arguing out of duty or frustration. There was something else beneath their words. Something unspoken.

Worry.

Jealousy.

Fear.

Asher saw it now.

He stepped closer, reaching out—but Aetheros stepped back.

That hesitation cut deeper than any blade.

Asher let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "You think I’m going to forget you."

Aetheros’s expression remained unreadable, but that slight shift—the tightening of her fingers, the small drop in her shoulders—was all the confirmation he needed.

Sylthara.

Aetheros had never said it outright. Never complained. Never accused. But Asher knew them better than anyone.

And Aetheros had been watching. Watching Sylthara grow closer to him. Watching her bask in his touch, his attention.

They were afraid of losing their place.

And Asher would not let them carry that fear alone.

Before Aetheros could move away again, Asher closed the distance.

He wrapped his arms around them and pulled them close.

Aetheros stiffened—completely unprepared for the embrace. Their breath hitched, their hands hovering awkwardly at their sides, as if unsure where to put them.

Asher held them tighter.

"Stop running from me." His voice was low, firm, but achingly gentle.

Slowly—**so slowly—**Aetheros let their arms come up, their fingers clutching lightly at his back.

Asher felt them exhale against his shoulder.

"You’re everything to me," he murmured. "That isn’t changing. That won’t ever change."

Aetheros shuddered against him.

His hand slid up, fingers threading through their soft, silver hair. He began to stroke lightly, scratching gently at their scalp—just like he had done to Sylthara earlier.

Aetheros let out the softest, most unintentional sigh.

Asher grinned against their temple. "See? I knew you liked that."

Aetheros immediately stiffened. "I do not."

"Mmhmm."

"...This is undignified."

"Then why haven’t you pulled away?"

Silence.

Asher chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to their cheek.

Aetheros froze completely.

When Asher pulled back, they were staring at him. Eyes wide, lips parted just slightly in what could only be pure shock.

He smirked. "I love you, you know."

Aetheros blinked. Once. Twice.

Asher tilted his head. "Did I break you?"

Aetheros immediately turned away, clearing their throat. "You are insufferable."

But their ears were burning red.

Asher laughed. "Good. I’d hate to be boring."

The private dining hall was warm, alive with laughter and the rich scent of spiced meats and honeyed wine.

For once, there was no talk of war. No politics, no council meetings, no looming battles. Just friends, drinking, feasting, and existing in a rare moment of peace.

Brynn and Vicky had insisted on the gathering, demanding that Asher and his closest companions put aside their burdens—just for one night.

The long table was covered in dishes piled high with roasted venison, golden-brown pheasants, thick loaves of bread, and endless goblets of mead and wine. Candles flickered in their iron sconces, casting warm light over the gathered faces.

Jorven was already halfway through a drunken tale, one arm flailing dramatically as he described some questionable encounter he’d had with a pair of noblewomen in the eastern isles.

Tormund, still a little sore from his fight with Asher earlier, had given up trying to argue with him and was instead downing his weight in ale.

Aetheros sat rigid at first, their fingers curled around a goblet of deep red wine, glaring at it as if it were a personal offense.

Brynn grinned, nudging Asher. "We’re getting them drunk tonight. Just watch."

Vicky smirked, raising her own glass. "Aetheros, if you don’t drink, we’ll assume you can’t hold your liquor."

Aetheros huffed. "Ridiculous." But they took a tentative sip.

Sylthara, lounging lazily beside Asher, grinned like a predator. "Oh, this is going to be fun."

And it was.