Chapter 8: The Next Step
As Asher followed Roan through the winding corridors of the castle, he kept his expression neutral, his eyes fixed ahead. But inwardly, he was focused on every detail, every turn, each unique tapestry or sculpture that marked their path. He would memorize it all, catalog it in his mind. The day might come when he'd need to navigate these halls alone, without Roan's shadow at his back.
He hated the feeling of ignorance. Here, in a world where every gesture, every word carried a depth of meaning he had yet to understand, he was vulnerable. The Judge's comment about his "education" had pricked his pride, though he would never give her the satisfaction of knowing it. He needed to learn more—not just about their etiquette and customs but about how they operated, how they thought, and what weaknesses might lie hidden beneath their facade of strength.
More than anything, he wanted to see if there was a way out of this bond. The Judge's hold over him, her claim of ownership, was a shackle he couldn't bear. There had to be a loophole, some arcane rule or forgotten clause he could exploit. But he couldn't afford to draw Roan's attention to his true intentions. For now, he'd have to keep up appearances.
As they rounded another corner, Roan turned slightly, his expression unreadable. "The library is just ahead, Consort," he said, gesturing toward an ornately carved door at the end of the hall.
Asher gave a small nod, hiding his anticipation. "Thank you, Roan."
Roan opened the door and stepped aside, allowing Asher to enter first. The room was vast, dimly lit by crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling like frozen stars. Rows upon rows of shelves lined the walls, each one packed with leather-bound books that seemed older than any mortal he'd ever known. The scent of ancient paper and ink filled the air, tinged with something earthy and unfamiliar.
He forced himself to keep his movements casual as he walked further inside, though his mind was already racing with the possibilities. His gaze swept over the titles nearest to him, most of which were written in languages he couldn't decipher. But there were others, written in familiar scripts, and he saw hints of histories, philosophies, and—he hoped—possibly even the laws of this strange world.
Roan's calm voice broke the silence. "Is there a particular area you'd like to begin with, sir? I can assist in locating any specific texts."
Asher paused, giving himself a moment to consider. "I'd like to start with your culture," he said smoothly. "Customs, hierarchies, anything that would help me… acclimate."
Roan nodded. "An excellent choice." He gestured toward a section off to the left. "You'll find our histories and cultural texts there. And if you need any assistance in translation, I am at your service."
Asher inclined his head, masking the frustration that simmered beneath his skin. Of course, Roan would stay close, watching every move he made. Any chance of searching for loopholes in his bond would have to wait. But he could still gain something here. If he understood their culture, he'd understand their weaknesses, their biases—anything he could use to his advantage.
He moved toward the indicated shelves, scanning the spines of the books with feigned disinterest. But he read each title, committing it to memory, letting his fingers trail along the edges as he catalogued every option for future study. He would find a way to turn this situation to his favor, to learn everything he needed to know.
And, perhaps one day, to free himself entirely.
Asher selected a few choice volumes from the shelves, balancing them in a small stack: histories, cultural texts, and a thick book on hierarchy that had caught his eye. He settled into a high-backed chair, laying out his selections before him. With a steady resolve, he began to study, his mind quickly absorbing and sorting the information.
One passage in particular captured his interest. It described the Court's political structure, the web of influence that held this world together. The quickest way to rise through the ranks wasn't by currying favor with superiors but by cultivating a favorable public image. The higher the people's regard, the greater his power in the eyes of the Court. Of course, that didn't mean he'd be safe. There were always those ready to strike down anyone who became too visible, too favored, or too ambitious. He'd have to grow strong—not just politically, but physically as well—if he wanted to survive the consequences of standing out.
He'd barely begun planning his approach when a sudden, sharp pain lanced through his chest. A fit of coughing overtook him, forcing him to double over as he pressed a hand to his mouth. When he pulled his hand back, his palm was smeared with blood. He felt the reality of his curse settling over him like a cold shadow, reminding him that no matter how much he schemed or learned, his body was a fragile cage, a ticking clock.
He glanced up and caught Roan's horrified stare. The butler's face, typically neutral, was openly shocked, his mask shattered. It was clear he hadn't known about Asher's illness.
"Court—Court Consort, I'll take you to see the doctor immediately," Roan stammered, visibly unsettled.
Asher forced a pitiful smile and shook his head. "No…don't worry about it. There's nothing they could do about it anyway." The words felt hollow, but he let his expression match the feigned defeat.
Roan's expression softened slightly, his brows furrowing in uncharacteristic concern. "I understand, Court Consort. Then please allow me to prepare a towel to help you clean off." He bowed slightly, preparing to leave.
Asher hesitated, keeping his expression steady. "And how long will that take?"
"Ten minutes at most, Consort," Roan replied, a formal tone reasserting itself in his voice.
After a beat, Asher nodded. "Very well. Thank you, Roan."
Roan looked momentarily surprised, then bowed again, the mask slipping back into place. "Of course, Court Consort."
The moment the doors clicked shut behind Roan, Asher sprang into action. He moved back to the shelves, scanning quickly. If the vampires relied on bonds to bind their prey and allies alike, there should be records here—something he could study, something that might reveal a flaw or a way out. But he found nothing. Not a single mention of the bond that held him captive. It was strange, unsettling. Why would a library like this, belonging to one of the largest clans, omit information on such a critical subject?
Just as he was about to turn away, his gaze snagged on an unassuming book at the end of the shelf. It lacked any title, its plain cover and spine inconspicuous among the elaborate bindings surrounding it. But something about it tugged at him, pulling him closer with an inexplicable force. Almost instinctively, he reached out and took the book, slipping it into his stack just as he returned to his seat.
Roan returned a moment later, carrying a damp towel on a silver tray. He offered it to Asher with a slight bow. "I trust this will be sufficient, Court Consort."
Asher accepted it with a nod, quickly dabbing away the remnants of blood. "Yes, it's fine. Thank you."
Roan's eyes flickered over him briefly, as if still assessing the shock of the incident. But he said nothing, simply waiting with that same unnerving calm.
Asher returned to his reading, glancing now and then at the mysterious book hidden in his stack. Whatever secrets it held, he would uncover them in time. For now, he had to keep up appearances, gather knowledge, and bide his time until he could make his move.
Asher kept his expression carefully composed as he continued to study, even with Roan's presence looming nearby. Each page of the histories and cultural texts he read filled in pieces of the picture he was beginning to understand. This world was complex, bound by rules and hierarchies he hadn't known existed until now. But the strange book he'd found, tucked carefully beneath the others, weighed heavily on his mind. He didn't dare open it here—not under Roan's watchful gaze.
Eventually, Roan cleared his throat softly. "Would you like to return to your quarters, Court Consort?"
Asher nodded, closing his current book and setting it on top of the stack. "Yes, I think that would be best."
Roan regarded the books he had selected, a faintly approving look crossing his face. "You may keep those volumes with you in your chambers," he said, his tone casual. "The Judge encourages you to learn all you can of our culture. History and tradition are, after all, essential to understanding your new role."
Asher nodded, managing a polite smile. "I appreciate it."
Roan stacked the books in his arms with precise care and gestured for Asher to follow him back through the winding halls. This time, Asher paid even closer attention to each turn, each staircase. With the map he'd memorized earlier, he could likely find his way back to the library on his own if he needed to.
When they reached his quarters, Roan stepped inside, setting the books neatly on a table near the window. "If there is anything else you need, Court Consort, I am at your service," he said with a slight bow.
Asher inclined his head. "That will be all. Thank you, Roan."
With another bow, Roan stepped out, closing the door quietly behind him. Asher waited a moment, listening for any lingering footsteps, before letting out a quiet sigh of relief. Alone at last.
He approached the stack of books and picked up the plain, unmarked one he'd slipped in earlier. He felt a strange, almost electric hum emanating from the plain, unmarked book as he held it. It was heavier than he'd expected, as if it held secrets buried deep within its pages. Intrigued, he opened it cautiously, his gaze sweeping over the first few lines. The words seemed to shift on the page, almost writhing under his gaze as though resisting him. But as he focused, the letters finally settled, forming legible lines.
The book was a guide—but not an innocent one. Its pages revealed the workings of dark magic, spells and rituals forbidden even among vampires. Here was the hidden power, the knowledge that thrived in shadows, spoken of only in whispers. Each page seemed to pulse with the weight of the dangerous arts it described: spells to harness energy, rituals to influence minds, and ways to bend the natural order. This wasn't just knowledge; it was power, waiting for someone willing to claim it.
As he flipped further, his eyes landed on a section marked by strange, twisting symbols. These new characters were unlike the rest, forming a script he couldn't decipher. But at the top of the page was one word he understood well: Bonding.
A thrill of frustration and curiosity twisted within him. This was what he needed—the very knowledge he sought about the bond that tied him to this cursed life—but it was locked behind an ancient language. He could see fragments, diagrams, symbols, all hinting at secrets he couldn't reach. Translating it would be a risk, but he'd need this knowledge if he was ever to escape his bond.
For now, though, he turned back to the spells he could read. He committed them to memory, every word, every description—knowledge of dark magic he would study and wield if it meant taking control of his own fate.
Asher's fingers trailed over the words in the book, absorbing every dark promise it offered. He knew well enough what he needed, at least in the beginning. Power to protect himself. Power to fight back. But before he could use even a fraction of these spells, there was a necessary step—a foundational practice he would need to master first.
Dark meditation.
The book's description was detailed yet ominous, explaining that dark meditation was the means by which he could draw and build mana, a force essential to casting spells and performing rituals. This wasn't simple concentration or the shallow meditations he'd read about before; this was a profound and consuming process, one that could link him to the source of dark magic itself. Through dark meditation, he would build a reservoir of mana within himself, allowing him to tap into these new powers.
But, of course, there was a price.
To use dark meditation, he would first need to perform a ritual—a binding act that would seal his fate. The ritual would connect his soul irrevocably to dark magic, enabling him to channel it at will but at the cost of something irreplaceable. Each spell, every drop of mana he spent, would chip away at his soul, hollowing him out little by little. The book warned that over time, he would lose pieces of himself, corrupted by the very power he sought to wield.
He closed his eyes, contemplating the weight of this decision. There would be no turning back. To perform this ritual would mean accepting that he would sacrifice his soul in exchange for a power most would fear to wield.
Yet as he sat there, the memories of his captivity and the Judge's grip on his life sharpened his resolve. He couldn't afford to let this chance slip by. Freedom, revenge—he needed both. And if that meant casting himself into darkness, then so be it.
Steeling himself, he turned the pages carefully to the ritual's instructions, committing each step to memory. He knew he would have to be careful; there could be no mistakes.
Asher was deep in thought, the book's words haunting his mind, when he was jolted back to reality by a sudden knock at his door. His instincts took over—he quickly closed the book, tucking it securely between the history volumes. He could still feel the weight of its forbidden knowledge, like a silent pulse in his hands.
And then, unmistakable and intoxicating, came the scent that filled the air: vanilla, lavender, and a smoky undertone of cashmere wood. He'd come to know this fragrance well. The Judge. It was almost disorienting, that blend of allure and dread, and the strength of it was sharper now, almost overwhelming. His senses had become far more sensitive since the bonding; even the faintest scent of blood now hit him like a knife, and hers was no exception.
A second, more insistent knock shook him from his trance. He took a steadying breath, pulling himself together before heading to the door, bracing himself for whatever intrusion awaited. With a scowl fixed on his face, he opened the door to find her standing there, a glint of amusement already dancing in her eyes.
"What brings you here?" he asked coldly, his annoyance clear in his tone.
The Judge merely laughed, an almost musical sound that carried a faint echo of something darker. "So you're still like this," she said with a smirk. "You were being such a good boy earlier that I thought you'd finally given up this stubborn resistance."
Ignoring the way her words grated on him, she brushed past him and stepped into the room, completely uninvited. He couldn't hide the sneer that twisted his lips, his gaze seething with hatred, but he closed the door behind her with a resigned sigh. For now, at least, he'd have to play the part, even if every inch of him bristled at her presence.
Asher folded his arms, leveling an unimpressed stare at the Judge. "So, are you going to explain why you're here," he asked, his tone dripping with disdain, "or are you just here to make my life more of a hell?"
Raising an eyebrow, he moved to the sitting area and dropped into the chair in front of his bed, stretching his legs out and settling in, though every muscle remained tense. He waited, watching as she sauntered over with her usual air of confidence. She didn't seem fazed by his coldness, her smile only growing as she met his gaze.
"Do I need a reason to visit my husband?" she replied, a teasing lilt in her voice as she sank into the chair opposite him, crossing her legs with an elegance that seemed almost mocking.
His jaw tightened at her words. Husband. She used the title so casually, as if it were just another word. "Husband," he scoffed. "You mean the title you forced on me?"
Her smile didn't waver. If anything, it grew sharper, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Forced is such a harsh word, Consort. You're here because of a choice you made. I only gave you… direction."
Asher clenched his fists, trying to suppress the anger boiling under his skin. "You mean you gave me an ultimatum," he said through gritted teeth, his glare unwavering. "Let's not dress it up as something noble."
She tilted her head, considering his words with a feigned look of innocence. "Semantics. Either way, here we are." She reached forward, picking up a small trinket from the table beside her and examining it absently, as if his simmering rage was of little consequence.
"Fine," he said, refusing to be baited any further. "If you don't need a reason, then what do you want?"
She smiled again, her expression softening just slightly, though her eyes held their cold, calculating edge. "I wanted to see how you're settling in," she said, her tone now almost genuine. "You're a part of my court now, Asher. And that means I have a vested interest in you adjusting well to your new life."
He gave a dry laugh. "You want to see how I'm 'settling in.'" He repeated the words like they were a bad joke. "Well, I hope you're satisfied. Your… hospitality is as overwhelming as I'd expected."
The Judge leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and giving him a pointed look. "You'd do well to remember, Asher," she said, her voice low and icy now, "that your survival depends on how convincingly you play the part of my consort. So while you're busy resenting me, don't forget that you're only alive because I allow it."
Asher didn't flinch. Instead, a dark gleam appeared in his eyes, and he leaned forward, matching her intense gaze with a fierce defiance. "Is that so?" he challenged, his voice a low, mocking whisper. "Then kill me. Why keep me alive, hm?" He tilted his head, studying her reaction, refusing to back down. "Ah… but I do wonder," he added, his voice dripping with mock curiosity, "what would happen if I, the Judge's bonded partner… were to pass away? What would happen to that poor Judge?"
For a moment, the room was deathly silent, tension crackling in the air between them. His words had hit their mark. He could see it in the faint flicker of something that passed through her eyes, something she quickly masked.
The Judge's smile returned, sharp and dangerous. "Oh, Asher," she murmured, her tone now laced with cold amusement, "you think you've found some clever little loophole. But I wouldn't be so quick to test it. You might be surprised just how… replaceable you are." Her voice was steady, but he caught the faintest edge of tension in her tone, a hint that perhaps he'd struck a nerve.
He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Maybe I am replaceable," he said casually. "But we both know it's not that simple, is it? You wouldn't have chosen me if there wasn't something you needed. Something… specific."
Her gaze narrowed, her expression unreadable as she studied him in silence. But he could feel her carefully measured control, the mask she wore cracking ever so slightly.
"I'll play your game, Judge," Asher said, voice calm but resolute. "But don't think I'm here at your mercy. I may have chosen to accept this, but I'm not your puppet." He held her gaze, letting his words sink in, and for once, she said nothing.
They sat there, locked in silent combat, the unspoken understanding between them more powerful than any threat she could give. Whatever power she held over him, he wasn't going to accept it passively. And she, for all her cold confidence, knew it.
Gifts
-- Gift
received Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone