Ashton felt a surge of panic.
Where…? Where's the park?
The light didn't go out. It bored beneath his eyelids, pressed into his pupils, flooded the inside of his skull like an endless white. Ashton tried to push it away, to shield his face with his arm so he could see where he was, but his body lagged behind, as if every impulse had to force its way through something thick and viscous.
The ringing in his ears stretched into a thin, taut thread. It trembled, slicing through his thoughts, refusing to let him hold on to any of them. He knew he was lying down, though he couldn't remember falling. Beneath his back was a hard surface, cool and smooth; the chill seeped through his coat and shirt, climbing along his spine.
He was breathing fast. Every inhale hit his lungs like he'd just been running—short, ragged—every exhale breaking off halfway. His heart pounded hard enough that he felt it in his throat, in his temples.
He tried to open his eyes again.
The world smeared into patches. White. Gold. Shadow.
Definitely not the familiar, dim gray park.
He blinked a few times. Shapes began to form, though they still wavered, as if he were looking through heat rising off asphalt. Above him stretched a vast, open space, its edges dissolving into brightness. Sky? Ceiling? The light was even, soft—and at the same time, merciless.
He lifted his head a little. Pain shot through his neck. The ringing hadn't stopped.
He tried to get a grip on the panic, but how could he, when the park was gone?
No trees. No path. No fountain. Instead, the floor gleamed with pale stone, reflecting light like water. Lines and patterns cut across it in carefully arranged shapes, forming a mosaic so precise it felt almost unnatural.
His throat was dry, like after a long illness.
He braced himself on his elbows and tried to sit up. His arms trembled. His vision slipped, blurred, returned. It felt like someone had pulled him out of his own life and dropped him somewhere else without warning.
Sounds began to break through the ringing.
At first they were murmurs, distant and indistinct, like voices behind a wall. Then individual syllables—short, sharp—striking against each other in a rhythm he didn't recognize. Several people. Their voices were firm, edged.
He tried to focus on the meaning. Each word dissolved before he could grasp it. The sounds carried a foreign cadence, like a language from another era—or another world.
His heart sped up even more.
A thought surfaced in his mind, sharp and cold: this isn't a dream.
He finally managed to sit up, though the world tilted in a wide arc around him. He pressed his hands against the stone.
Someone moved nearby.
He caught a glimpse of fabric—heavy, richly woven—sliding through his field of vision. Then a shadow fell across his face, blocking part of the light.
The scent hit him all at once. Sweet and dense. Overpowering, almost nauseating. As if hundreds of flowers had bloomed at once right beside his face, saturating the air with a fragrance so heavy it felt almost tangible. He inhaled reflexively and immediately felt his stomach tighten in protest. The sweetness settled on his tongue.
He looked up.
A woman was leaning over him.
She looked to be around Thirty. Her face was beautiful in a severe way, carved in sharp lines, with high cheekbones and narrow lips set in a thin line. Her hair, dark and sleek, was pinned up in a style that emphasized her neck and… revealed… pointed ears.
He blinked in disbelief.
Her gaze was intent. Cool. Appraising.
She was saying something.
At first, the words dissolved again into an indistinct rush of sound. Ashton stared at her lips, trying to match sounds to meaning. The language was sharp, precise, carrying an accent he couldn't place.
The ringing in his ears began to fade. The sounds sharpened, as if someone were tuning a receiver.
"Is this supposed to be a bride for my son?"
The words hit him all at once, whole and clear—like a key turning in a lock.
A bride.
For my son.
He had to have misunderstood. He didn't even know this language. This was… what was it, exactly? Maybe he'd gotten the words wrong—but not the tone. The woman spoke with contempt.
She turned her head.
That's when he noticed the movement.
Two women stood a few steps away. Dressed in fitted garments that allowed for easy movement, they held curved sabers in their hands. Their faces were calm. Focused.
Behind them, on the marble floor, two men knelt in long, dark hooded robes.
Ashton recognized the silhouettes.
His heart stalled for a fraction of a second—then slammed back to life.
And the girl? What about the girl?
He didn't have time to process it.
The blades cut through the air with a dry hiss.
Two bodies dropped heavily onto the stone. Blood spilled out in a wide, dark wave, spreading across the pale mosaic. Red flooded the patterns, sharpening them with brutal contrast.
The sweet scent of flowers mixed with the metallic tang of blood.
Ashton's stomach lurched into his throat. His fingers dug into the stone so hard his knuckles turned white. The world wavered again, but the image of the bodies remained sharp, unmistakable, unforgiving.
This was real.
The woman leaned over him again, as if the execution had been nothing more than a minor interruption not worth acknowledging. Her face was closer now. He could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the smoothness of her skin, the precision of her makeup.
"You weren't the one who was supposed to be here," she said calmly. Her voice was low, clear—and terrifying.
Ashton stared at her, feeling pressure build in his chest. The words reached him cleanly now, without distortion.
"But you are."
Each syllable settled on him with weight.
"And now you'll fulfill your role."
His heart pounded against his ribs, as if trying to break free. His mouth was dry. His tongue stuck to the roof of it.
"You will be a wife to my son."
For a moment, the world lost its proportions.
…Huh?
A wife?
The word echoed in his head—stretched, warped, absurd.
He looked down at his hands, at his broad fingers, at the sleeves of his coat damp with sweat and dust from the park. The noise in his ears surged again, this time from the sheer overload of meaning.
The woman paused briefly.
"If not…"
Her gaze shifted to the side.
Ashton followed it.
Two bodies lay on the floor. Blood still ran in thin streams between the stone patterns. One of the armed women wiped her saber on the fabric of a dead man's robe.
Understanding came without words.
Something heavy and cold grew in his chest, like a block of ice being forced between his ribs. His breathing turned shallow.
Ashton swallowed.
He looked back at the woman leaning over him. Her face remained calm, almost gentle. In her eyes flickered the certainty of someone who passed judgment without doubt.
He could feel his whole body trembling beneath his skin. His knees losing strength. The reality that, moments ago, had been ordered and predictable, breaking apart into pieces with no bridges between them.
The park, the dark path, the smell of damp air—all of it felt distant now, like a childhood memory.
Here, there was marble beneath his back, the suffocating sweetness in the air, the red of blood—and the gaze of a woman who could condemn people to death with a single turn of her head.
He understood.
And he trembled.