The sun had long set, and the room was bathed in the soft glow of candlelight when Asher's eyes flickered open. His mind was sluggish, his body weighed down with the exhaustion of the previous night's events. The weight of the bond, the Judge's cold touch, the chilling words she had spoken to him—all of it had drained him more than he cared to admit.
He slowly pushed himself up from the bed, rubbing his eyes as the reality of his surroundings hit him. This wasn't the room he had fallen asleep in last night. His gaze swept across the lavish space—gilded mirrors, tapestries that shimmered with dark hues, ornate furniture in deep reds and blacks, and the soft scent of roses mixed with a faint, almost metallic tang. Everything was designed to be opulent, to remind him that this place, this world, was no longer his own.
Asher had no idea how he had ended up here. He had been too exhausted to remember how he had been moved, but it didn't matter. All he knew was that the room had a calculated beauty to it. Everything was pristine, arranged with care. The bed he had woken in was large enough for three people, its dark sheets smooth and inviting, but to him, it felt like a prison.
The air still smelled of the faint perfume of blood. The scent lingered here, in the very walls. Her scent. The Judge's scent.
He slowly swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, letting his feet touch the cold marble floors. Asher ran a hand through his disheveled hair, and in the mirror, his reflection seemed almost alien to him—his eyes bloodshot, the weariness of sleep not having fully erased the exhaustion from his body. His clothes were different, too—luxurious black fabrics, embroidered with silver thread. Someone had dressed him. He didn't care who.
The heavy silence of the room was broken by a faint knock at the door.
Asher's hand twitched toward the large glass vase that sat upon the bedside table, a reflex, but he hesitated. He didn't need to be quick to defend himself—not yet.
The knock came again, a little louder this time, more insistent. He grit his teeth, wanting to ignore it. But he couldn't. The voice from the previous night echoed in his mind—the Judge's words reminding him of the role he was expected to play.
The Court Consort. A title meant to demean him, to break him. But Asher knew what it really was: a chance. A position of power. And he would use it. He would play this game until the time was right to strike.
With a heavy sigh, he stood up and walked toward the door. His eyes narrowed as he placed his hand on the knob. He wasn't going to let this figure who knocked disrupt him. But as he opened the door, his jaw tightened.
Standing before him, impeccably dressed in a black suit and white gloves, was a vampire—a butler, by the looks of it. His pale face was devoid of any noticeable emotion, and his gray eyes studied Asher with that ever-present, disarming calm. He looked like a servant, but Asher could see the way the vampire's presence exuded a certain detached authority.
"Good evening, Consort," the butler said, his voice soft but carrying with it the unmistakable air of someone used to being obeyed. "I am Roan, your personal attendant. The Judge has requested your presence at breakfast." He paused, a brief flicker of something in his eyes. "If you wish, I can assist you in preparing."
Asher took a step back, eyeing the butler carefully. He didn't trust him. No one in this place was to be trusted. A personal attendant? More like one of the Judge's spies. It was so obvious. But he didn't say it. There was no use in making an enemy of this man—at least not yet. Not until he understood more about this place, about the intricacies of the game he was being forced to play. He still had to gather his strength, find his footing. He wasn't ready to make a move.
And he wasn't going to give the Judge the satisfaction of seeing his defiance just yet. Not in front of anyone else.
"Very well," Asher said, the words feeling like ash in his mouth. But he said them anyway. "Help me get ready."
Roan inclined his head and stepped inside, moving with practiced efficiency as he prepared water for washing and brought fresh towels. Without a word, he guided Asher to a chair near the wash basin, helping him to cleanse the lingering fatigue from his face and hands. His movements were precise and controlled, respectful yet somehow distant, as if there was a barrier that even his touch could not cross.
Once Asher was clean, Roan selected a fresh shirt and assisted him in dressing. Asher barely acknowledged him, keeping his gaze unfocused and his expression blank. Let the butler think him defeated or dazed—it didn't matter. Every act, every compliance, was part of the role he would play.
When Asher was finally dressed, Roan stepped back, smoothing the folds of his coat with practiced hands. "Shall we?" he said, his tone the same steady, measured calm.
Asher didn't respond, only nodded curtly and followed the butler out of the room. Every step through the grand corridors was a quiet lesson in restraint. He studied everything in silence, cataloging each turn, each doorway, every detail that might later become an asset.
Finally, they reached a small parlor, where Roan paused and turned to him, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips.
"Please, make yourself comfortable," he said, gesturing to a plush chair beside a low table where breakfast had already been laid out. A selection of dark breads, fruit, and various meats. The scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, and though the food looked and smelled good, Asher's stomach turned. This place—this entire situation—was beginning to feel suffocating, like the walls were closing in.
"Your wife," Roan continued, as if casually talking about the weather, "has ensured your comfort. You'll find everything to your liking here, Consort. We aim to please."
Asher couldn't help the bitter smile that tugged at his lips. Aimed to please. She didn't care about him. Not really. She cared about control, about power.
"Thank you," he replied flatly, taking his seat. It was hard to focus on anything but the strange, unsettling feeling gnawing at his stomach. He wasn't here for the food. He wasn't here for the luxury. He was here to learn, to gather every scrap of information, every move, every weakness—and when the time came, he would strike.
He was going to be the best damn Court Consort this place had ever seen. And when the moment was right, when he had the strength, he would tear it all down.
For now, though, he would play the part. He would do what they expected of him. He would endure.
And one day, when his time came, he would rise to power.
And he would crush everything beneath his feet.
Asher sat in the plush chair, barely glancing at the spread of food before him. The opulence was almost laughable—dark breads, fruits he couldn't even name, delicate pastries, and rich meats, all artfully arranged. The Judge was clearly trying to impress or intimidate him. Either way, he refused to be moved. He reached for a piece of bread, tearing it apart with careful precision, if only to give his hands something to do. His mind was already miles away, analyzing, strategizing.
Roan, ever watchful, stood by, his posture impeccable as he maintained a respectful distance. The silence between them hung thick and heavy, and Asher could feel Roan's eyes on him—studying, calculating. He glanced up, meeting the butler's gaze with a cold intensity.
"What are you waiting for?" Asher asked, his tone sharp, cutting through the silence.
Roan tilted his head slightly, his expression remaining calm. "Only to be of service, Consort," he replied. "If there is anything you require, I am here to attend to your needs."
The words were smooth, practiced, almost soothing in their way. But Asher wasn't fooled. This butler was more than a mere servant. He moved with a careful grace, an awareness in every step, as if he could slip a blade between someone's ribs just as easily as he poured a cup of tea. And as much as Roan might appear deferential, Asher sensed that this man saw through him, past the mask he wore.
He let the silence stretch a bit longer, his eyes narrowing. He knew what the Judge was doing. This whole act—the lavish surroundings, the attentive servant, the title of "Court Consort"—it was a way to remind him of his position, to make him feel both pampered and confined. But if she thought this would make him submit, she was gravely mistaken.
Asher leaned back, crossing his arms, his gaze steady on Roan. "I assume you're aware of… everything that happens in this place," he said, choosing his words carefully. "Including what the Judge's intentions are."
Roan's face remained unreadable. "I am aware of my duties," he replied smoothly. "And my duty is to ensure your comfort and well-being."
Asher felt a flash of frustration. The butler was impenetrable, expertly trained to reveal nothing. But he wouldn't let this moment slip away.
"And if I told you," Asher continued slowly, "that comfort and well-being weren't exactly what I need right now?"
Roan's eyes flickered, just briefly, an acknowledgment of something. For a heartbeat, the mask slipped, and Asher thought he saw a hint of understanding. Or perhaps he was just imagining it, hoping for an ally where there was none.
"Then perhaps, Consort," Roan said, his voice barely a murmur, "you would find that what you need and what you are allowed are… negotiable."
The words hung in the air, ambiguous yet somehow promising. Negotiable. Asher's mind raced, trying to decipher the hidden meaning, if there was one. Did Roan know something? Was he offering something? Or was this another test—a way to see how much Asher would risk, how desperate he had become?
He kept his expression neutral, biting back the surge of questions that threatened to spill out. "I'll remember that," he said carefully.
A faint smile played at the corner of Roan's lips, so slight it was almost imperceptible. "I trust you will."
With that, Roan stepped back, folding his hands neatly in front of him, signaling the conversation was over. Asher picked up a cup of coffee, letting its warmth seep into his hands as he sipped in silence, his mind churning. He would play this role, as he had resolved, but now he had a new angle to explore—a way to perhaps gain something, even in this twisted game.
Just as he set his cup back down, the heavy doors at the far end of the parlor opened, and a chill crept into the room. Every sense in Asher's body heightened as he looked up to see the Judge herself enter, her presence filling the room with an undeniable authority. She moved with a measured, unhurried grace, her gaze sharp and unyielding as it settled on him. Her gown was deep crimson, almost black in the dim light, adorned with silver detailing that shimmered like the cold edge of a blade.
Roan bowed deeply as she approached, his expression unreadable. Asher forced himself to remain calm, refusing to let her see any reaction as she took the chair across from him with an elegance that bordered on predatory.
"Good morning, my Consort," she said, her voice smooth, almost warm, though there was an edge beneath it. She inclined her head, gesturing toward the untouched food. "I trust you find everything to your liking."
Asher met her gaze, refusing to avert his eyes. "It's certainly… elaborate," he replied, carefully choosing his words. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing him rattled. "You seem to have gone to a lot of trouble."
The Judge's lips curved into a smile that was as cold as it was beautiful. "Nothing is too much trouble for my Consort," she replied, her tone laced with irony. She reached for a piece of fruit, holding it delicately between her fingers as she studied him. "I like to ensure that all who serve me are well… accommodated."
Asher's jaw tightened slightly. She was baiting him, testing his resolve, trying to make him feel insignificant. He leaned back, crossing his arms, mirroring her calm facade. "Then you'll be pleased to know I'm well-accommodated," he said, his tone steady.
She laughed softly, the sound low and almost mocking. "Good. You'll find, Asher, that I am generous with those who please me." She took a slow bite, savoring it, her gaze never leaving his. "And those who do not… well, their lives here tend to be short and unpleasant."
The threat was subtle but unmistakable, and Asher felt his anger flare. He held it back, forcing a slight smile instead. "I'll remember that."
She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing as if she were dissecting him, searching for weaknesses. "Do, my dear Consort. You are in a unique position—one of privilege, yes, but also of responsibility. I expect loyalty, cooperation, and… respect."
Asher nodded, hiding the storm that churned within him. "I understand."
The Judge's gaze softened just a fraction, though her control was ironclad. "Good. Then you and I should have no problems." She turned her attention back to the breakfast table, her long, pale fingers reaching for her cup. "I thought it would be… pleasant for us to share a meal. A chance to understand each other a bit better. After all, we are bound now, you and I."
Bound. The word felt like a chain around his neck. "Of course," he replied smoothly, picking up his own cup and raising it as if in a toast. "To understanding."
She lifted her own cup, her eyes gleaming. "To understanding," she echoed, her smile sharp, as if she alone understood the true depth of the word.
They drank in silence, their eyes locked in a silent battle. Asher felt the weight of her presence, the authority she wielded so effortlessly. But he held his ground. Let her think she had control, let her think he was submissive. She might be powerful, but he was patient. He would learn, he would adapt, and one day, when the time was right, he would shatter that calm mask of hers.
"Is there anything on the agenda for today? Or am I just going to be sitting on standby, like a dog in a guardhouse?" he asked softly, though a hint of discontent crept into his voice.
"Well… I do have a few things to attend to, but… I don't think you're ready to join me for that, I'm afraid."
Asher scoffed at her words but held back any protest, though the urge was there. Instead, he picked up his cup of coffee, taking a slow sip. "Is there a library? I'd like to study the culture. I'm a human, after all—I barely know anything about them," he said, his gaze returning to the Judge's. It was only a half-truth.
The Judge's smile barely flickered, though her eyes sharpened with amusement. She leaned back, regarding him with an unreadable expression, her fingers resting lightly on her cup.
"A library?" she repeated, her voice calm, though Asher sensed a hint of curiosity behind her cool tone. "Yes, we do have one. An extensive collection, in fact. But tell me," she continued, her gaze piercing, "what exactly do you wish to learn about us, Asher?"
Asher held her gaze, unwilling to be intimidated. "I'd like to understand the customs, the hierarchy, the… nuances," he replied smoothly. "It would help me avoid missteps. Surely you'd prefer a Consort who doesn't blunder his way through your Court."
The Judge's smile grew colder, but there was a spark of approval in her eyes. "Indeed. A wise thought, Consort. Knowledge is power here—and ignorance is vulnerability." She took a slow sip, watching him over the rim of her cup. "Though I suspect you're interested in more than our customs."
Asher didn't flinch. "Would you prefer I remain ignorant, then?"
She laughed softly, the sound both chilling and strangely alluring. "No, ignorance does not suit you. Very well. I'll grant you access to the library—under supervision, of course." She tilted her head, her gaze appraising. "Roan will accompany you."
Roan, who had been standing silently at a respectful distance, gave a slight nod, acknowledging her words. Asher glanced at him briefly, feeling both frustration and curiosity about this peculiar, inscrutable attendant.
"How considerate of you," Asher replied, his voice laced with a touch of sarcasm that he couldn't quite suppress.
The Judge merely raised a brow, her amusement evident. "Consider it a gesture of goodwill," she said smoothly. "But do be careful, Asher. The texts in that library hold truths that could overwhelm even the strongest mind."
"I'm not so easily overwhelmed," he said, meeting her gaze steadily.
The Judge's smile softened, though her eyes remained calculating. "Good," she replied, setting her cup down with a soft clink. "Then perhaps you'll prove more intriguing than I expected." She rose gracefully from her chair, her gaze never leaving him. "Roan will escort you once breakfast is finished. I look forward to hearing what you learn, Consort."
With that, she swept out of the room, her presence lingering like a shadow even after she had gone. Asher watched her retreat, his mind whirling. She'd given him a small concession, a minor freedom—but he knew there was a catch. There was always a catch with her.
He set down his cup, glancing at Roan, who had moved closer. The butler's expression was calm, his eyes betraying nothing.
"Shall we, sir?" Roan asked, his tone polite but distant.
Asher nodded, rising to his feet. "Lead the way."