The Judge's expression remained unreadable, her gaze steady as she watched him in silence. Asher held her stare, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of seeing him back down.
Finally, she broke the silence, her tone softer, almost bemused. "I admire your fire, Asher. Few dare to speak to me as boldly as you do." She leaned back, crossing her legs, her gaze assessing him with a curious warmth he hadn't expected. "But you misunderstand. I'm not here to make you my puppet. I have enough of those already."
He clenched his jaw, refusing to let her words sway him. "Then what is it you're after?"
She allowed herself a smile, though her eyes held a glint of something deeper, more sincere. "To give you a chance," she said simply. "A chance to be more than just a title, more than what you were in that mortal world. Here, you could wield real power—power I would share with you. But that requires trust. Cooperation."
Asher scoffed, leaning back in his seat with his arms folded. "And you think I'm just going to trust you because you dangle a few promises in front of me?"
The Judge's gaze softened, a surprising flicker of understanding in her eyes. "I don't expect you to trust me right away. But maybe, in time, you'll come to see that there's more for you here than just survival. You could shape this world, Asher—by my side, not beneath me."
Asher hesitated, caught off guard by the genuine tone in her voice. There was no mocking edge, no threats or reminders of her authority. It felt almost… personal.
"Anything else?" he asked finally, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible, wary of any sympathy she might evoke in him.
She studied him, her expression softening further. "Nothing more tonight," she replied, her gaze lingering on him in a way that left him feeling strangely exposed. "Just consider it."
Rising from her seat, she cast him a final look, one he couldn't quite read. It was as if she were looking at someone she knew well, not the bitter stranger she had brought here against his will. "Goodnight, Asher," she said, her voice carrying a faint note of something warmer, almost like a promise.
Then she turned, her footsteps quiet as she left the room, her scent—a blend of vanilla, lavender, and smoked wood—filling the air. When the door closed behind her, Asher felt a strange emptiness settle over the room, like her presence had left something lingering in its absence.
He sat in silence, her words echoing in his thoughts. The idea of power, of shaping something greater than himself, tugged at him in a way he hadn't expected. But he pushed the feeling aside, reminding himself of why he was here—to survive, to gather strength, to one day free himself from the chains she'd put on him.
With renewed focus, he reached for the dark magic book he had hidden, feeling its rough, worn cover under his fingers. He knew what he needed: the power to protect himself, to carve his own path. And if that path required certain sacrifices along the way… so be it.
Tonight, he would begin to learn, to ready himself for whatever lay ahead.
Asher's fingers traced the cracked, worn spine of the book, his heart pounding as he turned the pages to the dark meditation section. The ritual outlined there seemed simple enough in structure, but its purpose and meaning were clear—a commitment to the darker forces, one that would twist and consume his soul bit by bit. The language was stark, warning of the price one paid for tapping into this kind of power. Each step felt like a vow, a line he would cross and never return from.
He read through the instructions slowly, committing each detail to memory.
The first part of the ritual required a candle of dark purple, symbolizing the intent to open oneself to forbidden knowledge and forbidden power. It had to be lit under moonlight, ideally in solitude, with no one to witness the pledging of his will to the shadows. Asher scanned the room, ensuring it was secure, and then reached for a candle from his nightstand—a dark purple one that Roan had unknowingly provided, a perfect match.
Next, the ritual called for a drop of blood to be spilled onto the candle flame as a pledge of sacrifice and obedience to the dark energies. Asher's eyes lingered on the page; his fingers tightened around the edges. Blood was life, his life, and by giving it, he symbolically offered himself to the shadows in exchange for power.
But it was the final step that struck him: to murmur an incantation, ancient and cryptic, that would summon the dark energies to fill him, infusing him with mana and binding his soul to the shadows. Beneath the incantation, there was an ominous footnote, warning that the ritual would mark him permanently. The magic would seep into his essence, grow within him, and if he used it often, it would consume him faster.
He read the incantation carefully, though some parts of it were written in a language he didn't fully recognize. Asher furrowed his brow, sounding out the strange syllables under his breath until they began to make sense. The words felt wrong in his mouth—heavy, like they pulled at something deep inside him, coaxing the darker parts of his being forward.
He knew that the ritual was just the beginning. This was the first step to harnessing dark magic, to building his own arsenal against the Judge and her court. He needed power to protect himself, power to resist, and power to strike back. And though he understood that each spell, each use of dark mana, would cost him pieces of himself, he also knew that he could not waste this chance.
The room was bathed in shadows as Asher sat cross-legged on the cold floor, the purple candle flickering before him. He took a steadying breath, calming his racing heart. The silence around him was heavy, expectant, as though even the air was holding its breath. He picked up a small blade and, without hesitation, pricked his finger. A bead of crimson appeared, vibrant against his pale skin, and he held his hand over the flame, letting a single drop fall.
The flame sizzled and turned darker, almost black, as if his blood had absorbed into it, feeding it. The air thickened, carrying a faint, metallic scent that made his stomach twist. He whispered the incantation, feeling each word pull at something deep within him, something fragile and hidden.
As he spoke the last word, a chill spread through the room. The flame of the candle wavered, flickering wildly, and then steadied, casting a dark, foreboding glow around him. A sudden, sharp pain struck his chest, as though something had reached into him and seized his heart. He doubled over, clutching his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Then, violently, he began to cough.
The first cough was manageable, but the second was harsher, forcing him forward. Blood spattered onto the floor beneath him. He clenched his fists, but it did nothing to stop the violent fit that overtook him. Blood dripped from his lips, coating his hands, his clothes, pooling on the floor around him.
A fierce pain shot through his body, radiating outward from his chest to his limbs. His head throbbed with a searing ache, as if his skull was being crushed from within. His vision blurred, the room spinning, and he barely managed to stay upright as wave after wave of agony coursed through him.
Panting, he looked down at his hands, his vision clearing just enough to catch sight of his veins. His breath hitched. Dark tendrils were creeping up his arms, inky black veins spreading like poison beneath his skin, twisting and weaving up toward his shoulders, his neck. They pulsed, a sickly, slow rhythm that matched the beat of his heart, drawing the shadows into his very blood.
Panic clawed at him, and he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to keep control. He could feel the dark magic settling inside him, an unnatural energy that felt foreign and cold, but potent. It was a raw, brutal power that made his skin prickle, as though he'd become a vessel for something ancient and deadly.
The pain dulled slightly, fading into a distant throb, though his hands still trembled, stained with blood. His veins, still darkened, pulsed once more before the darkness slowed, resting, as if lying in wait. His breath came in shallow gasps, his body still aching and unsteady, but he could feel it now—the mana pooling within him, the raw energy he had unlocked.
He knew this ritual had marked him, permanently. The dark magic was now part of him, woven into his very being. The ritual had given him power, but it had exacted its price, binding his soul to a force that would devour him piece by piece with each spell, each use.
Slowly, Asher pulled himself up, leaning against the wall for support. He looked down at his bloodstained hands, his body still wracked with exhaustion and pain, but his mind was focused, sharp. This was only the beginning, he told himself, the first step toward the power he needed.
Asher struggled to his feet, clutching the edge of the table as he reached for the book. His hands were trembling, weak from the ritual's aftereffects, and it took all his strength to slip it back into its hiding place behind the history texts. He placed the candle back, the motions clumsy, his movements sluggish as he tried to return the room to its original state.
But his exhaustion crashed over him like a wave, a relentless, crushing weight that drove the air from his lungs and forced his legs to shake beneath him. His sharp focus from moments earlier had unraveled, replaced by a haze of pain and fatigue that blurred his vision. He struggled to catch his breath, his head spinning. For a moment, he wasn't sure if he would pass out or throw up, and the thought of both happening simultaneously made him wince.
He glanced down at his hands, relieved to see that the dark veins had faded back to normal. But his reprieve was short-lived as another violent cough overtook him, forcing him to grip the wall for support as blood splattered against his hand, stark against his pale skin.
Then he caught it: that scent. Vanilla, lavender, and the smoky undertone of cashmere wood. It was somehow soothing, slowing the panic that had gripped his chest. He barely registered the frantic knock on the door before it came again, louder this time. He took a step toward it, intending to answer, but his legs buckled, sending him collapsing against the wall with a dull thud. He could barely keep his eyes open, his vision swimming.
The door burst open, and the figure standing there was a blur of white and shadow. But as his vision focused, he saw her—the Judge, unmasked, her normally pristine white hair disheveled, as if she had come in a rush. Her gaze swept the room, searching, before finally landing on him slumped against the wall.
"Asher!" Her voice held an edge he hadn't heard before, raw and unguarded. In an instant, she was at his side, kneeling next to him. Her hands, usually steady and composed, hovered uncertainly over him as though she didn't know where to begin. Finally, she cupped his face, her touch surprisingly gentle as she tilted his head to examine him, taking in the blood at the corners of his mouth and the pallor of his skin.
"What… what happened?" she asked, her voice a mixture of urgency and something he couldn't quite place—fear, maybe, though that didn't seem like her. Her eyes scanned him, wide and intense, as if searching for the source of his pain, and a hint of frustration crossed her features, as if she were frustrated by her own inability to fix it.
Asher forced himself to speak, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm… fine," he managed, even though the blood on his lips and the tremor in his body told a different story. He tried to pull away from her grip, his pride still battling against the vulnerability he felt.
But she didn't let him move, her hand pressing gently against his shoulder to keep him steady. "Don't lie to me, Asher. You look like death itself," she said, her voice quiet but firm, as if speaking any louder would break him further.
For a moment, he was struck by the tenderness in her touch, a warmth that cut through the icy wall he'd built between them. The Judge, always composed and in control, looked at him with a kind of worry he hadn't expected, and it made his chest tighten in a way he wasn't prepared for.
Asher felt her hand brush gently through his hair, the unexpected tenderness cutting through the fog of pain and exhaustion. And something inside him cracked. The weight of everything he'd been holding in—the years of hiding his sickness, the constant struggle to protect his family, his desperate attempts to keep his sister safe from the vampires, and now, being trapped here, cut off from the world he knew—suddenly crashed down on him with a force he could no longer withstand.
A shudder ran through him, and he clenched his fists, trying to hold himself together, to keep his emotions locked behind that wall he'd spent so long building. But it was no use. Hot tears filled his eyes, blurring his vision, and a quiet, broken sob escaped his lips.
The Judge's eyes widened slightly, but her hand remained steady in his hair, her touch softening even more. She didn't say anything; she didn't try to comfort him with empty words. She just stayed there, close to him, her presence grounding him as he finally let the emotions he'd buried so deeply rise to the surface.
Asher's shoulders shook, the tears falling freely now, streaking down his face as he clung to her, hating himself for this weakness, for this vulnerability he never wanted to show. He had spent so long pretending to be strong, pretending he could handle everything—his family's misfortunes, his failing health, and the constant fear that his sister would be taken from him. But here, with her steady hand in his hair and the overwhelming reality of his isolation closing in around him, he couldn't keep pretending.
For once, he let himself break. He buried his face against her shoulder, the sobs wracking his frame, the bitterness and sorrow pouring out in waves. He hated himself for it—hated the Judge for seeing him this way—but he was too tired to keep fighting it, too tired to hold himself together any longer.
The Judge stayed silent, her hand gently running through his hair, letting him fall apart in her arms without judgment or pity. Her presence, strangely, brought him a small measure of solace, and though he loathed the thought of showing her this side of himself, he also knew he couldn't hold it in any longer.
He stayed like that, his tears staining her shoulder, until the sobs began to subside and his breathing steadied.
Asher sniffed, trying to steady his breathing, but his chest still heaved with the remnants of his quiet sobs. He stayed hunched against her, his face half-buried in her shoulder, as the Judge continued to stroke his hair, each movement slow and soothing. Her touch was gentle, patient, an unexpected kindness he didn't know he needed.
His fingers had gone limp against her sleeve, and though he felt the exhaustion tugging at him, he fought it, unwilling to be this vulnerable, this close. Yet her hand kept moving through his hair, her other arm steady around his shoulders, anchoring him. He tried to pull back, tried to straighten, but his strength failed him, and the warmth of her presence only lulled him further, unraveling the last of his resistance.
Finally, his head dipped forward, and his breathing began to even out. The relentless ache in his body and the turmoil in his mind dulled, fading under the calm she offered. The world grew hazy, his eyelids heavy, and despite himself, he leaned into her warmth, letting his head rest against her shoulder.
The Judge didn't move, didn't speak, just held him as he slipped into sleep, her fingers softly carding through his hair. And in the fading moments before he fully drifted off, he felt a strange, fleeting sense of peace—a brief reprieve from the pain, the anger, the endless fight.
For now, he was just…still.