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He laughs again, an easy, unguarded sound that fills the room and makes the walls feel a little less suffocating. For a moment, I forget to be irritated.
“I do enjoy watching you get all worked up,” he notes between chuckles. “But I guess you’ll just have to trust me. I will see what I can do. No promises, and no charge.”
I stare at him, searching his face for any sign of a trap. His grin is still there, playful and infuriating, but something else flickers underneath it. Seriousness.
“I don’t trust you,” I state flatly.
Ash pushes off the doorframe and takes a step closer, closing the distance between us just enough to make the air feel thinner. “Good. You shouldn’t. But you’re curious, aren’t you?”
I hate how right he is. “I’m not some pet you can parade around,” I say, lifting my chin.
“Never said you were.” His voice softens a fraction, though the smirk stays. “But you are someone who deserves a little more than this cabin.”
I hesitate. His words aren’t wrapped in teasing this time. And that look in his eyes makes my stomach twist.
Finally, I force a scoff and look away. “If this is a trick, I’m going to make you regret it.”
Ash’s grin returns in full force. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He steps back, walking back toward the door with a dramatic flourish. “Careful, sunshine,” he adds with a wink. “Wouldn’t want you getting too attached to the idea of fresh air just yet.”
And with that, he disappears through the door, shutting it behind him, leaving only the faint echo of his laughter and the whisper of fresh air that seems to linger long after he is gone.
Chapter ten
Open Sky
Ash and Oberon trade places every other day.
I have grown used to their presence. The isolation has its own quiet torture, but it isn’t the kind of prison I knew before. It is just . . . different. Like existing without truly living, the days blend into a haze of magic practice and half-remembered conversations.
When Oberon arrives, the air seems to grow colder. His presence carries a quiet intensity that presses against the walls of the cabin, making the space feel smaller, more confined. His stillness is deliberate, weighted, and it speaks far more than his carefully chosen words ever could. Conversations with Oberon always feel like walking along the edge of a blade, dangerous and thrilling in equal measure.
Oberon has noticed my hunger for stories and knowledge. So, he brings me books. Not grand tomes of power or history but fairy tales. Simple stories meant for simpler souls. Yet I grow fond of them. Perhaps it is the escape they offer or the quiet kindness hidden in the gesture. They feel like a promise. A promise that there is more beyond these walls. More for me.
Behind that cold exterior, I can feel something more. The way his gaze lingers on me longer than necessary when he thinks I won’t notice. The rare moments when his hand brushes mine as he passes a book over, his fingers cold but lingering a heartbeat too long. There is a pull between us, tangled in the unspoken. It makes my heart race, and that frightens me. The longing I feel for Oberon isn’t just dangerous—it is terrifying. I don’t understand it, don’t want to understand it. Yet it is there, undeniable and ever-present.
Though he keeps his distance.
“Careful,” he says once, glancing around the cabin with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “If you keep pacing like that, you might just tear the walls down.” His words strike deeper than they should. Not because they sting but because of the glimmer of the challenge behind them, as though he wants me to break free. As though he believes I can. The power within me stirs at that thought, rising with each step I take. Threatening. I’m not supposed to leave. We both know that. But I can feel my strength growing, like a crack forming in glass, one sharp blow away from shattering everything.
And I want to break free.
My time with Ash, well . . . Ash is different.
It isn’t the kind of company I want, but it is a type of company that feels oddly comforting in its own way. Ash stays longer. Where Oberon is all sharp edges and unreadable stillness, Ash is warmth and chaos. He fills the room with his presence: loud, vibrant, impossible to ignore.
He talks endlessly, weaving stories of the war, the world beyond the cabin’s walls, and the people he has met along the way. His stories are entertaining, sometimes even comforting, but frustratingly incomplete. He is careful with his words, as if he is trying to protect me from something, though I’m not sure what. Sometimes, he leaves a topic hanging in the air, leaving me with more questions.
But I’ve come to realize I need that.
Ash isn’t here to burden me with truths I’m not ready to hear. He isn’t here to challenge me with unspoken feelings or complicated glances. His teasing, his laughter, and his stories fill the quiet without demanding anything from me. He pushes my boundaries with playful banter, tests my patience with his endless chatter, and makes me laugh when I don’t think I remember how.
He reminds me of what it feels like to breathe.
I need Ash’s friendship, his presence that asks nothing of me, his stories that make the world outside feel closer. But I want Oberon. The male who keeps his distance but whose shadows linger even after he leaves. The one whose stillness speaks louder than Ash’s endless words.
I have grown fond of both of them, the ease of friendship and the ache of something far more complicated. The idea of any kind of contentment here terrifies me more than the walls of this cabin ever can.
Every morning, Oberon shows up like clockwork, just as Ash does, but today feels different. I haven’t had a visitor all day. The hours pass, and the evening is growing closer. The stillness in the air makes me uneasy. I sit by the window, a book clutched in my hands, when I see the shadows beginning to stretch along the cabin’s walls.
