Lahat ng Kabanata ng Born of Ash and Night : Kabanata 11 - Kabanata 20

POV VaeliraI don’t sleep after that.Not really.I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling while the wards hum softly, pretending I’m not replaying the way his voice sounded when he said my name—like it carried weight, like it had been waiting in his mouth for years.It pisses me off how well it fits.I light a cigarette and exhale toward the ceiling, watching the smoke tangle with the wards and vanish.“Get your shit together,” I mutter.My magic ignores me. It stays coiled and alert, like it’s caught a familiar scent and refuses to let go.Maereth knows by morning.Of course she does.“You saw him,” she says calmly, pouring tea she won’t drink.I freeze mid-drag. “If this is one of your visions—”“The Night Court doesn’t ripple like that unless a prince moves,” she cuts in. “And you don’t carry that kind of tension unless he stood too close.”I scowl. “He didn’t touch me.”“That’s worse.”The next night's crawl.Vireholt feels wrong—too many eyes, too much restraint. Vampires linge

POV Prince Cain ThornevalPower is quieter than people think.It doesn’t roar. It doesn’t announce itself. It waits—patient, exacting, inevitable.I learned that long before the scar.Vireholt looks different from the upper spires of the Night Court. Cleaner. Smaller. Breakable. From here, the city feels like something I could crush in my fist if I chose to.Tonight, it resists me.Because she is in it.I stand at the balcony rail, hands clasped behind my back, coat stirring in the night wind. The scar on the left side of my face pulls slightly as my jaw tightens—a familiar ache, earned the hard way. From brow to jaw, it marks me as something that survived rather than something pristine.The court likes its princes flawless.I was never interested in being liked.Vaelira.Her name tastes like iron and defiance.I hadn’t planned to say it aloud when I found her. Hadn’t planned to let her see anything real. But recognition is a treacherous thing—it loosens control in places you didn’t

POV VaeliraPeople think magic is something you use.They’re wrong.Magic is something you survive long enough to make useful.I train at night, when the city is loud enough to cover mistakes and dark enough that no one asks questions when the ground bleeds light.Maereth taught me the foundations—control, restraint, the art of letting power think it’s winning—but the rest I learned the hard way. From fights that didn’t give me time to think. From instincts that don’t care about theory.My magic doesn’t come from one place.It comes from conflict.From my vampire blood, I get precision.Stillness under pressure. The ability to slow my pulse until time stretches thin and every movement sharpens. I can taste magic in the air the way vampires taste blood—layers, age, intention. I can lock onto a target and hold it there, suspend momentum, freeze violence mid-thought.That’s how I stop bullets.That’s how I don’t panic.That’s how I kill clean when I have to.Vampire magic is discipline.

POV Cain ThornevalHer name slips from my mind the moment her mouth finds my skin.That should tell me everything.She presses me back against silk sheets and stone, candlelight licking over bare shoulders and the graceful arch of her spine. Her body is warm, eager, moving with practiced confidence—every touch intentional, every breath meant to pull me under.Her hands slide beneath my shirt, nails tracing muscles like she’s memorized this ritual. She kisses my throat, slow and lingering, pulse fluttering beneath her lips like an invitation.Any other night, I’d accept it.Tonight, my control fractures anyway.Just not for her.When she straddles me, heat settling where restraint should be, my eyes close—and I see smoke curling from Vaelira’s lips instead. The sharp tilt of her chin. The way she looks at me like she’s daring me to try and fail.I imagine her weight pressing me down. Her hands—not reverent, not careful—claiming space like she’s earned it. I imagine her magic humming lo

POV VaeliraI come back to myself slowly, like my body is being stitched together wrong.The pain is gone—but the echo of it still lives inside me. A deep, bruised heat low in my stomach, like something scorched me from the inside and decided to stay.Maereth sits beside the bed.Not hovering. Not pacing.Waiting.Her hands are folded tight in her lap, knuckles pale. That alone tells me this is bad.I swallow. My throat burns. “You’re going to tell me what happened.”She doesn’t answer right away.“Maereth,” I rasp. “Don’t you dare protect me from this.”Her jaw tightens. She looks at the floor, then back at me—eyes sharp, sad, furious all at once.“The pain,” she says slowly, carefully, “wasn’t illness. It wasn’t magic backlash. And it wasn’t your body failing.”My stomach twists.“It was caused by him.”The words land heavy. Final.I laugh once, sharp and hollow. “That’s not funny.”“I’m not joking,” she says.Silence stretches between us, thick enough to choke on.“You need to unde