Ashes of the Elite-Chapter 22: Chat

Cain sips his tea with an air of complete serenity, the porcelain cup delicate in his fingers. The soft clink of ceramic against wood is the only sound between us. I sit slouched in the plush chair across from him, eyes closed, exhaustion weighing down on me like a house was sitting on my shoulders. The whispers are gone now, the embers of my rage smothered, leaving behind nothing but the dull ache of regret and lack of adrenaline.

For a few minutes, Cain lets the silence linger, his presence a steady, unshakable force in the room. Then, finally, he speaks.

"Well," he muses, setting his cup down with an infuriating amount of grace, "the good news is we know your trigger. Or at least, the ones for the fear and illusion aspects of your marks."

I crack one eye open, watching him as he leans back against his chair, expression carefully guarded. "Did you sense anything about the regenerator power?" he asks, voice calm, but laced with an edge of curiosity.

I sigh and shift, rubbing at my temple. "I don't think so," I grumble. "If it was there, I didn't notice. Probably means there's a separate trigger for that one."

Cain grunts lost in thought, swirling the remaining tea in his cup before setting it aside. Then, he grimaces. "The bad news," he continues, "is that your trigger is a double-edged sword. Hate is a vile, uncontrollable emotion. It eats at you, corrupts you, makes you reckless." He pauses, then smirks, "Though, given your insufferable edge-lord tendencies, you might be able to find some sort of balance with it."

My eyes snap open fully, and I sit up, scowling. "Edge-lord tendencies?" I repeat, incredulous. "Oh, fuck you."

Cain grins like a man thoroughly enjoying himself. "Oh, don't give me that look. All you do it glare and pout and talk about how much you hate life and the Empire. Real Edge lord tendencies if you ask me man.

I scoff, crossing my arms. " I do not glare. Nor do I pout.

Cain arches a single brow in disbelief. "Oh okay so the look you're giving me right now is not a glare is that it?"

He chuckles, taking another slow sip of tea, clearly pleased with himself. As much as I want to stay irritated, I can't. He's trying to lighten the mood, and I recognize it for what it is. A quiet way of grounding me, reminding me that despite everything I'm ok.

Before I can muster a retort, a knock sounds at the door. A second later, it swings open to reveal Marta, balancing two trays of breakfast. The scent of freshly baked bread and sizzling sausage fills the air, accompanied by the sweet tang of ripe fruit. She moves efficiently, setting a tray in front of each of us. Beside my plate, she places a new, steaming cup of tea before retrieving Cain's now-empty one.

Cain inclines his head slightly. "Thank you, Marta. As always, your work is appreciated."

She bows at the waist, hands folded neatly in front of her. "Of course, my Lord," she murmurs before turning and slipping out the door.

Cain stretches his arms, before reaching for a piece of bread. "Alright, now that we've established your penchant for dramatics, let's eat. I imagine you've had a rather exhausting morning."

I waste no time tearing into my food, shoveling chunks of sausage and torn bread into my mouth between gulps of tea. My stomach, knotted with tension all morning, finally settles as the warmth of the meal spreads through me. Across from me, Cain eats at a far more civilized pace, watching me with the kind of amused curiosity one reserves for a stray dog that's finally found a home.

"So," he says after a moment, breaking off a piece of bread. "Control. That's what we need to focus on. Unchecked, your powers are a disaster waiting to happen. But if we figure out a way to direct them properly, you might actually stand a chance of wielding them without losing yourself."

I swallow down a mouthful of food and lean back, rubbing my thumb over the rim of my cup. "The whispers... they remind me of something."

Cain tilts his head. "Go on."

I let out a slow breath, gathering my thoughts. "When I received my mark, I heard voices. They weren't male, weren't female. Both and neither at the same time. It was like... like something was speaking directly into my soul." I sigh picking up the apple off my plat and tossing it in the air. "The whispers sound exactly the same. It's eerie—like they have a will of their own. They goad me, telling me to 'accept my true self' while feeding me the most vile truths about the people around me. It's not just reading fears or emotions it's worse. They pluck the worst filth right from people's minds their deepest and darkest fears and sins and shove it straight into my own. Then they whisper exactly how I can use it against them."

Cain sits silently, his expression thoughtful. He doesn't speak, doesn't react just thinks, his gaze focused somewhere far beyond the room. I take a bit of my apple the sweetness of it washing over my mouth.

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Cain exhales through his nose, tapping his fingers against the table as he mulls over my words. He looks like he's about to say something, his mouth opening slightly—but before he can, a sharp knock at the door interrupts him.

His brow furrows in irritation, but he doesn't call for the person to enter. A second later, the door creaks open anyway, and Marta steps inside. Her usual composed demeanor is absent—her hands clutch the folds of her apron tightly, and her shoulders are tense.

Cain immediately picks up on it, his eyes narrowing. "What's wrong?" he asks, setting his cup down with deliberate slowness.

Marta hesitates for the briefest moment before answering. "Count Ashland has sent summons," she says, voice frantic. "You and Awakened Daath are to report to the castle by the end of the day."

Cain's expression darkens, his fingers curling slightly on the tabletop. His eyes flick to me for half a second before landing back on Marta. "Did he say why exactly?"

She swallows hard and shakes her head. "No, my lord. Only that it was urgent."

Cain leans back in his chair, exhaling through his nose as his jaw tightens. "Of course it is," he mutters, rubbing his temple. His gaze meets mine, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before he finally sighs. "Well, I suppose we shouldn't keep the good Count waiting."