Crowned in Crimson Cinders

Chapter 25: Brock and Aleah

"Still at it, I see?" Brock's voice, a low rumble, drifted from the doorway where he leaned, a casual silhouette against the hall's dim light.

I didn't break my rhythm, a small, vibrant flame dancing between my palms. "Trying to make it a daily habit," I replied, tossing the fiery orb lightly from one hand to the other, watching the light flicker across the stone walls of my room. It felt good, the raw power a hum beneath my skin.

"Good," he said, pushing off the wall. "You might need them tonight."

The flame wavered, a reflection of my emotion. "I'm really hoping it doesn't come to that."

"Me too."

A heavy silence descended, filled only by the soft crackle of my miniature sun. I kept it going, a distraction, letting the hypnotic dance of the fire keep my rising anxiety at bay. Tonight. Tonight was a monumental, terrifying unknown.

"Are you sure you're ready for this, Aleah?" Brock's question, though quiet, cut through the quiet like a blade.

I wanted to lie. To say yes, to be the strong, unwavering leader everyone expected. But the truth was a cold, hard knot in my stomach. Ready? I was anything but. The thought of creeping through my own home, the grand halls of the castle that were once a haven, now a labyrinth of potential traps, made my skin crawl. Like a thief, a prisoner in my own domain. And what if we were caught? What could I possibly say? "Oh, just trying to break into the dungeons to have a little chat with some... presumed prisoners." The absurdity of it was almost laughable.

"No," I finally admitted, the word a whisper.

Brock moved then, a soft thud as his boots met the stone floor. My flames sputtered, and I reeled the power back into myself, the warmth receding.

"Darian will be with you the whole time," he offered, but the disdain in his tone was unmistakable, a sour note in his reassurances.

A short, sharp laugh escaped me. "You really can't stand him, can you?"

He paused, a hand going to the back of his neck. "Who? What are you talking about?"

"Darian, obviously! Who else would I be talking about?"

Brock sighed, a long, drawn-out sound. "It's not that I hate him. I just... don't trust him. He's a good enough fighter, I'll give him that, and he clearly cares for you."

My breath hitched. "Cares for me? What do you mean?" The kiss. Oh, gods, did he know about last night? My cheeks warmed, betraying the practiced mask of indifference I tried to maintain.

Brock gave a dry chuckle. "Aleah, come on. You can't tell me you haven't noticed."

I forced my expression blank, trying desperately to will the flush from my face. Inside, a tumultuous confession echoed. I loved Darian too. My silence, it seemed, was an invitation for Brock to continue.

"Look, that man is clearly in love with you. Not out of duty, not because he's your husband. He genuinely loves you."

All I could offer was a stiff nod. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. I yearned for anything to break it—the return of my flames, a sudden gust of wind through the window, anything to dispel the awkward intimacy.

"Speaking of Darian," Brock said at last, shattering the tension, "I actually agreed to bring you down to the arena today. For some training."

"Training?" The word felt foreign on my tongue.

"Yeah. Swords and such. And maybe... a little with your powers too."

My eyes widened. "My powers? With Darian there?"

Brock shifted, his gaze uncharacteristically hesitant. "Aleah, I... I think it's time you told him. And before you say anything, I still don't trust him, but if we're truly going to start working together, we all need to be perfectly clear with each other."

The casualness of his suggestion stunned me. "Are you sure we should be telling him?"

"You and he are going on a dangerous mission tonight. Without me there, anything could go wrong. He knows more about combat than you do. He needs to know your weaknesses, your limitations, your strengths—"

"Wait," I interrupted, a sudden prickle of hope. "You think my powers are a strength?"

"Well... yes," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "They're a tremendous strength. Just like mine are to me, and Clifton's are to him—"

"My powers," I cut him off, the words heavy, "are a curse."

"Only if you make them one."

His words hung in the air, undeniable. He was right. It was up to me. I was the architect of my own destiny, the wielder of this volatile gift. I controlled whether I would be a villain or a hero. I could only pray, to every deity listening, that I never became the monster I so feared.

"Do you know where Sabrina is?" Brock asked, the abrupt change of subject jolting me from my reverie.

"Sabrina? I don't know. Probably in the library."

"Hmm. Doing what?" It was obvious to me that he didn't trust her fully either, which I thought was outrageous considering I've known her almost as long as I've known Brock.

"Reading, I suppose. She works there, you know."

Brock nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "I don't trust her."

I froze, my suspicions confirmed.

"I know you're friends with her, but... she's too distant most of the time. She joined us so abruptly, and... I don't know, I just have a feeling about her that isn't... right."

"Brock," I began, my voice firm, "you have to understand. She's probably distant because there's still a killer loose in the castle, and she's scared. Second, she joined us because she wanted to help. She wanted to help me. She's not a bad person, I know it. And what do you expect her to do? Break the rules for something that could get her killed? She's not a fighter like you and Darian, and she certainly doesn't have powers like you and I."

Brock let out another sigh, the sound weary. "I suppose you're right."

"Let's not worry about that now," I said, already moving towards the door. "Let's just get down to the arena."

He nodded, a flicker of his usual resolve returning. "Sure."