ShadowBound: The Need For Power-Chapter 261: My Decision (Part 2)

After his talk with his mother, Asher made his way to the training grounds to train. The past three days hadn't just been about deciding what to tell his father—they'd been about pushing his limits.

Ever since the simulation exam, his mind kept returning to that moment—the instant he'd tapped into something far beyond his usual flames. Plasma flames.

It had lasted barely ten seconds, yet the sensation was burned into his memory: his blue fire flaring white-hot, crossing the threshold into plasma, a light so blinding and raw it felt like he was holding the sun itself. The pain had been excruciating, searing through nerves and bones like liquid lightning. But along with the pain came power—pure, unfiltered, devastating power.

Since then, he'd been chasing that moment.

The first attempt was reckless. He had forced his flames hotter than his body could endure, trying to brute-force his way into plasma again. The result? Internal burns that nearly cooked him from the inside out. He'd collapsed, coughing smoke, his veins glowing faintly blue before the family healer was rushed in to patch him up.

Lesson learned.

After that, Asher adjusted his goal—not to conjure plasma, but to understand it. Instead of erupting with it, he focused on creating just a flicker—a single ember dancing at the tip of his index finger. Even that was brutal. He learned quickly: no matter the amount, plasma demanded far more myst than his usual flames, and the pain came all the same. Each near-success ended with him clutching his hand in agony, his breath ragged, drenched in sweat.

On one of those grueling days, Nila had stumbled upon him mid-burn. His skin was blistered, his arm trembling, flame crackling at his fingertips. When she learned what he was trying to accomplish, she'd been stunned—and proud. Her little brother had already crossed into territory many elite flame users never even approached.

Though her flames weren't like his, she had something to offer.

Nila taught him a technique passed down secretly among elite combatants in the Crimson Knight Academy—a method of internal heat control. The key wasn't resisting the heat. It was guiding it.

She described it like this: heat must flow through the body like a molten river. Instead of letting it gather in one place and tear him apart from within, Asher had to circulate it—match its rhythm to his breath, his muscles, his heartbeat. Through focused movement and control, he could create "heat channels" through his limbs, chest, and spine. The fire would move with him, not against him.

It wasn't easy. But it worked.

Now, standing on the scarred floor of the training ground, Asher steadied his breath. He closed his eyes, feeling the pulse of myst through his core. Heat rose from his gut, slid along his ribs, coiled down his arms like lava snaking through tunnels. Then—

Flick.

At the tip of his finger, a small spark ignited—white, humming faintly, hotter than anything else he could summon. It shimmered blue-white, pure and deadly.

Ten seconds.

Then it vanished, but not without leaving a trace of warmth in the air and pride in his chest.

It wasn't much, not yet. But to Asher, it was everything.

A path forward. A new level. A chance to finally surpass Liam.

___

Later that day, after hours of intense training, Asher lay sprawled across his bed, his limbs heavy and breath slow as he tried to ease the lingering sting of heat in his muscles. The room was dim, the curtains drawn, and the quiet hum of silence was only broken by a soft knock at his door.

"Come in," he said, voice low and tired.

The door creaked open, revealing Lydia—his ever-dutiful personal maid. She stepped in cautiously, her eyes immediately falling on the exhausted figure slumped on the mattress.

"Young— I mean, Asher," she corrected herself with a slight smile, "your father has summoned you. He wants you in his study... within the next minute."

Asher groaned, slowly pushing himself upright. He looked half-alive—dark circles under his eyes, skin pale, hair clinging to his forehead with sweat. "Tch. So it's finally time to meet the old man, huh."

Lydia's expression shifted with concern. "Asher… you look—um…" She faltered, clearly unsure how to phrase it gently.

"Horrible?" he offered with a weak grin. "Don't worry. Just the result of me trying to fry myself during training. I'll be fine once I get some food in me. After this talk with Father, I'll raid the kitchen."

Lydia gave a hesitant nod as she stepped aside to let him pass. "I'll prepare something for you then."

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As Asher approached the doorway, she added softly, "And… good luck with Lord Aleric. I know you'll handle it. Lady Afina believes in you, and so do I."

He paused with one hand on the door, casting her a glance over his shoulder. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Thanks, Lydia."

Then, without another word, he stepped out into the hallway—toward his father's study.

Asher halted outside the door to his father's study, the memory of their conversation from three days ago looping in his mind. His hand hovered over the polished brass handle for a moment before he finally turned it and stepped inside.

Lord Aleric was seated behind his grand oak desk, posture straight and imposing. His arms were folded, and before him lay a stack of organized documents, each sealed with a faintly glowing insignia of crimson flame. He didn't look up right away—but when he did, those piercing silver eyes locked onto Asher like twin blades.

"You're late," he said flatly.

Asher entered, shutting the door with a soft click behind him. "Not really. You said one minute, and..." He paused as the wall clock ticked. "I'm two seconds early."

"I expected you to be earlier than that," Aleric replied, voice cool. "Punctuality reflects respect."

Unbothered, Asher stepped forward. "You asked for an answer. You gave me three days, and I've used every second. Now I'm here to give it."

A stillness settled over the room.

Aleric leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers. "Then speak."

Asher met his gaze squarely. "No."

The word hit the air like a blade drawn in silence.

"No?" Aleric repeated, voice calm but heavy. "No, as in you refuse to speak—or no, as in that is your answer?"

"No, I won't sever ties with Sir Galen Magna," Asher said. His voice was steady, unwavering. "I won't follow the path you've drawn for me if it means turning my back on the very chances that could shape me. I'm not a pawn to be moved at your will."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop, shadows stretching longer.

"You'd rather cling to a fallen heir of the Solara throne than heed your father's warning?" Aleric said quietly, standing. "You wear our crest, bear our name, our flame. And you would risk staining all of that… for him?"

Asher's expression didn't falter. "I'm not staining anything. I'm honoring it—on my terms."

Aleric turned to the window behind him, the light from the setting sun casting a glow across his face. There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth—something unreadable.

"Bold," he murmured. "Arrogant. Familiar." He stepped out from behind the desk, hands clasped behind his back as he circled Asher slowly. "You have your mother's defiance. And my fire."

Asher blinked, startled by the admission.

Aleric stopped just before him, lowering his voice. "But if you intend to walk this path, then know this—every action has a consequence. You want to carry the flame your own way? Fine. Then prove you can survive the burn. Prove you can surpass me."

Asher's jaw clenched. "Then I will."

Silence.

Then, Aleric took a step back.

"So be it," he said. "You'll remain at Dark Knight Academy. You'll build your own alliances, carve your own way. But know this—I will call on you again. And when that day comes, if you still believe your sword outweighs your words…" He turned back toward his desk. "You better be ready to show me."

Asher nodded. "I'm a Hawthorne. I don't go back on my word."

Aleric resumed his seat, eyes already scanning the papers before him. "You may go. And tell your mother I won't be at dinner tonight. There's a matter in Ilios that needs my attention." He paused. "And… eat something. You look like hell."

Asher gave a slight smirk. "Understood."

With one last glance, Asher turned and exited the study, a storm of emotions stirring quietly behind his eyes.

He walked the corridor back to his room, his mind a whirlwind. The conversation with his father hadn't gone at all as he had expected. No outburst, no harsh threats—just… acknowledgment. Maybe even a trace of pride. It left him reeling.

He opened the door to his room, still wearing that look of disbelief, only to freeze at the sight before him.

Sitting on his bed, legs elegantly crossed, was his mother—Lady Afina.

She was humming softly, a quiet melody only mothers seemed to know. Her fingers danced through strands of yarn as she knitted a half-finished scarf spilling from her lap.

Asher blinked. "Mom?"

Afina didn't look up. "Welcome back, dear."

He stepped in, eyes narrowed slightly in a blend of suspicion and affection. "Not surprised to see you here, honestly. Surprised... but not surprised."

She chuckled softly, setting another loop before glancing up. "How did it go?"

Asher let out a breath as he sat on the edge of his bed. "Well. Surprisingly well."

Afina raised an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth twitching. "Did it now?"

He stared at her for a moment. "You had something to do with it, didn't you? Him being... merciful?"

She tilted her head, eyes wide with feigned innocence. "I don't know what you mean."

That was all it took.

Asher let out a quiet laugh and shook his head, rubbing his temple. "Right."

He slid closer and leaned against her gently, resting his shoulder to hers. "Thank you," he said quietly.

Afina's smile deepened. She placed her knitting aside, turned to him, and began stroking his hair with slow, loving fingers. For a moment, it was perfect peace.

Then—twist.

"OW—!" Asher yelped as her hand clamped onto his cheek and twisted, not cruelly, but firmly.

"You reckless little child," she scolded, still wearing that same beautiful, composed smile. "Running around like a dying ember. You look like a dead man, and you dare show your face to me without resting?"

"I'm fine!" Asher grunted, squirming. "Mercy, mother—mercy!"

She held the twist a moment longer, then released him with a sigh, her hands sliding down to hold his. She pulled him gently to his feet.

"Come," she said. "You're going to eat something. And no, coffee is not food."

Asher winced, rubbing his cheek. "Yes, ma'am."