His metallic eyes study me, searching for deception. But the marks on my skin pulse with Nezavek's essence, and that seems to be enough.
"He is in meditation," Mikaere rumbles. "You should not disturb him."
"He specifically asked for me now." I let a hint of irritation color my tone. "Would you like to explain to him why you delayed me?"
A long pause. Stone grinding against stone as he shifts. "Do not disturb him unnecessarily."
He steps aside.
The path to Nezavek's private chambers is one I've memorized through careful observation. The realm shifts and breathes around me, but the route remains constant: up the spiral stairs that exist in too many dimensions, through the hall of mirrors that show different possibilities, past the door that opens onto nothing.
His chambers are unguarded. Of course they are. Who would be foolish enough to attack a Void Walker in his own sanctuary?
Me, apparently.
I slip inside silently. The room is larger than I expected, carved from dark stone. Books float in lazy orbits. Artifacts from civilizations I can't name rest on pedestals. And in the center, on a raised platform, Nezavek sits in meditation.
He's more solid than I've ever seen him, his form perfectly defined. The meditation must focus his essence, keep him from dissolving. His eyes are closed, his breathing, if shadow can breathe, is even and deep.
Vulnerable.
The knife slides from my wrist sheath into my palm. Not the ceramic blade. That's for emergencies. This is steel, sharp enough to split atoms, enhanced with void-touched edges I bought from a black market dealer who swore it could cut anything.
Even shadow.
I move closer, each step calculated for silence. The marks on my skin warm, responding to his proximity, but I ignore the sensation. Ignore the way my body remembers his touch. Ignore everything except the hairpin in my pocket and the image of Melara crystallizing while he took notes.
Ten feet. Five. Three.
I raise the knife, aiming for where his heart should be. One strike, clean and quick. Even if it doesn't kill him immediately, it should disrupt him enough for me to finish the job.
I strike.
He moves faster than shadow, faster than thought. His hand catches my wrist, and suddenly I'm spinning through space. My back hits the bed, soft enough not to damage, hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
He's on top of me before I can recover, his weight pinning me completely. Shadow tendrils wrap around my wrists and ankles, spreading me beneath him. The knife clatters away, useless.
"Hello, Yorika." His voice is calm, almost conversational. "I was wondering when you'd try."
"Get off me."
"No."
I struggle, but the tendrils might as well be iron. The marks on my skin pulse with heat, responding to his touch even as my mind screams in rage.
"Did you really think you could kill me?" He asks, genuinely curious. "In my own chambers? While I'm at my strongest?"
"I had to try."
"Why?"
"You know why."
"Because of what you found in my research chamber?" He leans closer, and I smell winter and male satisfaction. "The notes? The confusing evidence? Your sister's hairpin?"
My blood freezes. "You knew I was there."
"My wards recognize you now, but they still report to me. I knew the moment you entered." His free hand traces my jaw, the touch surprisingly gentle. "I let you find it. Let you draw your own conclusions."
