He is terrified.
I can feel it. The connection between us is a taut wire humming with his dread. It isn't the fear of a man facing an enemy; it is the fear of a man facing himself.
A knock on the door echoes through the room.
"Enter," I whisper.
Asema opens the door. She is in full armor, her helmet under her arm, her face grim. She looks at the white robes, and a muscle feathers in her cheek.
"It is time," she says.
She does not sayMy Lord requires you.She does not sayCome.JustIt is time.
I nod. I do not ask where we are going. I know. The pull in my gut is leading me down, deep into the bedrock beneath the estate.
We walk in silence. The corridors of Lliandor are cold, weeping condensation that smells of ancient stone and damp earth. We descend the main staircase, then a narrower spiral stair that twists into the dark like a drill.
The air grows heavy. The scent of cloying incense—lilies and rot—wafts up from the depths, thick enough to taste. My stomach turns, a slow, sickly revolution.
We reach the bottom. A heavy iron door stands ajar, revealing a chamber lit by the sputtering violet flames of braziers.
Imas is waiting.
He stands before the black altar, his back to us. He is dressed in ceremonial robes of charcoal and crimson, the colors of House Imas, but he looks diminished. The grandeur of his attire hangs on him heavily. He is leaning against the stone, his head bowed, his hands gripping the edge of the altar so tightly his knuckles are white.
He senses me. He stiffens, his spine snapping straight, but he does not turn.
"Leave us, Captain," he says. His voice is flat, dead.
Asema does not move. She steps into the room, placing herself between me and the altar.
"My Lord," she says, her voice rough. "This... this is not the way."
Imas turns slowly. His face is a mask of stone, devoid of emotion, but his eyes are burning. "You question me, Asema?"
"I question the cost," she says, her hand drifting toward her sword hilt—not to draw it, but to ground herself. "The household knows. The city knows. But what they do not know, I do. If you do this... if you spill her blood on that stone... there is no going back. You will be declaring war on your own soul."
"My soul is already forfeit," Imas says. He steps away from the altar, moving toward us. The shadows seem to cling to him, reluctant to let him go. "The Serpent demands a price. I am simply paying the bill."
"At the cost of your sanity?" Asema argues. "You are not the same dark elf you were a month ago. You are stronger. Sharper. Malek fears you now more than he ever did when you had magic. Do not throw that away for a dead god."
Imas stops. He looks at Asema, and for a second, the mask slips. I see the raw, bleeding panic underneath.
"And when Malek comes knocking?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. "When he brings his sorcerers and his beasts? What will I fight him with, Captain? Words? Strategy?" He laughs, a bitter, broken sound. "I need the fire. I need the Chaos."
"You haveher," Asema says, tilting her head toward me.
"She is the poison!" Imas roars, his composure shattering. "She is the reason I am empty! She is the reason I am standing here, debating with a servant instead of ruling my city!"
He raises his hand. Even without magic, the gesture is terrifying. "Leave, Asema. Or I will kill you where you stand. I will take your sword and open your throat myself."
Asema looks at him. Then she looks at me. There is an apology in her eyes.
I take a deep breath. I do not understand entirely what is about to happen, or what they are talking about, but Ifeelthe danger. The rot. And the looming death.
"As you command, My Lord," she whispers.
She turns and walks out, the heavy door groaning as she closes it, leaving us alone in the suffocating dark.
