He is going to do it.
I close my eyes. I do not struggle against the straps. I simply breathe out, pushing one last wave of warmth into the mind of the man who is about to kill me, and I wait for the steel.
15
LORD IMAS
The dagger in my hand is not just steel. It is a conduit. It is a question.
The serrated edge, slick with the memory of Varon’s blood, hovers over the fragile cage of Leora’s ribs. I can see the frantic, bird-like flutter of her heart beneath the pale skin. One strike. One downward thrust, and the silence will shatter. The Serpent will flood back into my veins, a roaring river of Chaos that will drown out the ache, the weakness, the terrifying humanity that has taken root in my chest.
Strike,The Serpent whispers.
The voice is not distant anymore. It is right behind my ear, a lover’s murmur, wet and seductive.
Strike, and become a god. Strike, and I will give you the world.
My hand trembles. Not with fear, but with the sheer, agonizing force of the war being fought in my muscles. Every instinct I have honed for five hundred years screams at me to finish it. My duty as a Khuzuth Lord demands it. My ambition demands it. My survival demands it.
But my soul… my soul is screamingno.
I look down at her. Leora is bound, helpless, stretched out on the altar like an offering to a hunger she cannot comprehend. Her eyes are open. The sapphire blue is clear, unclouded by the Purna blackness.
She is not fighting. She is not begging.
She isseeingme.
And through the connection that binds us, she pushes something into my mind. It isn't forgiveness. Forgiveness is cheap; it implies I have done something wrong that can be absolved. This is heavier. This is colder.
It is understanding.
It hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest, stealing the breath from my lungs. She understands why I brought her here. She understands the weight of the legacy crushing my spine. She understands that I am a creature made of knives, and that to ask me to be soft is to ask a fire not to burn.
She accepts the monster. She accepts the blade.
Do it,her eyes say.If this is what saves you, Imas, then do it.
A sob tears from my throat, raw and ugly.
"Why?" I gasp, the word scraping against my teeth. "Why do you not hate me? Why do you not scream?"
"Because you are in pain," she whispers. Her voice is steady, a calm anchor in the storm of my disintegration. "And I know what it is to be trapped."
The empathy floods me. It is not the sweet, cloying warmth of before. It is a searing, white-hot light that illuminates every shadow in my soul. It burns away the excuses. It burns away the pride. It leaves me standing naked before the altar, a man holding a knife over the only thing in the universe that has ever looked at him without wanting something.
I tighten my grip on the dagger. The leather of the hilt creaks.
I want the power. I want the safety of my caste. I want to be the Master of Night, feared and untouchable.
But I want her more.
The realization is a catastrophe. It is the collapse of a mountain.
I lower the blade an inch. The tip grazes the silk of her robe, right over her heart.
Kill her!The Serpent shrieks in my mind, a sound like tearing metal.Kill her or rot!
"I can't," I whisper to the god I am betraying.
