I barely had time to brace myself before the figure of my father, Lord Thorne, materialized before me. The ancient lich was a vision of decay frozen in time, a specter both terrifying and grotesque. His eyes were nothing but twin voids, blacker than the darkest abyss, absorbing light rather than reflecting it.His skin, stretched thin over sharp, skeletal features, had the sickly gray tint of old parchment—cracked and worn. Wisps of white hair floated around his gaunt face like a halo of cobwebs, clinging to his ashen robes that writhed with a life of their own.
“Busy, are you?” His voice was a rasping sneer, like wind scraping over dry bones. “Or are you wasting more fucking time skulking in the shadows?”
Relief flooded through me. Thank fuck he hadn’t appeared a few minutes earlier. If he’d overheard my conversation with Altair, he would have demanded every ounce of leverage from it and twisted it to his own ends. That was the last thing I needed.
I was very strategic with the information I shared with my father. And with good reason. He was a psychopath, far removed from the guilt and shame one might experience when they were fully alive.
I straightened, masking my irritation as best as I could. “I’m working on consolidating alliances and absorbing territories. But these things require?—”
“Time?” His hollow eyes glinted dangerously. Before I could react, a white, skeletal claw shot out and wrapped around my throat. The coldness of his touch seeped into my skin, like ice shards piercing my veins and draining all my warmth.
“You think time is a luxury you can afford?” he hissed, tightening his grip. “When I ruled, I didn’t waste time with these pathetic negotiations. I took what I wanted. Crushed anyone who stood in my way.” His fingers dug deeper. “You’ve grown weak, boy. Soft.”
Every muscle in my body screamed to fight back, to rip his cursed hand off me, but I knew better. He thrived on provocation, on excuses to unleash the dark magic that still coursed through whatever remained of his rotting soul. If I gave him a reason, he’d gladly drag me into one of his sadistic games where pain was the only certainty.
I forced my fists to unclench, the shadows around me writhing with barely restrained fury. “I understand, Father,” I managed to choke out, keeping my voice steady despite the pressure on my windpipe. “I will be more... direct. I will skip the formalities and take control by any means necessary.”
A sinister smile stretched across his withered lips, the jagged teeth behind them blackened like charred bone. He released my throat, and I stumbled back a step, sucking in a deep breath to clear the dizziness.
“Good,” he said, the satisfaction in his voice as cold as the grave. “But remember this,boy.” He leaned in closer, his rancid breath brushing my cheek. “I will not tolerate failure. If you let even a single opportunity slip through your grasp, I will ensure your suffering surpasses even your wildest nightmares.”
I swallowed the retort that burned at the back of my throat. Arguing with him was a fool’s errand. The best I could do was nod and give him what he wanted to hear. “I won’t let you down, Father.”
He leaned back, his skeletal form dissolving into the shadows once more. “See that you don’t,” he said in a whisper that seemed to come from every corner of the room. “Or you will find out just how much pain your soul can endure.”
And then, just like that, he was gone, leaving behind the stench of decay and a chill that refused to dissipate. I straightened my collar and steadied my breathing. The marks his skeletal fingers had left on my throat ached with an unnatural cold, a lingering reminder of his power.
If he were truly dead, I could rule this territory as I pleased. But as long as his soul remained bound to that cursed object hidden somewhere in my estate, he’d continue to haunt me and leech every ounce of power he could from me. He called it power and immortality, but it was nothing more than a pathetic refusal to let go.
I pressed a hand to my throat, feeling the faint throb of returning warmth. Altair’s proposal loomed large in my mind, but my father’s words had rekindled something fierce in me. This marriage—this absurd challenge—would not be another game for my father to control.
The office wasquiet save for the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. The flames cast glimmering shadows across the dark wood paneling, their movements as erratic and restless as my own thoughts. The leather of my chair creaked as I leaned back, fingers steepled against my lips.
I glanced toward the object resting on the corner of my desk, its silver frame gleaming in the firelight. The Mirror of Truths. An artifact of so-called great power, though I was beginning to think it was more trouble than it was worth. True, it had shown me Celeste’s blood and its connection to the disease ravaging my territory, but beyond that revelation, the mirror had been maddeningly uncooperative.
Time and time again, I had tried to force the mirror to show me which object bound my father’s soul to this estate. He’d frantically tied himself to it, hoping to avoid a curse that had plagued my bloodline for centuries. Those of us with the gift of illusion were cursed with deteriorating minds and madness toward the end of our lives.
Each attempt I made to find the object ended in failure. The Mirror of Truths showed only useless, cryptic fragments. It was like the thing enjoyed watching me stumble around in the dark.
I picked up the mirror and stood. The firelight glinted off its surface as I turned it over, studying it as though I hadn’t alreadydone so a hundred times before. “What good are you if you won’t give me what I need?”
As expected, the mirror remained silent.
I left the office, the heavy oak door creaking slightly as I pulled it open. The halls of the estate held the kind of stillness that came not from peace but from dread. Every servant, every guard knew the truth: my father might be dead, but his shadow still lingered, and it made even the bravest among them tread lightly.
The artifact room was deep within the estate, past a series of locked doors and winding corridors. The walls grew colder as I approached, the air heavier, tinged with the faint metallic scent of old magic. I pushed open the final door, the room’s dim light revealing shelves upon shelves of relics, each one steeped in history and power.
I had searched here before, but my instincts kept pulling me back to this room. If my father had bound his soul to anything, it would be something tied to our bloodline, something significant. A family heirloom. A weapon. Something passed down from one generation to the next.
I held up the mirror, angling it toward the shelves. Its surface shimmered, reflecting the room with an otherworldly clarity. I moved slowly, scanning each object through the glass, waiting for something to stand out.
Nothing did.
The same cursed artifacts, the same dusty heirlooms. No glowing auras, no pulsing magic. Just the same useless junk that had been here for decades.
I clenched my jaw and tightened my grip on the mirror. “Show me,” I demanded. “Show me what I need to see.”
The mirror remained obstinate, its surface blank save for the mundane reflection of the room. My frustration boiled over, my patience snapping like a brittle thread. I hurled the mirroracross the room with a roar that reverberated in my chest. It struck the far wall with a resounding crash.
