Pale, silver-white hair tumbled over his shoulders like thin webs, a stark contrast to the cavernous void of his eyes that gleamed like a dying fire. The mere presence of him carried a power so terrifying, the echo of Alora’s heartbeat pounded in her ears.
“Lord Sal’vathar,” Rune greeted. His fingers slid down Alora’s shoulder and gently squeezed her arm, a reminder to stay calm.
“King of Darkness,” Sal’vathar replied, his voice like silk over razors. “We are delighted to at last greet your mortal bride.” His gaze slid to hers, his expression unreadable.
Alora kept her own impassive, pretending she wasn’t trembling inside, though all of her had gone cold. “A pleasure to meet you again, Lord Sal’vathar,” she said with idle ease. “My husband has told me much about you.”
His black lips twitch slightly. “Grotesque things, I hope.”
She returned a sharp smile. “The vilest.”
Sal’vathar made a sound that almost sounded like a laugh. He tipped his head slightly, in acknowledgement rather than a bow. “Then I hope my gift may please you, O’ Shadow King, for I offer you a gift of remembrance.”
Everyone looked to the doors as they opened again. Large arachnids crawled in, their legs clicking on the marble. On their backs they carried massive effigies of stone of grotesque beings Alora didn’t recognize but sensed that sheshould. The air thickened, shadows whispering in a distorted hum.
Calla inhaled a sharp breath, her complexion pale. “The Primordials.”
A startled hush fell over the crowd.
Rune’s expression went perfectly still. The only thing to move in the room were the arachnids depositing the statues against the walls, three on each side.
The largest of them looked like a writhing storm about to consume everything. Faceless yet one slitted eye at its center bore into her.
Sal’vathar’s voice dripped with casual politeness. “Samhain began with the Primordials. I thought it fitting to honor them once more.”
Rune’s smile was tight, cold. “How thoughtful.”
The torches dimmed as if the statues drank in the light.
The intensity of ancient power rippled through her bones, and when she looked at Rune, she saw the fury in his taut features and the effort it took not to destroy Sal’vathar where he stood.
“I too will bless you with remembrance,” Rune told him with eerie calm. “The next time the seven factions gather, you will be reminded how the Realms began.”
Sal’vathar’s expression remained neutral, though his twitching limbs gave his unease away.
How did they begin?Alora whispered in his mind.
A cold smile hovered at his lips.With the creation of the Gates, where each soul passes at their beginning… and at their end.
Ah.
Rune lifted his goblet, addressing the court. “Every year, Samhain marks the hour the Netherworld breathes as one with the realms above. It’s a time of indulgence, remembrance, and offerings. A night where even the dead may dance again.”
The demons cheered and clapped, the war faction beating their armored chests.
“Now let us sit and feast tonight.” With a wave of Rune’s arm, the ground groaned as a section of the floor opened to bring in six tables that expanded the hall, already fixed with gilded plates, candelabras and set up with platters of food.
A new table appeared below the dais, set with six grand chairs, each one was carved differently. Some elegant, some grotesque, shaped like creatures long dead.
The seats of the Dominions.
By the time everyone was seated, Karag Dûr was absorbed the infernal statues into the wall without anyone noticing.
Alora released a faint, shaky exhale and met Rune’s pleased smirk. His shadows curled around her arm, gently tickling her skin as his nose trailed over her ear.
You may survive this yet,he said through their connection, his breath falling like smoke over her neck.
Alora shivered.Don’t try to distract me. I haven’t forgotten our discussion.
