The room seemed built for isolation. The high ceiling disappeared into shadows where chandeliers of fused vertebrae hung like inverted spines, their cold blue flames casting everything in ghostly light. The walls were lined with more death-woven tapestries. Scenes rendered inthread so fine the figures seemed to breathe. A king dying on his throne while his court celebrated, unaware. A ship sinking beneath waves made of grasping hands. Lovers embracing as darkness crept up behind them.
The table was carved from wood so dark it was almost black, polished to a gleam. Candelabras lined its length—spinal columns rising from the surface with candles nestled in the topmost vertebrae, their flames flickering silver instead of gold. The chairs had armrests that ended in skeletal hands, fingers curled as if waiting to grip whoever sat in them.
Shadows gathered in the corners and along the walls, deeper than they should have been. They moved when nothing else did, shifting and coiling.
His power. Restless even during dinner.
Servants appeared and disappeared like ghosts, placing plates and filling glasses before melting back into dim corners. The food was elaborate—roasted fowl with rosemary, root vegetables glazed in honey, and brown bread. The wine was rich and smooth, with an aftertaste that lingered like smoke.
Everything was perfect. And completely awkward.
He sat at the far end, framed by those skeletal armrests. His posture was flawless, his attention focused on his meal.
Probably never had a day of back pain in his immortal life.
She caught herself slouching and straightened.
He'd removed the ceremonial armor but kept the long sleeves and gloves. Still maintaining that barrier even while dining.
She watched him cut his meat with exact movements, managing knife and fork with ease. Everything about him was controlled, like he'd spent a lifetime perfecting the art of never making an unnecessary movement.
She lasted approximately five minutes before the silence became unbearable.
"So," she said, raising her voice. "Interesting day at court."
He continued to cut his meat without looking up. "Was it?"
His voice carried easily across twenty feet of table, doing inconvenient things to her pulse that she firmly ignored.
"The representative from the Mourned Court seemed friendly," she tried.
He looked up at her, silverware paused midway to his mouth. "Friendly."
Flat. Skeptical. Like she'd just suggested the sky was yellow.
"Well, not friendly exactly." She was already regretting this attempt at conversation. "But diplomatic? Polite?" She gestured vaguely with her fork, avoiding the spinal candelabra near her plate. "She seemed very interested in the ward-lock problems."
"Indeed."
One word. He'd given her one word and gone back to his meal like the conversation was finished.
This was going to be a long dinner.
She took a sip of wine and tried again. "Have you known the other Death Lords long?"
"Centuries."
"That's a long time to work with the same people." She was determined to extract more than single-word responses if it killed her. Which, given where she was, remained a distinct possibility. "Do you get along well?"
His knife and fork clinked against the plate. "We coexist."
"Right. Coexist." She attacked her vegetables with more force than necessary, honey glaze making them shine. "And the emergency council meeting…is that a regular thing, or...?"
"No."
She waited for him to elaborate. He didn't. Just kept eating, as if this were an everyday dinner conversation.
Maybe for him it was. Maybe he'd forgotten how to talk to people after so long of everyone being too terrified to speak to him.
