In the center of the room, standing within a circle of symbols that glowed brighter than the rest, stood The Reaper.
But not the Death Lord she'd grown accustomed to seeing.
This version wore a black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle. Pants that actually fit his form instead of formal court attire. Worn boots planted firmly in the runic circle. His dark hair was tied back, not left loose as it usually was.
He still wore his gloves.
But seeing him like this—sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, dressed for work instead of intimidation—sent heat crawling up her neck.
Stop that.He's still a Death Lord who could kill you with a thought.
Her eyes caught on the line of his wrists where glove met bare skin, then snapped back to his face before he could notice.
Too late.
His gaze traveled over the clothes he'd selected, and for a moment his mask slipped. Then indifference settled back into place.
"You wanted to see me?" she said, proud that her voice didn’t waver.
"The ward-locks are failing faster than expected," he said. "We need to understand why."
The door closed behind her with a sound like joints settling, and Brynn realized this was no casual meeting. Whatever he'd brought her down here to see, it was severe enough to warrant descending to the palace's foundations.
"And what am I supposed to do about failing ward-locks?" she asked.
He stepped out of the runic circle, shadows shifting around him as he moved. The practical clothes made him less intimidating somehow. Or maybe just intimidating in a different way. Less "the embodiment of death" and more "extremely dangerous man who knows exactly what he's doing."
Her lips pressed into a flat line.
Great. So much better.
"Follow me," he said, already moving toward an archway.
He led her through the opening framed by massive formations carved with more of those pulsing runes. Beyond it lay another room, carved from the very heart of the palace's bedrock.
This chamber was smaller, more claustrophobic. The walls pressed close, entirely fossilized remains fused into solid barriers. The air thrummed with energy.
Built directly into the walls were mechanisms of crystal and metal, pulsing with energy. Most radiated a steady glow, their components turning in patterns that seemed almost organic, like the mechanisms had grown here rather than been installed.
But one stood out.
Its light flickered erratically, stuttering between vibrant blue and sickly yellow. Gears twisted and strained against one another, the grinding echoing off the walls with an almost pained quality. Crystal components shimmered with unstable energy, as if caught in a struggle.
Even from across the room, she could sense the chaotic energy. Something was deeply wrong.
"These locks maintain the barriers between realms," he said, his voice quieter than usual. The chamber seemed to absorb sound, making even his low tones feel intimate. "The failing one is a primary stabilizer. If it goes completely dark, souls will be able to cross between life and death without control."
As she studied the chaotic patterns, something strange began to happen. The longer she looked, the more layers revealed themselves. Not just the surface mechanisms, but deeper currents of energy weaving between the components. Patterns that danced and intertwined, resonating in her mind in ways she couldn't quite grasp.
She knew this. Somehow, she knew how this worked.
"You've tried to repair it?" she asked, though she suspected she knew the answer.
"I lack the skills to work with mechanisms this intricate." His jaw tightened slightly. Barely noticeable, but she was learning to read his micro-expressions. "These locks require a skill I don't possess."
He'd just admitted weakness. To her.
He moved to a stone alcove and withdrew a weathered leather pouch from a hidden crevice. From it, he produced several small tools that looked similar to the ones she'd taken from that noble's chest. But these were larger, more complex, each one expertly crafted.
