"None that we can find, my lord. No damage, no interference, no sign of tampering. The seals appear to be degrading from within." Theron's frustration was evident. "But there's nothing that explains how or why the damage is occurring."
Dante set the dead stone back on the table. After millennia of stable operation, the barriers didn't spontaneously decay.
His shadows curled tighter around his feet.
"You've attempted repairs?"
"Of course, my lord. But..." Theron gestured helplessly at the lifeless fragments scattered across his workspace. "We maintain the system, yes, but we don't truly understand it. Not the way the original architects did. The deepest knowledge was lost centuries ago. We're..." He hesitated, then continued with apparent frustration. "We're caretakers, my lord. Not builders. I can't fix what I don't fully comprehend."
"Useless, then."
Theron flinched but didn't argue. Because it was true. His ward-keepers could maintain functioning systems, replace damaged components, and follow the instructions left by their predecessors. But the fundamental understanding of how the locks actually worked? That knowledge had died with the original architects.
Inconvenient.
And potentially fatal, if this pattern continued.
"Have you contacted the other domains?"
"I sent inquiries yesterday, my lord. Lord Caelum's ward-keeper reports minor fluctuations but no complete failures. The other courts claim no significant issues."
Dante's shadows writhed, agitated.
"Double the patrols," he commanded. "Post shadow-guards at every seal showing signs of instability. And send word to the Archive. I want the original construction records for the ward-stone network."
"My lord, those records are sealed. The Archive-keepers require a formal petition?—"
"They require nothing." Dante's voice dropped to the tone that had silenced entire courts. The temperature in the room plummeted. "They will provide the records, or I will retrieve them personally. The distinction is theirs to make."
Theron bowed quickly, understanding the threat for what it was. "Yes, my lord. I'll send word immediately."
"Good. Dismissed."
The ward-keeper fled in relief.
Dante stood alone in the tower chamber, studying the map. Seventeen locks forming a circle around the central core. No explanation for the failures.
His realm was failing. Possibly all the realms, if the other Death Lords were hiding their own problems.
His shadows writhed around him, restless.
And now, a ceremonial obligation that would waste time watching frightened mortals be claimed by courts that would let them die anyway.
IV.
BRYNN
One Month Later
Brynn shifted against the rough wooden bench of the prison wagon, her wrists chafing where the iron manacles had worn the skin raw. Two days of travel had numbed her to most discomforts, but the sobbing from the girl beside her was beginning to grate on nerves already stretched thin.
"Please," the girl whispered for the hundredth time, tears streaming down cheeks that had probably never known real hunger before today. "Please, there has to be another way. My father has gold, he could pay?—"
"Your father sold you to pay his debts," Brynn said quietly. "Crying won't change that."
Though at least your father was alive to make that choice. Brynn's parents were dead. Had been for ten years now. She shoved the thought down.
Morgan, the girl who'd given her name between sobs, flinched as if she had been struck. Across the wagon, three other tributes sat in their own private misery. A middle-aged woman who hadn't spokensince they'd loaded her into the wagon stared at nothing with empty eyes. A young man barely past boyhood, his lips moving in constant prayer to gods who'd already abandoned him. An older man in merchant's practical clothing sat rigid, jaw clenched, trying to maintain some shred of dignity in the face of inevitable death.
