She was my teacher once.
Before she clutched her pearls and cried “abomination” when I asked why we couldn’t keep our best dreams for ourselves.
I draw in a breath and the air tastes of smoke and fear and the metallic tang of sliced wards.
Down below, Masielle’s protections flare weakly, old sigils flaring on the rock face before fading.
She’s clever. But old. And alone.
The perfect key.
“They tell themselves I’m mad,” I murmur, tracing idle circles in the air with my staff. “That I seek destruction for its own sake. That I want only power.”
Do I want power? Of course.
What leader doesn’t?
But this?
This is something else.
“Nightfall is being harvested,” I say calmly. “The Lords posture like kings, yet they bow to the idea of service. They bend their necks to a Crown that was forged to siphon them.”
The Prime’s Crown.
Its pulse is faint even from here, damped by distance and wards. Locked away like some holy relic in The Barrow now, if my spies are to be believed. The last foolish place Dagan would think to hide it—the heart of his precious lands.
“You think the Prime ruled?” I laugh softly. “He was ruled. A focal point, a mouthpiece for a design older than Nightfall.”
“Master—” the acolyte starts.
I flick my fingers and silence him. Not with magic. With a look.
“They do not see the chains,” I continue. “But I do. Chains that run from the Crown through the Lords and into every sanctum. Every forge. Every blade and dream. They let the multiverse dictate the flow of power. Little worlds that burn their own homes and children and then whimper in their sleep for comfort.”
I grin, teeth flashing in the dark.
“What if we stop answering?” I ask the cliff. “What if Nightfall keeps its fire? Its ore? Its dreams? What if we are the ones to decide who is worthy of hope?”
The stone is silent.
But it trembles.
Good.
“Master.” Another voice, this one drifting up from below, carried by spell and smoke. “We are at her door. The wards are weakening.”
“Very well,” I say, feeling my heart begin to beat faster. Not with fear. With anticipation.
Finally.
“Hold, then retreat once I have what I need. Do not kill her. Do not damage her hands or her eyes. If she breaks before I am done, I will make a tapestry of your insides.”
Their chorus of acknowledgments is immediate. Breathless.
They believe in me.
They should.
