"Seal the lower catacomb doors," I instruct him, staring at the fused iron of the cabinet. "Change the ward configurationson the stairwell to warn me if she ever gets close here. Monitor her movements through the eastern wing."
"She is looking for a cure, Lord Khaelor," Garric rasps softly, a rare note of defense in his tone. "She is the only one who has ever survived long enough to search."
"She is looking for the missing anchor," I correct him, the grim reality settling heavy in the frozen air of the library. "And if she continues to dig through the ashes of the Blackflame Coven, the curse will eat her."
I turn, my molten eyes catching the light of the lumen-orb.
"It will annihilate her."
13
MIREYA
To breathe the midnight shadows of Venn Manor is to inhale a drowning tide. It sits like lead in the lungs, thick with the metallic bite of tarnished silver and the creeping decay of the man who rules it."
I move through the lightless corridors of the eastern wing, my boots making no sound against the salt-rimed marble. My skull throbs, a persistent, rhythmic ache radiating from the base of my neck. Khaelor ordered me to remain in my quarters. He demanded I cease digging into the ashes of the Blackflame Coven.
But I cannot stop. The house will not let me.
The floorboards vibrate beneath my feet, a low, tectonic hum guiding me back toward the lower catacombs.
I reach the heavy iron vault door. The metal is laced with a new, defensive lattice of pale violet energy, thrumming with a lethal warning. To touch the iron would invite a shockwave of localized rot. He changed them.
Yet, as I bring the dull light of my lumen-orb closer, the intricate geometry of the runes reveals a flaw.
The sequence is incomplete. A gap in the arcane circuit lingers near the lower hinge. It is not an error of age or decay; it seems to be a deliberate, precise omission.
Garric. It can only be him. He is helping me by leaving me a path through the briar. It is obvious, he needs me to find the cure.
I press my disruption charm against the gap. The violet energy stutters, holding its lethal charge back just long enough for me to slip the heavy iron latch and slide through the narrow opening.
The catacombs are freezing. I bypass the central viewing table, and the massive iron cabinet. The ambient magic in the room pulls me deeper, past the organized bureaucracy of House Venn, to the raw, unpolished stone of the farthest wall.
My leather satchel vibrates. The obsidian relic hums, a frantic, vibrating warmth pressing against my hip.
I press my bare palm against the blank masonry. The faint, golden undertones under my skin flare, answering the desperate pulse of the artifact.
The stone ripples. It does not grind or crack; the solid rock simply dissolves into a heavy, black mist, revealing a narrow cavity hollowed directly into the foundation.
A hidden compartment. Khaelor remains unaware of this, I am sure of it. The dormant Blackflame wards of the estate actively hid it from him.
Inside the alcove rests a stack of leather-bound texts. They are not the same as the sterile, geometric ledgers of the Dark Elf courts. They are bound in rough, cured hide, their edges singed and stinking of old smoke.
Confiscated grimoires. The true, untampered remnants of the Blackflame purge.
I pull the top volume from the hollow. The leather is brittle, threatening to disintegrate under the pressure of my fingers. Icarry it to the viewing table, the relic at my side emitting a high, agonizing frequency that sets my teeth on edge.
I open the book.
The pages are thick with chaotic, sprawling script. There are no neat columns or authorized seals. The ink is dark, rusted at the edges. I turn the vellum, the scent of dried blood and crushed lavender flooding the stagnant air, until I reach the center of the grimoire.
The page is dominated by a massive, intricate ritual diagram. It is not drawn in ink. The lines are textured, thick and abrasive, sketched directly onto the parchment with coarse black ash.
I reach out. My fingertip brushes the abrasive edge of the ash circle.
The relic screams.
The catacombs vanish. The pale light of the lumen-orb is instantly swallowed by an apocalyptic, roaring dark. The temperature spikes, a blistering, suffocating inferno that strips the oxygen from my lungs. I am standing on scorched earth, surrounded by a towering wall of black fire.
