I find Garric in the carriage house. The old warden is polishing a rusted lantern, his breathing a wet, labored wheeze.
"My lord," Garric says, standing with the aid of his cane. "You have returned."
"The perimeter," I command, shedding the velvet cloak. "Activate the dormant ward sentinels along the eastern and western boundary walls. Double the automated patrol routes. I want the outer gates sealed with lethal intent. Nothing crosses the threshold without being turned to ash."
Garric’s pale eyes widen. "Is the court marching?"
"The court is the least of our concerns," I murmur, staring at the looming, shadowed architecture of the main house. The structure itself feels alive, watching me with a million unseen, malevolent eyes.
"What of the groundskeepers?" Garric asks, gesturing vaguely toward the distant, outer gatehouses where the few remaining servants of the estate reside, far from the lethal proximity of the main manor.
"Prepare evacuation plans for the outer staff," I instruct him, my tone grim and absolute. "Quietly. Have them pack provisions and prepare the carriage horses. If the central ward column in the main hall shifts from gold to violet, they are to ride for the deep caverns and never return."
"And you, Lord Khaelor?"
I look at the heavy oak doors of the manor. Inside, Mireya is hiding in the dark, her body deteriorating under the sheer psychic weight of a parasite trying to claim her soul.
"I am going to find our guest," I say, the black-gold light flaring fiercely along my forearms. It is time for our long overdue confrontation.
15
MIREYA
My wooden training blade shatters against the ironwood pillar, the crack deafening in the cavernous expanse of the dueling hall.
I drop the splintered hilt, my chest heaving, the sweat stinging my eyes. The physical exhaustion does nothing to silence the relentless, splitting pressure inside my skull. The phantom chant from the catacombs—Let the house consume itself!—scrapes against the inside of my temples. The voice is mine. The hatred is mine. But the memory is a black void. The obsidian relic is a parasite, infecting my blood, overwriting my sanity with the ghost of a slaughtered witch.
The temperature in the hall violently plummets.
The scent of crushed ash and raw power floods the stagnant air. I spin around, my boots slipping slightly on the scarred obsidian floor.
Khaelor stands in the archway. He wears a loose, dark tunic, unlaced at the throat, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the feral, blinding radiance of the veins mapping his forearms. The lethal gravity of his presence crashes into me, making breathing difficult.
"I ordered Garric to inform you that you are to remain in your quarters," he says, the syllables bleeding out rough and low, scraping against the broken weapons lining the walls.
"I am suffocating in my quarters," I snap back, refusing to retreat as he steps onto the dueling floor. "My mind is fracturing, Khaelor. The artifact... it is planting things in my head. I hear voices. I hearmyvoice chanting the rot that destroyed your family."
He does not flinch at the confession. He crosses the distance with the predatory, unhurried stalk of a creature cornering its prey.
"The relic is not planting memories," he murmurs, the lethal heat of his aura washing over me as he closes the distance to ten paces. "It is waking the curse. Theryn Duskryn did not send you to this estate to observe me, Mireya. I have read the mandate's unredacted seal. There is an execution clause. The court knows your magical signature is a dormant, compatible vessel. You are not a researcher. You are the missing anchor."
The revelation violently kicks the air from my lungs. "An anchor..."
"The curse wants to complete the circuit," Khaelor continues, his jaw locked in agonizing tension.Five paces."It wants to consume your life force to finish the slaughter. If you stay in this house, if you keep digging into the Blackflame ashes, the magic will devour you from the inside out."
He has confirmed my suspicions and fear. Is this the only fate for a human like me? To be used? To die for the Dark Elves?
"You knew this," I breathe, sparking a fierce, volatile anger in me. "You knew the court sent me as a catalyst, and you hid it behind proximity tests! You’re the same as those elders, and your House! What can I expect from someone who hails from House Venn?"
"I hid it to keep you from running straight into the fire!" he roars, the sudden volume shaking the dust from the vaulted ceiling. “I have warned you!”
"I am already in the fire!" I step directly into his lethal perimeter, closing the distance to three paces. The heat radiating off his skin is blistering. "I cannot trust my own thoughts! I do not know if the magic is overwriting my identity or if I am losing my mind. You lock me in a room while the essence of this estate tries to crawl into my skull!"
Khaelor’s eyes blaze, the molten amber swallowing the pupil entirely. The air pressure collapses. He steps forward, intending to force me back, to re-establish the agonizing boundary that has kept me alive.
I refuse to yield. I shove my hands against his chest—aiming for the thick canvas of his tunic.
But my boot catches on a jagged ridge of melted slag from our previous spar.
