I do not stop my advance until I reach the inner side of the boundary wall. A massive, wrought-iron gate stands between the estate grounds and the court soldiers.
The moment my proximity intersects with the metal, the curse bleeds outward. The heavy iron latches hiss. A violent, rapid oxidization blooms across the thick metal bars. In the span of three seconds, the iron blisters, scales into thick layers of orange rust, and disintegrates into a cloud of fetid red dust. The massive gates groan, their structural integrity annihilated, and collapse outward onto the cobblestones with a deafening, hollow crash.
The enforcers instantly raise their halberds, their combat stances locking into place.
I step through the ruined archway, my boots crushing the rusted ash of the gate. "Your weapons are useless here, Vaelor," I state. My voice is low, carrying the grave, unhurried cadence of a man who has nothing left to lose. "Lower them, or the ambient decay will rot the steel to the hilts."
Vaelor’s jaw tightens. He signals sharply, and the weapons are slowly lowered, though the tension in their lines remains absolute. "Lord Khaelor."
"You trespass on quarantined grounds," I say, my molten amber eyes locking onto the Captain. "State your court business and depart."
"I bring orders from Archmagister Theryn," Vaelor replies, stepping aside to reveal the human woman fully. "And a new assignment."
My gaze shifts to her.
She is a fragile thing, as all humans are in this brutal world, yet she does not stand like a creature brought to the slaughter. Her warm brown skin is dusted with faint gold undertones that seem entirely out of place beneath the lightless canopy of the Undercity. A thick, chaotic mass of black curls is tied back from her face, exposing sharp cheekbones and a strong, stubborn jaw. She wears the worn, practical leathers of a ruin-runner.
She is small. The top of her head would barely reach the center of my chest. Against the towering, armored bulk of the Dark Elf enforcers, she should appear entirely broken.
She is not. Her wide, dark eyes lift to mine, and she does not flinch. She studies the tall, lean frame of my body, the aristocratic severity of my features, and the unnatural, heavy shadow that clings to me. She looks at the monster of Venn Manor, and she does not cower. She analyzes.
"Her name is Mireya," Vaelor announces, extending a sealed parchment cylinder. I do not touch it. I let the magic in the airslowly corrode the wax seal until it splits. "She is assigned as your magical attunement liaison. Under observation mandate."
A profound, dangerous silence descends upon the ruined courtyard.
Observation mandate. The court has sent me scholars before. Arrogant mages convinced they could siphon the blood curse, bind it, or study its lethality. Three of them died. One dissolved into a smear of organic matter on my library floor when the curse flared. Another burned from the inside out when a containment spell fractured.
I step forward. The enforcers immediately take a half-step back, their discipline fracturing under the primal terror of my proximity.
The human—Mireya—does not move.
I stop exactly three paces from her. It is the absolute limit of my controlled threshold. Any closer, and the volatile energy weeping from my skin will begin to alter the cellular structure of her body.
I lift my right arm and deliberately pull back the heavy sleeve of my cloak. The veins mapping my forearm pulse with a violent, toxic light, illuminating the space between us. The air hums, smelling of scorched earth.
"Look closely," I command her, my tone devoid of inflection.
Her dark eyes drop to my exposed skin. She watches the curse writhe beneath my flesh. Her chest moves in a steady rhythm. There is no tremor of terror in her hands.
"That gate was iron. Solid iron." I lower my arm, but I do not break her gaze. I force the reality of my existence upon her, wielding my monstrosity as a shield. "You should consider what my touch does to flesh. The court has not sent you here to observe me. They have sent you here to die."
"I am aware of my mortality, Lord Khaelor," she replies. Her voice is clear, earnest, and completely devoid of the trembling deference expected of her caste. "I intend to keep it."
A muscle in my jaw tightens. Stubborn. Foolish. She does not understand the absolute gravity of the rot she has stepped into.
I turn my back to her, sweeping my gaze over the estate courtyard. "Garric!"
From the shadows of the carriage house, the heavy, limping footfalls of the estate warden approach. Old Garric, the last human servant loyal to my fallen house, stops at a safe distance. He smells faintly of smoke and iron polish.
"My lord," Garric rasps.
"Prepare the east wing. The sealed corridors," I instruct him, my voice carrying back to the enforcers. "She is to remain entirely separate from the main estate. Forbid the remaining staff from approaching either of us during the required proximity trials. If she breaches the containment lines, do not attempt to retrieve her."
I turn back to Vaelor. With a slight motion of two fingers, I telekinetically pull the parchment from his gauntlet. The paper immediately begins to brown and crisp at the edges as it hovers in my corrupted aura.
I read the flowing, political script of Theryn Duskryn. The words are framed in academic curiosity, but it is polite fiction. The court does not view her as a scholar. They view her as a canary sent into a toxic mine. The fine print below says it all.
...authorized lethal containment if the subject’s curse destabilizes beyond acceptable thresholds.
