“You would only need to stay long enough to give birth and recover,” Uralish adds. “You’ve gained favor here since the… incident.” His mouth twitches faintly. “The problem is not the people. It’s the fact that your children would be born on Alarnan soil.”
Colsar runs a hand through his hair. "Shalvar isn't the danger," he says quietly. "Getting there is. The undead between here and the mountains alone?—"
"The undead are not your greatest concern," Uralish says.
We both look at him.
"There are worse things out there," he says. "And before either of you goes anywhere, you need to understand what you are walking into."
“What do you mean?” I ask, wondering what could possibly be worse than the undead.
He studies us for a long moment before speaking. “When you were in Veynar,” he says, “did either of you ever hear of the Blind Gate?”
“No,” I answer immediately.
Beside me, Colsar hesitates. “Yes. My father mentioned it once or twice. Never in detail. Why?”
Uralish lets out a low, humorless laugh. “They raise rulers and fail to teach them the most basic truths.”
My stomach tightens.
“Speak plainly,” I say.
“The Blind Gate leads to Morrath. It is a land where Feeders have fed for centuries without restraint,” he says. “So much that the humans there have become something else entirely.”
He meets my eyes. “They’re called Morraks.”
The name feels wrong in my mind. Heavy.
“They are what happens when feeding goes too far. Faster than the undead. Stronger. They fly. And they hunt.”
Morrath. Suddenly I remember. “Petunis said that the man who knows what happened to my mother lives there.”
Uralish snorts. “Axar. That fucker may still be alive. He was always obsessed with Ryaran. That is what feeders do, they fixate.” He sighs. “He likely will kill anyone with the last name Rathmor, including you, Asharin.”
“Why?”
“Your husband’s father is the one that trapped him there, preventing him from getting revenge for Ryaran, from killing everyone that stood in his path.”
He shrugs. “So Morrath does have its uses, I suppose.”
My breath stills.
“As for the Morraks, they do not respond to lightcraft. Fire can kill them, but only if you’re fast enough. And they are rarely slow.”
“The Gate was created to contain them,” he continues. “Hundreds of thousands of them. Maybe more.”
Silence settles over us.
“To release them in force,” he says, “requires Yorali deathmagic. And a key.”
I already know.
“Who controls it?” I ask anyway.
“King Sevrin.”
Colsar is on his feet instantly. “Fuck.”
