Page 97 of The Vespertine Treaty

I didn't ask the magic to work; I commanded it. I poured my own power—the heavy, suffocating weight of the Death Touch—into the delicate crystal.

The reaction was violent. The orb flared, shooting a beam of pure clarity into the empty air ahead.

The air shattered.

Like a mirror cracking, the empty landscape splintered and fell away, revealing the truth hidden behind the Obscurer’s curtain.

A fortress.

It was a monstrosity of black stone and iron, perched precariously on the cliff edge, surrounded by swirling vortexes of grey mist. Malathor’s lair.

"Kill them all," I said to Rhana. "Leave Malathor to me."

We moved.

We didn't run; we struck.

The first line of defence was a unit of mercenaries stationed at the gate. There were ten of them. Heavily armoured, weapons drawn, looking confident in their numbers.

They didn't stand a chance.

I didn't even slow down. I reached the first male, a big specimen wielding knives. He swung. I sidestepped, moving faster than humanly possible, and placed my hand on his forehead.

The Death Touch needed skin contact to work. That and intent.

I turned the dial to max.

The metal of his armour turned grey instantly. The male inside didn't even have time to scream. His life force was ripped from him in a violent abyss, his body withering, turning to ash inside his suit. He collapsed, a pile of empty armour and dust.

The others hesitated. That was their mistake.

My sword sang.

I became a whirlwind of ruin. I severed heads, limbs, and their weapons with efficient, brutal grace. I wasn't fighting; I was cleaning. I was removing obstacles that stood between me and Ophelia, all while consuming the pain I inflicted.

Rhana was a blur of violence beside me, tearing throats out, her shadow-form allowing her to slip through guards like smoke and solidify only to kill.

We breached the heavy doors of the estate, Rhana’s armoured shoulder slamming into the timber with a bone-shaking crunch that turned the ancient wood to shrapnel.

The main hall was vast, lit by floating torches that burned with a cold, blue flame.

And there, waiting for me, was the barrier.

It wasn't a wall. It was a field of distorted gravity and solidified shadow—Obscurer magic of the highest order. It rippled acrossthe center of the hall, separating me from the grand staircase that led to the upper levels.

And behind it, standing on the landing, was Malathor.

He looked unbothered. Arrogant. He held a glass of wine in one hand, his other resting on the railing. Perched on his shoulder was his familiar—Evar. His cursed raven, the size of an eagle, its feathers shimmering with an oil-slick iridescence, its eyes burning with intelligent malice.

"You are louder than I expected, Cain," Malathor called out, his voice amplified by the acoustics of the hall. "I thought you preferred the shadows."

"I am the shadow," I replied, my voice calm, dead. "And I have come to swallow you whole."

I stepped toward the barrier.

"You can try," Malathor sneered. "These are Ancient Wards, Cain. Woven with?—"

I swung my sword into the field.