I abandon the windows, crossing to the door. I press my palm flat against the timber, tracking the metallic, armored shifts of the two Miou warriors stationed in the corridor.
I strike my fist against the wood.
The grinding of armor ceases.
"What are your names?" I pitch the demand through the solid timber.
Baffled quiet follows. Finally, a rough baritone bleeds through the wood. "We are the perimeter watch, surface-dweller."
"That is a rank, not a name." I lean my forehead against the wood, refusing to yield to the intimidation of the unseen. "If I am to be caged in this wing, I require the knowledge of who breathes on the other side of this timber. Tell me your names."
The ensuing silence bristles with profound, uncomfortable hesitation. The Khuzuth do not exchange pleasantries with livestock.
"Kaelen." The rough voice yields first.
"Voss." A second, leaner baritone follows the breach in protocol.
"Kaelen. Voss." I commit the syllables to memory, cataloging the variables alongside the trade routes and the survival tallies of the Lowtowns. "Thank you. Do not lock your knees while you stand guard. It restricts the blood flow."
I retreat from the door, leaving the two lethal immortals to process the fracture in their hierarchy. I sink onto the silk-draped mattress, letting the pale light wash over my battered skin.
Zhetrin Thosti dragged me into his pristine, calculated world to balance his political ledgers.
He is about to discover the exact, brutal sum of what happens when you trap a survivor of the Lowtowns inside a Khuzuth stronghold.
4
ZHETRIN
The crimson wax seal of Patriarch Varynth fractures beneath my thumb.
I press the parchment flat against the ironwood desk. The script is severe, slashed onto the page with the arrogant, sweeping strokes of the head of House Thosti. I do not need to read the entirety of the missive to grasp its meaning. The wordsdisgrace, lineage,anderadicationbleed through the ink. Varynth demands the mortal be disposed of before the High Assembly convenes, balancing the ledger of my recent indiscretion.
Seven cycles have passed since I dragged the human from the Undercity mud. Seven days of isolating my mind within this study, burying my focus in the harvest records, trade routes, and tithe negotiations required to counter Lord Kryven’s mounting retaliation against my borders.
I have not crossed her path since I stationed her within the eastern wing. I calculated she would cower. I assumed she would wither into the darkness of my estate, terrified of the Khuzuth predators pacing beyond her doors.
The magic resting beneath my skin stirs—a dense, volatile pressure that coats my tongue with crushed ash and burning earth. I let the power bleed into my fingertips. The edges of the missive blacken, curling inward before erupting into a swift, silent flame. I drop the burning remnants into the brass basin, leaving the Patriarch’s commands to dissolve into useless soot.
No one dictates the inventory of my halls. Not even my bloodline.
I breach the corridor, my boots striking the floor. Instantly, the flawless, engineered void of my estate fractures.
The Thosti stronghold is a fortress of eternal gloom. Yet, a jarring slash of pale, refracted light cuts across the stone. The onyx velvet drapes—sealed tight for three centuries—have been wrenched open, pinned back with coarse twine to allow the weak glow of the crystal grates to flood the hall.
I halt within the illumination. The warmth is faint, but it exists.
Further down the corridor, Voss, a Miou warrior assigned to the eastern perimeter, guards his post. The lethal, coiled tension of a dark elf guard is absent. The warrior is tearing a bite from a dense cut of honeyed flatbread.
Voss paralyzes. A visible tremor works down his throat as my focus pins him down.
"Voss." The quiet, carrying rumble of my voice strikes the hall.
The warrior snaps into a rigid salute, his armored knuckles cracking against his breastplate. "Lord Zhetrin."
"You are consuming rations on watch."
A visible tremor works down the warrior's throat as he glances toward the guest corridor. "She... the mortal, my lord. Megan. She calculated the exact duration of our guard rotations. She claimed a warrior’s reflexes slow when the stomach ishollow. She brings us provisions from the lower kitchens before the second bell."
