She lands lightly in front of him. Her skin is pale, almost untouched by whatever has claimed the rest of Morrath. Black wings fold behind her. Two curved horns frame her face, elegant rather than grotesque.
"Majesty."
"Ivernet," he says. "How are the preparations coming along?" For six long months his gift for Asharin had been worked on. He was ready to see some results.
Her smile is small and controlled. "Lovely. Allow me to show you."
He studies her for a moment, then nods. "I wish for a full meal while I am here."
"Of course." Her expression does not shift. "Yorali was kind enough to provide provisions this morning. Fresh from the Sorting Hall."
They enter the palace. The temperature drops immediately. The air thickens, carrying the scent of blood layered over something older. The guards do not move. Their eyes follow instead, too many joints, too still in the wrong places.
"King Axar of Korakar personally selected your staff, as commanded," Ivernet says.
Sevrin smiles. Not at the answer. At something behind it. "How kind of him."
The group of workers from the pit huddles together, chains dragging at their ankles. One of them shuffles forward and bows, trembling. "Majesty, my name is Worvis. I have heard, in stories,that humans cannot live in Morrath, only feeders. So how are we here?"
Sevrin looks at him. "Oh, Worvis, you are right. Humans cannot live in Morrath. Which is why you aren't human."
Ortsan went pale. "The magic used to cast you into Morrath is exceptional. The moment you crossed the threshold into Morrath, your heart stopped beating, and it will never beat again. If you were to leave Morrath, you would fall into ash."
He smiles reassuringly. "But do not worry, there is plenty of work to be done here. And so long as you stay in Morrath you will feel alive, at any rate."
A quiet sound escapes the maid. The cook's hands begin to shake. The dressmaker stares too long at something she should not be looking at.
Sevrin continues walking.
He stops only once.
"Cook."
The man jerks. "Yes, Majesty."
"When my guest arrives, I will require fowl. And dessert. A great deal of it." He pauses. "All utensils that come into contact with her mouth are to be preserved."
The cook blinks. Does not understand. Then understands. What little color he had left drains from his face.
"Yes, Majesty."
Sevrin turns. "Come."
The staircase is wide enough to impress and tall enough to exhaust, the kind of thing built to remind people of their place with every step they take. At the top he opens the doors without pausing.
The maid gasps. The dressmaker follows a heartbeat later.
The entire floor is mirrors, curving and twisting through the space in endless paths, reflecting light that has no source, multiplying the room until it feels as though it stretches far beyond the walls that contain it. A labyrinth of glass and refracted nothing.
Sevrin steps inside. "Once our guest arrives, she will not leave," he says conversationally. "The mere thought distresses me." He glances back at them. "I thought this might make the space feel more open. Do you agree?"
"Yes, Majesty," the maid says quickly. "It is very thoughtful."
"Good. I want each mirror scrubbed. Clean. Perfect."
"Majesty, there are so many?—"
He brings his hands together once.
