“An hour to prepare the old portal. Maybe two for—” He sees my expression. “One hour, master. I'll make it work in one hour.”
I stride toward the armory, selecting weapons designed for close killing. Blades that have tasted blood and hunger for more. The shadow servants cluster around me as I arm myself, their forms flickering between translucent and fully solid.
“You risked dissolution to protect her,” I tell Scratch.
“She matters to you. Therefore she matters.” His form stabilizes slightly. “I would do it again.”
“You won't have to. After tonight, no one will dare touch what's mine.”
Scratch leads me to chambers I haven't visited in decades. Ancient stone carved before my time, inlaid with symbols that predate current magical understanding. At the center, a circular platform surrounded by standing stones—the old portal network, dormant for generations.
“The tracking charm will guide us,” Scratch says, beginning the complex ritual to awaken the stones. His damaged form flickers with each gesture, but he doesn't stop. “Directly to her location.”
The ritual takes every minute of the hour I gave him. By the time the gateway opens, Scratch has collapsed twice from the effort. But the portal stabilizes, revealing a stone corridor lit by torches.
“Vasek's stronghold,” he gasps. “Lower levels. She's... high above. Top of the structure.”
I step through without hesitation, the shadow servants flowing behind me.
The stronghold around me is all carved stone and iron—functional architecture designed for strength rather than beauty. Vasek's taste runs to intimidation through power, not aesthetic refinement.
The first guard I encounter dies before he can cry out. My claws open his throat, silencing him permanently. The second manages to draw his sword before I tear his head from his shoulders.
I don't fight them so much as simply end them. Each death feeds the berserker state, stripping away more layers of civilization until only the apex predator remains.
More guards respond to the sounds of violence, rushing down stairs in formation. Professional soldiers with quality equipment and years of training. Under normal circumstances, they might slow me down.
These are not normal circumstances.
I flow through them like liquid death. Where I pass, bodies fall in pieces. The stone walls run red with blood, and my footprints leave crimson trails on the floors.
The shadow servants join the slaughter, solid enough now to grip weapons and throttle enemies. Together, we paint Vasek's stronghold in the color of his failure.
The throne room waits at the structure's peak, reached by stairs carved from single blocks of stone. I climb slowly, leaving bloody handprints on the walls. Each step echoes through the fortress, announcing my approach to whoever waits above.
Each step promises death climbing toward them.
The throne room doors are heavy oak reinforced with iron—practical barriers rather than artistic statements. I don't knock or call for entry or issue challenges. I simply tear them from their hinges when they don't open fast enough.
Inside, Vasek waits beside a throne carved from obsidian. He's dressed in formal robes, trying to maintain dignity despite the sounds of slaughter that preceded my arrival. His face shows strain, but no real fear yet.
That changes when he sees me.
Braith sits in a chair across from him, unharmed but constrained by the same reality-distortion field he used in my castle. When she sees me—covered in blood, eyes burning gold, claws still extended from the killing—relief flares through the bond so strongly it staggers us both.
“Kiakoa.” Her voice, steady and warm despite everything. “You came.”
I drink in the sight of her. Unharmed. Whole. Still mine despite whatever arguments he's made.
“Always,” I manage, though speech feels strange after the wordless violence below.
“Your arrival is... earlier than expected,” Vasek says, as if we're meeting for negotiations rather than his execution. “The portal network hasn't been used in decades. Impressive that you managed?—”
My hand closes around his throat, cutting off his words.
“You took her from me.” Each word comes out controlled, almost conversational. The berserker rage has burned so hot it's become cold, focused into something surgical.
“I saved her from?—”
