A woman.Thewoman from earlier. Queen Maireth.
Recognition comes easier than it should. Not because he cares. Because the darkness does. Marks her as significant. The woman who split his life into before and after.
She steps through them like a blade through silk. Gold pins gleam through the severe black sweep of her hair, her robes layered in dark silks that whisper across the stone with every measured step. Her gaze settles on him, and there is no fear in it. No hesitation. Only calculation, cool and precise, as she takes in the way the darkness moves beneath his skin, the way his body strains against the chains, the way his eyes of endless black bore into her with unadulterated hatred.
“Remarkable,” she murmurs softly, as if observing a painting.
Kael lunges without thought, decisions no longer his own.
The chains snap taut, driving deeper into his flesh, tearing skin and muscle as they hold him in place. Blood spills freely now, dark and slick against the stone, but the Decay drinks it, absorbs it, turns it into something else.
He does not feel pain. Pain requires separation from the thing causing it. The Decay leaves no distance between suffering and self.
He feels need.
The need to tear.
To break.
To end.
To reduce everything in front of him to nothing.
Maireth does not move. She stands just beyond his reach, close enough to observe, far enough to remain untouched, and slowly begins to circle him, her attention unwavering.
“I knew what Morrathys left in you,” she says, her voice quiet, almost conversational. “The Death magic. I knew you were a Shadowweave, of course.”
Her hand lifts as she passes him, fingers brushing lightly against one of the chains embedded in his chest, as though testing the tension of it, appreciating the craftsmanship of the restraints.
“But this…”
She pauses, her gaze sharpening as she studies the way the darkness responds to her proximity, the way it coils and shifts as if aware of her. The way his veins pulse with the inky current.
“…this is something else entirely.”
Her fingers drift lower, toward the amulet resting against his chest, dulled by blood and grime but still intact.
Something in him recoils.
Not from her.
Fromit.
A flicker. Small. Fragile. Almost gone. Impossible to feel through the dense, endless dark. But there it is again: warmth.
Light.
A voice that refuses to take full shape but refuses to disappear entirely. It belongs to someone—that much he knows.
Auburn hair. A hand reaching for his. A presence that steadies rather than consumes.
His breath stutters.
The Decay lashes out, violent and immediate, crashing over the voice and tearing it apart before it can become anything more.
Maireth sees it. Sees the falter. The interruption to his darkness.
Her expression shifts, interest deepening and twisting.
