"We do not march in the shadows today, Captain." The raw, carrying roar vibrates against the obsidian pillars. "Mobilize the entire elite vanguard. Open the iron gates. We march through the central tiers in the light."
Tharion’s jaw hardens into a ruthless, understanding line. "To the Patriarch, my lord?"
"To Seredryl."
The iron gates of the Thosti estate grind open. Bypassing the enclosed, velvet-lined carriage, I lead the vanguard on foot.
We carve a path directly through the opulent, winding streets of Vhoig as a towering engine of destruction. The sight of a high Warlord marching openly with drawn steel shatters the daily rhythm of the Undercity. Merchants abandon their stalls. Minor nobles pull their carriages into the alleys, bowing their heads, terrified of catching my lethal focus. The suffocating, freezing pressure of my magic rolls ahead of us, a physical shockwave dropping the temperature of the entire district.
Crossing the boundary into the central ring, we halt before the tall, wrought-iron gates of Seredryl’s manor.
Two perimeter guards bearing her lesser crest step forward with raised spears.
"Halt!" Tremors wrack the guard's frame as he attempts to block my path. "This is the sovereign territory of?—"
Raising a single hand, a concussive blast of raw, kinetic magic tears from my palm. The iron gates rip entirely from their stone hinges, launching backward to crush the two guards into the courtyard cobblestones.
"Leave nothing standing."
My Miou warriors flood the courtyard, a wave of disciplined slaughter cutting down Seredryl’s remaining forces with brutal, silent efficiency. Bypassing the skirmish entirely, I scale the marble steps and kick the solid mahogany double doors of the manor completely off their frames.
The grand foyer of Seredryl’s estate serves as a shrine to her desperate vanity, draped in crimson silk and silver mirrors.
Seredryl stands on the landing of the sweeping staircase. Still wearing her deep crimson gown, her aristocratic composure is entirely fractured. Beside her stands a thin, pale dark elf clutching a leather-bound ledger—her chief administrator.
Seredryl grips the marble banister, her knuckles stark white. "Zhetrin! You violate the ancient laws! You cannot breach the walls of your own kin! The Patriarch will strip your titles for this outrage!"
Ascending the stairs, my boots crush the delicate glass of a shattered chandelier into fine powder.
"The Patriarch is a rotting corpse." My magic rushes up the steps to suffocate her. "And your titles are dust."
Raising a hand, Seredryl attempts to summon a shield of her own magic, but she is a lesser fraction of my bloodline. Without slowing my stride, I sweep my arm, backhanding her across the jaw with enough kinetic force to send her sprawling violently across the marble landing. Crashing into a dense stone pedestal,she spits a mouthful of blood as her silver beads scatter across the floor.
Shifting my lethal focus to the trembling administrator, the scribe drops his ledger. He collapses to his knees, pressing his forehead desperately against the cracked marble.
"Mercy, High Sovereign! I am but a scribe! I only balance the sums!"
Reaching down, my massive hand clamps around his neck, lifting him entirely off his knees until his face is level with mine. The pungent stench of his terror cloys the air.
"You managed the transfer of coin to the flesh-brokers." The lethal promise vibrates directly against his skin. "Give me the coordinates of the cart."
"I cannot!" Thrashing uselessly against my iron grip, he gasps. "The Dark Market brokers change their routes to avoid the?—"
I push my magic directly into his flesh.
A horrific, tearing scream rips from the scribe. The veins in his neck bulge, turning a dark, frozen blue as the chilling power freezes the blood in his extremities. The absolute agony bypasses the flesh, striking the bone directly.
"The coordinates." I apply a fraction more pressure.
"Sector Four!" Tears of blood leak from the corners of the administrator's eyes. "The rusted warehouses near the subterranean grates! The third broker den! They are taking her to the auction blocks! Please!"
Releasing his throat, he collapses into a heap, gasping frantically while clutching his freezing chest.
Pivoting back to Seredryl, I watch her struggle to her hands and knees. The realization that the political immunity of her bloodline means absolutely nothing to a feral beast completely shatters her aristocratic facade.
"Zhetrin." She holds up a trembling, blood-stained hand. "She is a surface-dweller. Do not tell me you intend to invoke the ancient rites. You are burning your own lineage to grant a filthy mortal the immortality of our bloodline."
The disgust in my chest hardens into crystal as I stand over my traitorous cousin.
