"Eldric." A demonic, overlapping rumble vibrates the glass of the remaining alchemy lamps. "The restricted ledger Megan recovered is secured in my private vault. The tallies containing Varynth’s signature. Retrieve it, and bind it in the iron lockbox we prepared for transport."
Pure terror strips the color from the archivist's face as he realizes I intend to present the Patriarch’s treason to the entire Undercity, but he bows his head instantly and hurries from the room.
Pivoting to Nyxira, I deliver my final directive. "Secure your faction. Tell the neutral lords to wear armor beneath their silks tomorrow night. The assembly hall is going to burn."
A wicked, bloodthirsty smile stretches Nyxira's lips. Pulling her cloak back over her silver hair, she slips out of the war room, vanishing into the shadows of the estate.
Abandoning the study, my boots carry me directly to the central armory.
Tharion is already there, overseeing the sharpening of the Miou longblades and the distribution of massive, spiked ironwood shields. The biting scent of oiled steel and whetstone fills the cavernous room.
"The captain’s spies confirm Lady Nyxira’s warning." Walking past the racks of dense polearms, I reach the glass cases containing the ancestral weapons of the high guard. "Kryven is flooding the assembly hall with Dark Market mercenaries. The Tribunal is a slaughter pen."
Testing the balance of a dense war-hammer, Tharion's jaw tightens. "The High Council strictly forbids drawn steel within the assembly chamber, my lord. The sovereign guards will demand we surrender our longblades at the grand doors."
Shattering the glass of the ancestral case with the back of my gauntlet, I extract a pair of wickedly curved, short-bladed Khopesh daggers from the velvet lining. The dark steel was forged in the deep foundries of the first age, engineered for brutal, close-quarters butchery rather than the elegant dueling of the high lords.
"We do not surrender our weapons." Tossing the dense daggers to Tharion, he catches them seamlessly, sliding the hidden steel into specialized sheaths strapped to his thighs, completely concealed beneath his ceremonial cloak.
Moving down the line of elite warriors, I personally issue the concealed arsenal. Serrated hunting knives. Garrotes woven from razor-wire. Solid iron throwing spikes.
"Tomorrow night, we do not march as politicians." The authority of a Warlord preparing for a siege reverberates through the armory. "We march as the executioners of House Thosti. You will form an unbroken shield-wall around the human from the moment we leave this estate until the momentshe stands on the assembly floor. If a single mercenary appears, you do not wait for my command. You cut them down."
The warriors strike their breastplates in perfect unison, the resounding crash of armor echoing through the stone vaults.
Turning away from the steel, I walk the long, intensely guarded corridor back to the master wing.
The impending violence settles like an anvil across my shoulders. Tomorrow, I will walk a fragile, mortal woman into the most dangerous room in Protheka. I will expose the generational rot of my own bloodline, risking everything I have built for three centuries to protect her.
Pressing the dense ironwood doors of the master suite open, I step into the dim, lavender-scented sanctuary.
Megan sits on the massive bed, tracing the silver Thosti crest I pinned to her indigo silk. Her gaze lifts to meet mine, completely devoid of fear, entirely prepared for the war I am bringing to her feet.
The Undercity will drown in blood.
21
MEGAN
The ironwood door of the main wing clicks shut, severing the suffocating violence of the estate from our sanctuary.
Sinking into the indigo silks, my focus tracks Zhetrin pacing the length of the chamber. The Warlord vibrates with the feral, terrifying velocity of a caged predator. The sheer span of his broad shoulders remains rigidly tense beneath the dark fabric of his tunic as he halts before the narrow arched window. He grips the stone sill, the pressure of his calloused hands groaning against the ancient masonry.
"How does the sum look?"
A ragged sigh tears from his chest, the sound entirely devoid of his usual arrogant certainty. "The neutral houses are fractured. Kryven is flooding the assembly district with unmarked mercenaries from the Dark Market. He intends to turn the Tribunal into an execution."
Rising from the mattress, my bare feet glide silently across the obsidian. Approaching him from behind, my petite frame is eclipsed by his towering mass. Reaching out, I press my palms flat against the corded, unyielding muscle of his back.
He goes completely still.
Gliding my hands over the thick linen of his tunic, I map the vast expanse of his shoulders, kneading the knots of tension coiled beneath his skin. The searing heat radiating from his body draws me closer until my cheek rests against his spine, inhaling the intoxicating scent of crushed ash and spiced wine.
"You are carrying the fate of the entire Undercity, Zhet." The nickname strips away the High Sovereign, addressing only the man holding the world together. "How are you?"
Exhaling a rough breath, he turns slowly. His large hands span my waist with terrifying precision, mapping the boundaries of my bruised ribs to ensure zero crushing pressure. The rings in his silver irises bleed into a profound, devastating vulnerability a Khuzuth lord should never expose to a mortal.
"I am walking you directly into a slaughter." His thumb grazes the fading purple contusion marking my cheekbone. "If I fail to hold the line tomorrow night, Varynth will tear you apart. This is madness. I should have placed you on a ship to the sister cities."
