Page 98 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“This one is Ilen Jansur,” Haskir said, clicking his tongue. “A bit of a troublemaker. Slips through places he has no business entering. Skilled with knives.” His eyes flickered to a more luminous violet as he addressed the captive. “On your knees.”

Ilen met him with a glare that carried every scrap of defiance he possessed as he obeyed the mind-magic, his descent slow and unwilling. Kalaetzu hesitated—just enough for Njall to notice—before tipping the vial and letting its contents slide across Ilen’s tongue.

The reaction was again immediate and savage. Ilen’s body arched, his back bowing as though seized by an unseen force. Gold flooded his eyes, so vivid it seemed to burn behind them. A feral roar tore from his throat.

Flame burst from his hands.

The laboratory plunged into chaos. Fire slashed through the chamber in wild sweeps, scorching stone and devouring air until the room sweltered with screaming heat. One guard vanished beneath a torrent of flame, collapsing before anyone could reach him. Kalaetzu threw himself behind his table, terror and grief clashing across his face.

“Stop him!” Damlor demanded.

Njall dodged one blast, then another, before tackling Ilen hard to the ground. Ilen bucked beneath him with strength born of agony, desperation and flame spilling from his hands in unstable bursts. Njall trapped his wrists, hissing as sparks scorched his palms.

“The manacles!” Njall shouted over the roar.

“No,” Damlor said coldly. “He killed a guard. Kill him.”

Njall went still. He looked down into Ilen’s eyes, where the gold was already thinning, replaced by terror. Pleading. A wordless don’t.

“What?” Njall rasped, snapping his attention to Damlor. “We can contain him. No need to—”

Damlor’s glare was answer enough.

Just beyond him, Haskir watched with a smile that spread slowly across his face, as though the entire ordeal had been engineered for this very moment.

Njall felt the trap close.

If he refused, Damlor would remember.

Oorlon would learn of it.

And Loken would pay for it.

His breath burned as he looked back at Ilen. At the golden eyes like his mother’s.

Carefully, Njall guided both of Ilen’s wrists beneath one hand. With the other, he reached for the blade in his boot. It felt heavier than it ever had.

He told himself it would be quick. Merciful. That there was no other way. Lies, because they were easier than the truth.

He closed his eyes for the briefest moment and cut Ilen’s throat.

The light left Ilen’s irises immediately. His body slackened beneath Njall’s hands in the unmistakable way only death could bring.

Njall remained crouched there, breath tearing through his chest, staring at the young man whose life had been claimed by Oorlon’s madness and sealed by his own hand. Ilen’s final look carved itself into him, and for the first time, he saw the cost of his obedience laid bare in bright red blood he would never wash away.

“Get up,” Damlor barked.

Njall did. Slowly, as though his body belonged to someone else. His stomach clenched, desperate to empty itself. He swallowed it down, but the nausea refused to leave him.

“It’s always unfortunate to lose a promising subject. But such is the price of progress,” Haskir said with a shrug. He gestured to the guards. “Remove the bodies.”

Then he turned to Kalaetzu, who now stood rigid, fury barely contained. “Pack your things. You’re going to Selenar Castle to perform for the High King. Conduct yourself accordingly.”

The Tsuchitsan glared just long enough to show the depth of his contempt before he obeyed.

“This is meaningful advancement,” Damlor said as attendants lifted Ilen’s body.

“Be sure to commend the one overseeing this endeavor,” Haskir replied, casting a pointed look toward Njall. “I merely keep order.”