10. Zhetrin
ZHETRIN
The wax seals crack under my signet ring, solidifying the new trade tallies.
Within two moon cycles, the shift in the surface tariffs takes root. The numbers flowing back into my ledgers from the northern districts are flawless. By halving the Thosti grain tithe, the Lowtown laborers stop selling their children to the flesh-brokers, starving the supply line.
Without the influx of surface coin, Kryven’s mercenary contracts expire. The skirmishes along my borders cease entirely. Megan has systematically dismantled a rival lord’s war machine without a drawn blade.
Tracing the stabilized trade routes across the grand map table, the ironwood doors of my study swing open.
The Patriarch’s personal envoy breaches the threshold, flanked by four elite Miou guards bearing the crimson and silver crest of the ancestral house. They do not bow.
"High Sovereign." The envoy's voice carries the hollow, unearned authority of the bloodline. "Patriarch Varynth commands your presence in the High Council chamber. Immediately."
I offer the envoy no acknowledgment. Finishing the roll of the vellum map, I place it carefully into its brass cylinder before retrieving my leather coat.
I leave my longblade resting upon the desk; one does not carry drawn steel into the ancestral halls unless they intend to claim the throne through slaughter.
Not yet.
The carriage ride to the central tier of the Undercity descends into the ancient, suffocating heart of Khuzuth tradition. The ancestral Thosti Palace towers as a monument of jagged obsidian and blood-red crystal, radiating an oppressive aura of age and stagnant power.
Navigating the length of the grand aisle leading into the High Council chamber, I find Patriarch Varynth sitting upon the raised dais.
Thick robes of crimson silk wrap his skeletal frame.
His stark, blinding white hair contrasts with pale silver irises completely devoid of warmth.
The high seats surrounding him sit empty.
This is no council. This is a staged execution of loyalty.
"You have broken the fundamental laws of our dominance, Zhetrin.
" Varynth skips any formal greeting, his claw-like fingers gripping the arms of his chair.
"You slashed the grain tithes. You allowed the surface-filth to hoard their own yield.
You are feeding livestock while weakening the vaults of your own house. "
Halting at the base of the dais, I cross my arms over my chest, entirely unbothered by the venom bleeding from his jaw.
"I stabilized the borders." The glacial hum of my response reverberates against the obsidian. "Kryven’s hounds have retreated. My trade fleets sail uninterrupted. The ledgers reflect a huge reduction in security expenditures."
"Damn your ledgers!" Varynth’s fist strikes the arm of his chair, sending a wave of foul, rotting magic rolling down the steps.
"This is not about the coin! It is about the hierarchy!
By showing mercy to the mud-dwellers, you signal to the neutral houses that the Thosti bloodline has grown soft.
You undermine the fear keeping this city on its knees. "
"Fear is a volatile currency. Efficiency is the way."
Trembling with absolute fury, Varynth surges to his feet.
"How am I to pass the crown of this house to a Warlord treating our ancient traditions as suggestions?
You defy my direct summons! You humiliate us before the assembly!
" Pure disgust twists his features. "And for what?
A fragile, filthy human whore you pulled from the gutters? You elevate a pet above your own kin!"
The chamber turns icy. A thin, jagged layer of frost spreads rapidly across the obsidian floor beneath my boots.
"She mapped the deficit in Kryven’s logic while your royal scribes were blind to it." I push the crushing power of my magic directly against his rotting aura. "She is a sharper asset than half the lords sitting upon this council."
"She is an animal!" The cavernous hall violently amplifies his roar.
"They exist to toil and bleed so that we may rule! By easing their starvation, you strip away our leverage! When the outer territories starve, they beg us for scraps. That desperation is our true wealth. You are tearing down the source of our power for the sake of a mortal’s comfort! "
The cold reality of his statement settles into my bones like lead.
For three centuries, I did not care if the surface bled. Empathy is a flaw beaten out of the Khuzuth in the cradle. I drafted the child-labor quotas without a second thought because humans were nothing more than fractions on a vellum sheet. Tools to be used, broken, and discarded.
But I can no longer look at the numbers without seeing amber eyes and honey-blonde curls. I cannot calculate the starvation tallies without feeling the weight of her fragile body thrusting itself between a child and a butcher’s blade.
Varynth creates the misery of thousands simply to ensure they remain desperate enough to kiss his boots.
A profound, sickening disgust coils in my gut.
He is not ruling. He is festering. The traditions he protects are nothing more than cowardice masked by cruelty. Megan was right. The immaculate order of House Thosti is a slaughterhouse, and the man sitting upon the dais is the chief butcher.
"You are rotting inside, Varynth." The quiet statement carry the devastating weight of a broken oath.
Refusing to wait for his dismissal, I leave the Patriarch of my bloodline behind and walk toward the iron doors.
"If you leave this hall, you sever yourself from my protection, Zhetrin!" Desperation and rage fracture his tone. "I will strip the ledgers from your hands! I will see that human flayed alive in the central square!"
"Try." The doors seal shut before the quiet challenge can reach him.
Thick, oppressive air chokes the outer corridors of the palace.
Striding down the shadowed, winding hallways toward the grand exit, my mind rapidly calculates the logistics of open warfare within my own house.
Varynth will move quickly. He will attempt to freeze my assets and turn the Miou legions against my estate.
Rounding the corner toward the lower terrace, I pull my towering frame back into the deep shadows of a carved obsidian pillar.
Fifty yards down the dim corridor, my cousin Seredryl stands in an alcove near the courtyard gardens. Possessing elegant, severe features and midnight-blue hair woven with silver beads, the minor noble has spent a century lurking in my shadow, hungry for the power I control.
She is not alone.
An emissary wearing the stamped leather of the southern districts stands beside her, bearing the sigil of Lord Kryven.
Silencing my breathing, I lean closer to the cold stone.
"The Warlord’s estate is heavily warded." Seredryl's tense, frantic hiss barely disturbs the air. Her focus darts nervously over her shoulder, completely oblivious to my presence down the hall. "Tharion has doubled the interior guard. The surface-filth does not leave the eastern wing."
Withdrawing a velvet pouch from his coat, the emissary presses it into Seredryl’s hands. The dense clink of Khuzuth coin is unmistakable in the quiet.
"Lord Kryven does not care about the wards.
" The emissary's words clip with cold precision.
"The Patriarch has given his blessing. House Thosti must be cleansed of this embarrassment.
You have the rotation schedules for the estate guard.
Find the crack, Seredryl. Deliver the human to the Dark Market, and Kryven will ensure you inherit the ledgers when Zhetrin falls. "
Seredryl’s fingers tighten around the pouch. The greed burning in her eyes easily eclipses her fear.
"I will handle the interior watch. Tell Kryven to have the flesh-brokers waiting at the southern drainage grates tomorrow night."
Nodding once, the emissary slips backward into the dark gardens, vanishing into the Undercity.
Remaining completely still, I press my back against the obsidian pillar.
The bloodline is fractured. The treason is absolute. My own cousin is selling the coordinates of my estate to a rival lord, orchestrating the abduction of the only being in this rotting world I possess a desire to protect.
A dark, feral violence rises in my chest—a terrifying instinct detached from ledgers or politics. It is the raw, unhinged fury of an apex predator realizing a lesser beast is hunting what belongs to him.
Stepping out of the shadows, my boots silent upon the stone, I pivot toward the exit. I will not strike Seredryl down in the hallway. Killing her now gives Varynth the justification to declare me a traitor to the bloodline and seize my estate before I can return. I would lose the war.
I must return to the stronghold. I must fortify the eastern wing. And I must ensure that when Seredryl’s traitors breach the walls, they find nothing but the waiting steel of my longblade.