8. Eyes Atop the Vesper Seat #2
Kailorien’s cloak whispered a dark promise as it billowed behind him, its edges snapping like wings unfurled, the Runesgram stitched into its fabric humming in tune with the Shields.
His boots clicked against the black marble floor veined with crimson.
He approached the Vesper Seat, where the Sovereign Flame perched like a statue of a deity at rest.
“Brother,” Kailorien greeted, voice taut.
Shu’Khan's gaze met his own, his expression devoid of soul and his hands steepled beneath his chin. His voice, when it came, was low and clear—like ice cracking beneath the weight of something terrible.
"Have you come to ask forgiveness? It is certainly too late to ask permission."
"I have no need to ask permission to run the Council. Nor to uphold the Law."
Shu'Khan sneered. “We were quite clear in Our warning, were We not? The Void is not to show open favor, Iridias.”
Kailorien didn’t flinch. “This is Doctrine, not favor.”
A hiss—softer than a breath. Amusement, perhaps.
At Kailorien's nape, Vargrún stirred.
Careful. You push too hard, too quickly. Though I would love to see him bare his fangs.
Shu’Khan stood. Silken robes rustled as he descended from the dais, gliding more than walking. His feet never seemed to touch the floor. Kailorien kept his gaze fixed on a single point in the dark, hating the sight of his twin—the knowledge that they were bound in blood.
“It is a few decades too late to be calling in Doctrine, is it not?”
“I disagree,” Kailorien said, voice rough.
The leftmost side of the Hall had been shaped into a colossal fluxhearth. Before it stood a thick marble table, carved from a single slab of stone and crystal. Shu’Khan paused there, touching his fingers to the carved runes on the surface. They lit up with a gentle blue glow.
Kailorien raised a brow. “You do not protest?”
“In this case,” Shu’Khan frowned, “you act according to your station. Though you are far too eager to execute Doctrine for someone in defiance of its laws.”
Kailorien shifted his weight between his feet. He crossed his arms over his chest.
“She was pushed,” he said.
Shu’Khan tilted his head, his expression unreadable.
“Yes. Your entourage is…merciless in their play. Unfortunate. Yet she endures all of it in silence. An odd trait of hers. One might think she was made for it.” Another sigh—this one almost fond. “You regret bringing her to the Polis. We can see it.”
Kailorien’s hands curled into fists.
He did.
Void forgive him, he did.
But it wasn’t her he regretted. It was the world he’d brought her into. This pit of snakes.
Shu’Khan moved in a slow arc, a predator in no hurry. “Tell me, Iridias. If you took her to the Surface, where would you go? What corner of the world would not try to claim her? Which faction would not use her body for prophecy, her blood for war, her soul for lightless purpose?”
Kailorien clenched his jaw.
“She is safer here,” Shu’Khan crooned. “Fed. Watched. Preserved.”
“Caged,” Kailorien cut in, the word hollow.
Shu’Khan stopped moving, his robes settling.
“Is that what you call it?”
“She can’t leave.”
“She shouldn’t,” Shu’Khan replied, his tone turning grave. Almost regretful. “She would be devoured. This city is the last kindness we can offer a rare creature like her.”
Kailorien looked away.
He’s right, and I despise him for it.
His hands curled tighter, gloves biting into skin until pain became an anchor.
She’s not safe here. She wouldn’t be safe anywhere. And I—
I thought I was protecting her.
You cannot protect her. Not from this city. Not from the false king. Certainly not from me.
Shu’Khan saw his inner turmoil. Nothing escaped his notice as long as it existed in the boundary of the Shields.
His gaze grew colder. “We will remind you, Iridias. Your duty is not to her, but to Estar, to the Shields, to the city.”
A pause, then a smile. Sick. Delighted.
“You must focus on the ritual. Appease the Council and the Companions. Leave the matter of the Sokar to Us.”
That did it.
“She is mine to protect,” Kailorien bit out.
Shu’Khan’s smile vanished. Silence bloomed like rot. He turned toward the Vesper Seat again, but not before hurling the dagger.
“Fulfill Estar, Iridias. We will secure the shelter she should have been granted at the start. After all, a creature like this deserves gilded bars, not squalor.”
Kailorien stepped forward, his voice a whisper laced with iron. “Don’t speak of giving her anything. I fought the Council for the right to build her a place of peace. And now you’ll claim that act as your own?”
Shu’Khan didn’t turn.
“Concerned?” he drawled. “Imagine it, her coming to Us instead of her Resh’Agar to ask for help. She already has, you know. More than once.”
Kailorien’s voice cracked, “You authorized the room change. You knew where she was. You knew—”
Finally, Shu’Khan turned his head.
“How odd,” he murmured. “Did you not just say she was yours to protect, Iridias? If so… why expect Us to intervene?”
Kailorien staggered back half a step. The cruelty of the accusation landed slow, deep.
“You placed her in that room knowing what would happen.”
Vargrún's cackle reverberated through his bones.
Kailorien bit the inside of his lip to keep from screaming for Vargrún to be silent. His other runes flared to life with his rising anger, Morvane growing hot as their magic thrummed beneath his skin.
Shu’Khan said nothing. Just stared back with those hollow, inhuman eyes that bore a sickening resemblance to his.
“You let them starve her of hope. Of warmth. Of dignity.”
Another beat of silence.
Then…
“And yet she did not break,” Shu’Khan sighed, and there was a disquieting fascination in his tone. “She has earned this small token of Our affection with her resilience. This wing.”
Kailorien steadied his anger. Dulled his need for vengeance. For now, his pride was the least of his concerns.
“The materials will all move through my approval,” Kailorien demanded. “Blueprints, wards, runes, resources, even decor.”
Shu’Khan waved his hand in the air, dismissive.
“Trivial things. We only have one warning: keep her close if you must. But do not allow devotion to rot into desire.” His voice quieted to a near whisper. “The Resh’Agar was shaped to conquer, to destroy. His touch has consequence, as you well know.”
A pause.
“We question whether your Sokar does.”
Kailorien’s held his breath.
“We have no objections.”
“Even if you did,” Kailorien ground out at last, each word jagged as broken glass, “I would not entertain them.”
A pause.
“You are dismissed, Iridias.”
As Kailorien turned to leave, Vargrún spoke again in his mind:
Does he know that your devotion never existed without obsession in the first place?