Chapter 14 Leora
LEORA
Three days.
Three days of silence that is not peaceful, but pressurized. The estate feels like a bell jar with the air slowly being pumped out.
I stand before the mirror in the guest room, staring at the stranger looking back at me. The white ceremonial robes are exquisite—heavy silk embroidered with silver thread that catches the meager light like trapped starlight. They are beautiful. They are a shroud.
I touch the fabric at my collarbone. It is soft, a sharp contrast to the rough wool I wore as a slave or the shredded velvet I fled in. Imas sent these robes an hour ago with a single instruction: Prepare.
He has not spoken to me since the library.
He has moved through the house like a wraith, a dark blur at the end of a corridor, a shadow passing a doorway.
When our paths crossed, he would look at me with eyes so full of torment it made my breath hitch, and then he would turn away, his jaw locked tight enough to crack bone.
He is terrified.
I can feel it. The connection between us is a taut wire humming with his dread. It isn't the fear of a man facing an enemy; it is the fear of a man facing himself.
A knock on the door echoes through the room.
"Enter," I whisper.
Asema opens the door. She is in full armor, her helmet under her arm, her face grim. She looks at the white robes, and a muscle feathers in her cheek.
"It is time," she says.
She does not say My Lord requires you. She does not say Come. Just It is time.
I nod. I do not ask where we are going. I know. The pull in my gut is leading me down, deep into the bedrock beneath the estate.
We walk in silence. The corridors of Lliandor are cold, weeping condensation that smells of ancient stone and damp earth. We descend the main staircase, then a narrower spiral stair that twists into the dark like a drill.
The air grows heavy. The scent of cloying incense—lilies and rot—wafts up from the depths, thick enough to taste. My stomach turns, a slow, sickly revolution.
We reach the bottom. A heavy iron door stands ajar, revealing a chamber lit by the sputtering violet flames of braziers.
Imas is waiting.
He stands before the black altar, his back to us.
He is dressed in ceremonial robes of charcoal and crimson, the colors of House Imas, but he looks diminished.
The grandeur of his attire hangs on him heavily.
He is leaning against the stone, his head bowed, his hands gripping the edge of the altar so tightly his knuckles are white.
He senses me. He stiffens, his spine snapping straight, but he does not turn.
"Leave us, Captain," he says. His voice is flat, dead.
Asema does not move. She steps into the room, placing herself between me and the altar.
"My Lord," she says, her voice rough. "This... this is not the way."
Imas turns slowly. His face is a mask of stone, devoid of emotion, but his eyes are burning. "You question me, Asema?"
"I question the cost," she says, her hand drifting toward her sword hilt—not to draw it, but to ground herself.
"The household knows. The city knows. But what they do not know, I do.
If you do this... if you spill her blood on that stone.
.. there is no going back. You will be declaring war on your own soul. "
"My soul is already forfeit," Imas says. He steps away from the altar, moving toward us. The shadows seem to cling to him, reluctant to let him go. "The Serpent demands a price. I am simply paying the bill."
"At the cost of your sanity?" Asema argues. "You are not the same dark elf you were a month ago. You are stronger. Sharper. Malek fears you now more than he ever did when you had magic. Do not throw that away for a dead god."
Imas stops. He looks at Asema, and for a second, the mask slips. I see the raw, bleeding panic underneath.
"And when Malek comes knocking?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. "When he brings his sorcerers and his beasts? What will I fight him with, Captain? Words? Strategy?" He laughs, a bitter, broken sound. "I need the fire. I need the Chaos."
"You have her," Asema says, tilting her head toward me.
"She is the poison!" Imas roars, his composure shattering. "She is the reason I am empty! She is the reason I am standing here, debating with a servant instead of ruling my city!"
He raises his hand. Even without magic, the gesture is terrifying. "Leave, Asema. Or I will kill you where you stand. I will take your sword and open your throat myself."
Asema looks at him. Then she looks at me. There is an apology in her eyes.
I take a deep breath. I do not understand entirely what is about to happen, or what they are talking about, but I feel the danger. The rot. And the looming death.
"As you command, My Lord," she whispers.
She turns and walks out, the heavy door groaning as she closes it, leaving us alone in the suffocating dark.
I look at Imas. He is breathing hard, his chest heaving beneath the heavy robes.
"Come here," he says.
I step forward. My legs feel heavy, as if I am walking through water. I stop before the altar. The stone is cold, stained with layers of old, dark blood.
He looks at me. He takes in the white silk, the way it pools around my feet.
"You look..." He stops, swallowing hard. "You look like a bride."
"Or a sacrifice," I say softly.
He flinches. He reaches out and takes my hand. His skin is freezing, burning with that unnatural cold. He leads me to the altar.
"Get up," he commands.
I climb onto the stone slab. It is hard and unforgiving against my back. I lie down, staring up at the vaulted ceiling lost in shadow.
He leans over me. He smells of terror. He reaches for the leather straps attached to the stone. He buckles my wrists, then my ankles. He does not tighten them enough to hurt, but enough to hold.
I am bound.
He steps back. He reaches into his sleeve and withdraws the dagger—the curved, serrated blade with the handle wrapped in human skin. The metal drinks the light.
He stands over me, the knife raised.
I look at his face. I should be screaming. I should be begging. Every instinct I have screams at me to fight, to thrash, to unleash the Purna light and burn him to ash.
But I don't.
I look into his violet eyes, and I see the truth.
He is crying.
Tears are tracking silently down his cheeks, cutting through the deep charcoal of his skin. He is shaking so violently the dagger vibrates in his hand.
I feel him. I feel the crushing, monolithic weight of his sadness.
It isn't just grief for what he is about to do.
It is grief for the man he wanted to be.
He wanted to be strong for me. He wanted to keep me.
But he believes this is the only way to survive, and he hates himself for it more than I ever could.
He is not a monster enjoying a kill. He is a man cutting off his own limb to survive a trap.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. The words are choked, barely audible. "I'm so sorry."
He raises the dagger higher, positioning the point over my heart.
"Do it," I whisper.
He freezes. He stares down at me, his eyes wide and wrecked.
"Do it, Imas," I say steadily. "If this is what you need... if this is the only way you can be whole... then do it."
I do not offer him forgiveness. I offer him understanding. I offer him the terrifying grace of being seen, truly seen, in his darkest moment. I offer him the permission to survive, even if the cost is me.
His jaw locks. The muscles in his neck stand out like cords of steel as he fights the tremble in his own arm. He does not drop the weapon. He does not turn away.
Instead, he inhales a breath that sounds like a death rattle. He tightens his grip on the handle until the human skin wrapping the hilt creaks.
"Forgive me," he whispers.
He raises the dagger higher. The serrated edge catches the violet light of the braziers, gleaming with a dark, hungry anticipation. He steels himself, his expression hardening into a mask of tragic, lethal resolve.
He is going to do it.
I close my eyes. I do not struggle against the straps. I simply breathe out, pushing one last wave of warmth into the mind of the man who is about to kill me, and I wait for the steel.