Chapter 24 Lord Imas
LORD IMAS
The ledger is a battlefield, and I am slaughtering the opposition.
I sit at a scarred wooden desk in the back room of the Gilded Rudder, a merchant guildhouse overlooking the harbor of Ter. The air smells of salt, dry parchment, and the rich, roasted aroma of Kaffa beans brewing in the corner.
"You see the error here," I say, tapping a column of figures with an ink-stained finger.
"The shipping manifest accounts for thirty crates of Nabella spice, but the tariff calculation is based on the weight of raw ore.
If you sign this, you will be overpaying the port authority by four hundred Daler. "
The Guildmaster, a portly K'sheng elf with gold rings in his ears, stares at the page. His eyes widen.
"By the Tradesman’s hammer," he mutters, mopping his brow. "I looked at this three times. How did you spot that?"
"Patterns," I say simply. "Numbers have a rhythm. Disruption creates discrepancies."
I lean back in the chair. It is a cheap, creaking thing, nothing like the high-backed thrones of Lliandor. My tunic is simple linen, dyed a deep blue, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that are growing stronger from hauling crates and working the docks.
I am not Lord Imas here. I am just Imas. A refugee with a sharp mind and a terrifying capacity for logistics.
Three months ago, I commanded armies of shadows. Today, I command ink.
And I prefer the ink.
"You have saved me a fortune," the Guildmaster says, looking at me with a reverence that has ;ott;e to do with fear. "Again. You could run this guild, Imas."
"I have no desire to run anything," I reply, standing up. "I only desire my wage."
He hands me a heavy pouch of coins. It is honest money. It has no blood on it. I take it, feeling the weight settle in my palm—a grounding, physical reality.
"I will not be in tomorrow," I tell him.
"Taking a rest day?"
"I have... business."
I leave the guildhouse, stepping out into the late afternoon sun.
The heat of Ter is a physical embrace, humid and heavy, pressing against my skin.
It is vibrant. The streets are a chaotic river of life—humans, orcs, elves, even a towering Minotaur sailor navigating the crowd—all shouting, laughing, living.
For five centuries, this noise would have shattered me. It would have been a torture to endure while The Serpent screamed in my skull.
Now, it is just music.
I walk through the market, my hand resting on the hilt of the simple steel dagger at my belt. I am no longer a predator apex, untouchable and wrapped in dread. I am one who can be mugged. Someone who can bleed.
The vulnerability is constant, a low-level hum of anxiety at the nape of my neck. But it is my own anxiety. It belongs to me.
I reach the jeweler’s stall near the fountain. The artisan, an old human woman with clever eyes, looks up as I approach.
"Is it ready?" I ask.
She nods, reaching under the counter. She pulls out a small velvet box.
I open it.
Inside sits a ring. It is not heavy obsidian. It is not carved with symbols of pain or binding. It is silver, beaten thin and delicate, set with a single, small chip of Zanthenite that glows with a soft, steady blue light.
"It is simple," the woman says apologetically.
"It is perfect," I whisper.
I pay her—using one of the larger gems we smuggled out in her cloak—and tuck the box into my tunic, next to my heart. My pulse strikes a jagged rhythm against my ribs, an erratic beat of pure terror.
I have faced Sorcerer Lords. I have butchered priests. I have stared down the death of my entire House.
But the thought of asking her—of giving her the choice to reject me—makes my hands sweat.
I leave the market, turning toward the coastal road. I do not head back to the inn where we have been living in cramped, blissful squalor. I head toward the cliffs.
The house stands alone on a promontory overlooking the sea.
It is small. The walls are whitewashed stone, glowing gold in the setting sun. The roof is terra-cotta. There is a garden, currently overgrown with Paradise blossoms and wild grasses, but the soil is rich.
I unlock the front door. The iron key feels heavy in my hand.
I walk through the empty rooms. The floors are swept clean. The windows are open, letting in the roar of the ocean and the cry of the gulls.
It is not a fortress. There are no dungeons. There are no secret passages.
It is a home.
I stand in the center of what will be the bedroom. I imagine her here. I imagine her waking up without fear, brewing tea, watching the sea.
But doubts, dark and slithering, begin to uncoil in my gut.
She saved me. She loves me. She has said it, and through the Purna bond, I have felt the truth of it burn me like a brand. But she said those things when we were running for our lives. She said them when I was the only thing standing between her and death.
Now, she is free.
In Ter, humans have rights. She could leave me. She could find a man who hasn't tortured her. She could find a man whose hands aren't stained with centuries of blood. A man who is whole, not a hollowed-out ruin held together by her mercy.
Fear tastes like copper on my tongue. It is a cold, sickly sensation that makes my knees weak.
I am Dfam. I have nothing to offer her but my past and my broken soul.
And this house, I remind myself, gripping the doorframe. And my hands. And my life, for as long as she will have it.
I lock the house and walk back to the city. The sun is dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and orange.
I find her at the inn. She is sitting on the balcony of our room, mending a tear in one of my tunics. Her dark hair is loose, catching the breeze. She looks up as I enter, and her face lights up.
The force of her smile hits me like a physical impact. It winds me.
"You're late," she says, setting the needle down.
"I had to finish something."
I cross the room. I do not loom over her. I kneel beside her chair, bringing myself to her level. I take her hands. They are rougher now, callous-tipped from the work she has taken up at the local bakery, kneading dough.
I kiss her palms. She smells of flour and salt air.
"Imas?" She leans forward, her brow furrowing. "You're shaking. What's wrong? Is it... is it Him?"
She thinks The Serpent has returned. She thinks the noise is back.
"No," I say quickly. "It is... something else."
I look into her sapphire eyes. I see the question there, the openness. I see the woman who walked into the fire for me.
I need to bind her to me. Not with magic. Not with force. I need to bind her with a promise that is terrifyingly fragile because it relies entirely on her will.
"Leora," I start, but my voice fails. I clear my throat. "I have purchased something. A property."
Her eyes widen. "A house?"
"Near the cliffs. It has a garden. And windows that face the sea."
"Imas..." She smiles, a soft, wondrous thing. "It sounds beautiful."
"It is empty," I say. "It is just stone and wood. It needs..." I squeeze her hands. "It needs a mistress."
I stand up, pulling her with me. The ring box burns against my chest, a secret weight. I cannot do it here, in this rented room that smells of other people's lives. I need to do this in a place that matters.
"Come with me," I say.
"Now? It's nearly dark."
"The dark does not frighten us," I remind her.
She laughs, a sound that chases the last of the shadows from the corners of my mind. "No. I suppose it doesn't."
She grabs her cloak. I lead her out of the inn, through the cooling streets of Ter.
We walk past the market, past the guildhouse, toward the edge of the city where the lights fade and the wilder magic of the land takes over.
"Where are we going?" she asks, though she follows me without hesitation.
I look ahead, to where the moonlight reflects off a vast, glassy surface nestled between the hills.
"To the lake," I say, my voice tight with the magnitude of what I am about to do. "To the Waters of Fate."
I feel her fingers tighten around mine. She knows the legends. She knows that lovers go there to tie their destinies together.
We walk into the gathering night, toward the water that will either drown me or baptize me.