Chapter 37
Zorah’s palace stretched around them as they moved toward the exit, its jeweled mosaics still glinting in the orange glow of their wands, yet the magical signature had changed, and the air thickened as Saevel advanced through it.
His shadow stretched long across the stone.
Meira stayed close to his side, never drifting far, her hand brushing his arm in passing, their movements aligning without thought as the bond held them steady.
Saevel glanced at Meira more than once as they moved, grounding himself in her, his posture angled toward her even as his attention tracked the path ahead, protective in a way that left no question about who she was to him.
Meira tipped her head up toward him once, giving him a brief look.
The exchange was silent but unmistakable—we’re ready.
Imani cut through it before the moment could linger.
“Move,” she said, her voice like a whip, snapping their focus ahead.
Sunset was already approaching above Kehomel, and the parley would begin as soon as darkness settled over the city.
They had only the remaining descent through Zorah, the climb back through the royal vaults, and the final approach to the Throne room before Kiran expected the kingdoms to assemble before him.
If they lost too much time underground, Saevel would arrive after the parley began, and Kiran would control it. No room remained for dallying or reflection. Only their singular focus on reaching the Throne room as night fully fell.
Streets rushed past as they picked up their pace, their illuminated wands catching on stone and glass, lighting doorways left ajar, and interiors frozen in place as they jogged through the empty city.
Footsteps echoed hard against the road, and Imani could hear their panting breaths grow more jagged as they tore on.
Once at the library, they wove between towering shelves and long tables without breaking stride; they cut through the library as the door came into view.
The wards that once guarded the hidden entrance lay stripped and inert, their spellwork undone.
Imani pushed open the massive door with a groan and stumbled into the narrow passage beyond, where damp, cold air rushed against her skin.
Zorah gave way behind them as they crossed back into Kehomel under the Menlone Mountain. The little remaining daylight filtering through the upper passages had already weakened as dusk approached.
The royal vaults greeted them with the scent of stone and old magic, breath coming in puffs of fog as the climb began. Stairs rose ahead, narrow and steep, their boots striking stone in quick rhythm as the palace above drew closer with every step.
Her bond with Kiran pulsed insistently in her chest, pounding louder with each step as they climbed higher. The king was close. And waiting.
The corridors widened, yet their formation tightened around Saevel as they continued along the dungeon’s path. Guards at the entrance shouted for them to halt, but Imani spun around, raised her wand overhead, and commanded her shadows to restrain them.
These were not ordinary palace guards. They had been stationed at the dungeon entrance to protect the royal vaults and the hidden passage beyond them, with orders strict enough that rank or appearance meant nothing once someone crossed into the restricted corridor.
Whatever Kiran had told them to protect, they had been commanded to stop anyone leaving it.
Craggy stone gave way to smooth obsidian walls as they entered the palace in Kehomel again.
Servants faltered at the edges of the hall, retreating into alcoves and doorways, their work forgotten as they watched the group pass.
Eyes followed from every direction as conversations dropped off mid-word.
Then they came to the Throne room. Here, the palace guards faced a different choice than the ones in the royal vaults.
They watched the crowned ruler of Essenheim move openly through Kehomel, with representatives behind her.
Stopping her without an explicit command from Kiran would mean attacking a foreign monarch in front of witnesses, and none of them seemed eager to decide on their own.
Some looked toward the Throne room as if waiting for Kiran’s order, but none came, and that uncertainty was enough to keep their wands lowered.
After the open air of Zorah, Kehomel’s castle walls subtly closed in on them, as if sensing Kiran’s growing impatience.
The lack of resistance only made the feeling more foreboding.
Imani tried to keep her breathing even as her fists clenched at her sides, readying herself for the impending confrontation with her heartmate.
Imposing doors rose ahead, carved in black and gold.
She had seen the same patterns etched on their surface the last time she stood there, the night she left Kiran for good.
The weight of that moment still lingered as they closed the distance to the Throne room once more.
They had made it with minutes to spare. Beyond the doors, the parley was already assembling, but full darkness had not yet fallen.
Kiran would expect the summit to begin at any moment.
“Stay here until I call for you,” Imani said, her voice low but firm as she met his gaze.
Saevel’s jaw set, but he gave a single nod. “Make it quick.”
As she used both hands to push the doors open, she also pushed the terrible memory of leaving Kiran aside. No room here for regret.
Past the doors, the chamber opened wide and tiered, with rows of High Sentinels and other nobles from Niflheim rising in ordered ranks that reflected rank and influence, each position chosen and held with intent.
Tension had already built throughout the space before they entered, with alliances strained and voices kept low and cautious until the doors swung open, silencing all sounds instantly.
Everyone’s heads turned at once, their postures stiffening as they fixated on the disturbance, and the room fell into a collective pause.
At the center, the Throne of Destruction rose above it all, carved from black obsidian, its spirit anchoring the entire chamber.
Like the Crown of Life, the Niflheim monarch derived dominion from the relic’s acceptance and their ability to wield its deadly magic.
How it truly worked, though, remained shrouded in mystery to Imani.
Beside the Throne sat a dragon.
At the foot, its body coiled in submission.
Deep black scales layered across its frame, edged with faint red lines that pulsed through the gaps.
Each plate remained unbroken, and its size filled the space beside the Throne with ease.
As the Essenheim delegation drew closer, the beast eyed them with its gold reptilian gaze.
Kiran’s apparent bond with the beast gave Imani pause. Beads of sweat formed on her brow, but she resisted the urge to wipe them away.
As she neared the dais, the polished black obsidian of the Throne seemed to drink the light, its existence a gravitational force she felt in every corner of the room.
Reclining lazily, Kiran rested one arm on the armrest and loosely held the bone wand between his fingers.
His posture radiated power, effortlessly dismissing everything around him.
The surface of his wand was smooth and polished to a pale white gleam, the narrow shaft almost luminous against his black clothing, with faint natural ridges still visible beneath the finish to remind anyone looking exactly what it was made from—a person’s bone.
The heartmate bond churned in her chest, closer to Kiran, a living pulse that spread to her limbs with tingling insistence, answering him without question. She took him in fully, gritting her teeth at how formidable he looked despite the impatience rolling off him.
His sharp jaw and piercing mismatched eyes made Imani’s heart pound.
Black fabric wrapped his body from shoulder to wrist, fitted across his broad chest and arms before narrowing at the waist. He did not match Saevel in size, but nothing in his bearing suggested lesser power.
Kiran’s magic signature slithered outward from him in a constant, suffocating weight that filled the room.
And the Throne pulsed with its own magic.
How had he glamoured such a powerful relic to his bidding? Imani did not know. She could only imagine how much flesh magic he was casting constantly. A shiver ran down her spine, and she straightened.
Flesh magic had never been meant to carry a person this long.
Kiran had used it so often, and pushed it so far beyond ordinary limits, that his own magic had begun depending on it.
The spells no longer merely augmented what he could do; they kept his power stable, contained, and usable.
Without the constant reinforcement, everything he had forced into place threatened to unravel at once.
He knew the cost, which made it worse. Flesh magic damaged the body it drew from, demanding more blood, more pain, and more of the caster with each use.
Kiran had passed the point where the danger discouraged him, craving the power too much to stop, and each new act of magic drove his dependency deeper.
His claim extended to every movement and breath within that chamber. Everyone watched him intently.
“How kind of you to finally join us, Your Majesty,” he drawled. “I was running out of reasons to behave.” A faint smile touched his mouth, edged with dark amusement and a knowing look, as if he found the entire assembly, including her, beneath him.
Even as she bristled at his arrogance, Imani shamefully liked the constant waves of power rolling off him. Thick and overwhelming, it drew her closer even as it warned her away, and her body responded before thought could catch up.
But conflict erupted and tore through her as she maintained a neutral expression, her face still while everything inside tugged in different directions.