Chapter VIII
VIII.
brYNN
The throne room was even more overwhelming the second time.
She'd thought she'd prepared herself, but walking back through those femur-framed doors, stepping onto the floor of teeth that crunched softly beneath her feet, seeing the thousands of skulls watching from every wall with blue flames burning in their sockets—it hit differently in the silence of morning court.
The vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadows where bone chandeliers hung like the ribcages of giants.
Death-woven tapestries she'd barely noticed last night now drew her eye.
Battles, massacres, figures being dragged into darkness by hands emerging from the ground.
Images designed to remind everyone precisely where they were and who ruled here.
And on the throne of reaching hands sat the Reaper, looking every inch the Lord of the Forsaken.
Darkness pooled around the base of his throne, curling between those frozen bone fingers that strained upward from the dais, stirred by whatever simmered beneath his stillness.
He wore fitted black, emphasizing his lean strength. Dark pants tailored for movement, chest armor crafted from black metal, catching the blue firelight from countless sconces—long sleeves despite the comfortable temperature. Black leather gloves disappearing under those sleeves, never removed.
Rule three. Don't touch him. Ever.
She wondered what those gloves were protecting—him, or everyone else.
His dark gaze found hers the moment she entered, tracking her movement across the room. His expression shifted, too quick to read, before settling back into cold indifference.
Her stomach tightened. She’d faced worse. Noble houses full of guards who wanted her dead. This was just another room where she didn’t belong. She could survive it if she acted like she did.
"You may observe from there," he said, gesturing to a spot along the wall. His voice carried easily in the vast space, that low roughness making her breath catch. "Close enough to see and hear everything. Far enough to stay out of the way."
She took her position, her back against bone, empty sockets flanking her on both sides. They seemed to watch the proceedings with the same attention she did.
The morning's business was a parade of nightmares dressed up as paperwork.
A dispute between two minor lords over territory in the Screaming Marshes.
She filed that away as a place to absolutely never visit.
A request to relocate several hundred tormented souls from one wing to another, discussed with the same casual tone someone might use for moving furniture.
Then reports on ward-locks throughout the realm.
None of it made sense to her, but it concerned him.
His shadows wound tighter with each update, wrapping around the throne's base.
He was good at this. Decisive without being hasty, listening to full arguments before making judgments. His voice carried authority, but he didn't seem to enjoy the power; it was more as if he were managing necessary business that required ultimate decision-making.
What struck her most was the distance.
Every petitioner stopped at that invisible twelve-foot barrier; none of them dared cross. No closer. When he gestured them forward, they took the smallest step possible, their feet barely lifting from the floor. When he leaned forward slightly, they retreated as if pushed by force.
It wasn't just respect. It was dread so deep it had become reflex.
But dread of what? He hadn't threatened anyone all morning, hadn't raised his voice above that low, commanding tone. If anything, his judgments seemed fair, even merciful by Death Lord standards. He'd reduced a soul's torment sentence. He'd granted better working conditions in the palace kitchens.
Her gaze drifted to those gloves again. To the distance he maintained. The way darkness reached toward people but never quite touched them, as if leashed by invisible chains.
His touch killed. That had to be it. Why else would he keep everyone at arm's length, warn her so specifically, wrap himself in gloves like armor?
The atmosphere shifted when a representative from the Court of the Mourned arrived.
She swept into the room, her white robes a stark contrast against the bone-and-shadow architecture.
Pale hair caught the blue firelight like spun silver, the fabric glowing with its own inner light—the kind of ethereal beauty that made you think of angels, until you noticed the coldness in her eyes.
Everything was designed for maximum impact. Even her movements were meant to make you forget she was deadly.
Her approach was confident, stopping at that boundary as if she had done this many times before.
"Lord Reaper," she said, offering a formal bow, managing to convey respect without submission. "I bring greetings from Lord Caelum and a request for an emergency council of all five Death Lords."
"I will consider it." His response was neutral, but Brynn caught the slight tightening around his eyes. The subtle way his shadows drew closer to him, wrapping around the bone armrests like protective serpents.
He didn't like this. Whatever this messenger was asking for, he didn't trust it.
"Lord Caelum believes immediate discussion is warranted." The representative's smile revealed nothing. "There are matters requiring urgent consultation among all five courts. The barriers between realms have been experiencing unusual fluctuations."
That got his attention.
He leaned forward slightly, and Brynn noticed how the representative's hand moved instinctively to her throat, fighting the urge to retreat. Like getting closer to him, even by a few inches, triggered every survival instinct she possessed.
"What kind of fluctuations?" His voice had dropped to that quiet tone, making her spine straighten.
"Ward-locks going dark without explanation. Souls are crossing over in the wrong locations. Minor issues, but concerning." The representative paused, turning toward Brynn. "Perhaps a tribute with special talents might have insights into such magical anomalies?"
Every head in the court followed.
Heat flooded her neck as dozens of eyes appraised her with new interest. Spirits, bound servants, warriors. All of them were suddenly very aware of her presence.
She kept her expression neutral, her posture relaxed.
"Perhaps." His voice went flat.
Power flickered at the edges of the dais like flames responding to wind that wasn't there. The throne's base seemed to strain higher. Just his power reacting to whatever he was feeling.
"Though I find it curious," he continued, weighing each word, "that these fluctuations are just now being reported. Ward-locks don't fail silently. Someone should have noticed this earlier.”
The representative's smile never wavered, but her posture shifted subtly. A fractional tensing, suggesting she'd expected this challenge.
"Lord Caelum wanted to gather all perspectives before raising an alarm," she said smoothly. "He looks forward to your counsel on the matter. Your expertise with the ward system is, after all, unmatched."
Flattery. Appealing to his pride.
But the Reaper didn't look flattered. He looked suspicious.
"Tell Lord Caelum I will attend his council," he said finally. "And that I expect a full accounting of these 'minor issues' before I arrive."
The representative bowed again, deeper this time. "Of course, my lord. He will be pleased by your cooperation."
The representative couldn't leave fast enough, her quick pace through the bone-framed doors not quite masking her relief. After that, the remaining court business felt different.
More whispered conversations among the courtiers—speculative glances in Brynn's direction. More tension radiated from the dais where the Reaper sat in thoughtful silence, his shadows writhing around him like agitated snakes, curling around the throne's base.
The courtiers wondered what she was, and why a tribute would have talents related to ward-locks.
She wondered that herself. What had she done to those tools in the vault? Why had they glowed when she touched them? And why did he watch her the way he did? Like she was an anomaly he hadn't accounted for?
When the final petitioner was dismissed, and the room began to empty, Brynn started to slip toward the exit along with the others.
"Thief."
The Reaper's voice carried across the space, stopping her mid-step. The remaining courtiers paused, watching.
"You will dine with me tonight. Eight bells. Don't be late."
No would you or if you please. Just commands delivered in that rough voice, sending unwanted heat down her spine.
He rose without waiting for her answer. Shadows flowed around him as he strode from the room, the throne seeming to grasp after him as he left.
Leaving Brynn standing there on a floor of teeth, every gaze in the room fixed on her.