Chapter 9
IX.
brYNN
When the eighth bell chimed somewhere in the depths of the palace, a sound like bones striking bones, a servant appeared at her door.
"My lady." The translucent figure bowed. "The Lord Reaper requests your presence at dinner."
Brynn followed through corridors that twisted in ways that made no sense—left, right, down a staircase carved from what might have been a single massive horn—until she was thoroughly lost.
Probably the point.
The grand hall could have comfortably seated fifty people. Instead, it seated two. One at each end of a table so long she could barely make out the Reaper's expression in the candlelight. The distance between them felt absurd, like they were shouting across a canyon to have a conversation.
Or like he was making a point about the space he needed to keep between himself and everyone else.
The room seemed built for isolation. The high ceiling disappeared into shadows where chandeliers of fused vertebrae hung like inverted spines, their cold blue flames casting everything in ghostly light.
The walls were lined with more death-woven tapestries.
Scenes rendered in thread so fine the figures seemed to breathe.
A king dying on his throne while his court celebrated, unaware.
A ship sinking beneath waves made of grasping hands.
Lovers embracing as darkness crept up behind them.
The table was carved from wood so dark it was almost black, polished to a gleam.
Candelabras lined its length—spinal columns rising from the surface with candles nestled in the topmost vertebrae, their flames flickering silver instead of gold.
The chairs had armrests that ended in skeletal hands, fingers curled as if waiting to grip whoever sat in them.
Shadows gathered in the corners and along the walls, deeper than they should have been. They moved when nothing else did, shifting and coiling.
His power. Restless even during dinner.
Servants appeared and disappeared like ghosts, placing plates and filling glasses before melting back into dim corners. The food was elaborate—roasted fowl with rosemary, root vegetables glazed in honey, and brown bread. The wine was rich and smooth, with an aftertaste that lingered like smoke.
Everything was perfect. And completely awkward.
He sat at the far end, framed by those skeletal armrests. His posture was flawless, his attention focused on his meal.
Probably never had a day of back pain in his immortal life.
She caught herself slouching and straightened.
He'd removed the ceremonial armor but kept the long sleeves and gloves. Still maintaining that barrier even while dining.
She watched him cut his meat with exact movements, managing knife and fork with ease. Everything about him was controlled, like he'd spent a lifetime perfecting the art of never making an unnecessary movement.
She lasted approximately five minutes before the silence became unbearable.
"So," she said, raising her voice. "Interesting day at court."
He continued to cut his meat without looking up. "Was it?"
His voice carried easily across twenty feet of table, doing inconvenient things to her pulse that she firmly ignored.
"The representative from the Mourned Court seemed friendly," she tried.
He looked up at her, silverware paused midway to his mouth. "Friendly."
Flat. Skeptical. Like she'd just suggested the sky was yellow.
"Well, not friendly exactly." She was already regretting this attempt at conversation. "But diplomatic? Polite?" She gestured vaguely with her fork, avoiding the spinal candelabra near her plate. "She seemed very interested in the ward-lock problems."
"Indeed."
One word. He'd given her one word and gone back to his meal like the conversation was finished.
This was going to be a long dinner.
She took a sip of wine and tried again. "Have you known the other Death Lords long?"
"Centuries."
"That's a long time to work with the same people." She was determined to extract more than single-word responses if it killed her. Which, given where she was, remained a distinct possibility. "Do you get along well?"
His knife and fork clinked against the plate. "We coexist."
"Right. Coexist." She attacked her vegetables with more force than necessary, honey glaze making them shine. "And the emergency council meeting…is that a regular thing, or...?"
"No."
She waited for him to elaborate. He didn't. Just kept eating, as if this were an everyday dinner conversation.
Maybe for him it was. Maybe he'd forgotten how to talk to people after so long of everyone being too terrified to speak to him.
She tried a different approach. "The palace is beautiful. All those tapestries in my room, the craftsmanship is incredible." She glanced at the death-woven scenes surrounding them now, the sinking ship's passengers frozen mid-scream. "Do you know who made them?"
"Artisans."
Her jaw clenched. She gripped her glass tighter to keep from throwing it at him. "Right. Artisans. Living artisans or...?"
"Dead."
"Of course they are." She took another, larger sip.
The alcohol was starting to warm her blood, loosening the control she usually kept on her tongue.
Reckless, but at this point, she'd take reckless over this excruciating silence.
"This is delicious, by the way. The wine.
Do you make it here, or do you import it from somewhere else? "
He set down his utensils slowly. Those dark eyes fixed on her across the length of the table, seeing too much. The armrests curled tighter, though surely that was just the flickering light.
Her breath caught.
"Are you always this talkative?" he asked.
The words held an edge—irritation, or possibly amusement. With him, it was impossible to tell.
"Are you always this charming?" she shot back before she could stop herself.
The crash of a dropped plate echoed from somewhere near the wall. One of the servants had fumbled their tray in the quiet hall. A bone-handled serving knife clattered across the floor.
Shadows wrapped tighter around his chair. Responding to his mood. The same way it had in the throne room when he'd been suspicious of the Mourned Court's representative.
He gave her a measuring look down the table's length, and she could have sworn she saw his lips twitch. "Yes."
The admission was so unexpected, so bluntly honest, that she let out a slightly shaky laugh. "Well, at least you're consistent."
He picked up his glass and took a sip, studying her. The candlelight caught in the crystal, refracting through the wine. Behind him, the tapestry showed the dying king's crown rolling from his head, though she was certain it had been firmly in place a moment ago.
"You're nervous."
Not a question, but she lifted her chin anyway. "I'm not used to dining with Death royalty."
"I'm not royalty."
"What are you then?"
"A Death Lord." He set his glass down. "Nothing more."
Nothing more. As if that wasn't impressive enough. As if being one of five beings who ruled over all of death was somehow mundane.
"Right," she said, hearing the skepticism in her own voice. She took another sip, warmth spreading through her chest. Feeling just bold enough to push. "The representative mentioned my 'special talents.' What talents is she talking about?"
He was quiet for a long moment, his fingers tapping silently against his glass. His shadows shifted with each tap, keeping time. In one of the bone-framed mirrors, she caught the tapestry behind her—the lovers had turned to look toward the approaching shadow. They hadn't been looking before.
"The tools you stole reacted to you," he said finally. "Word travels between the courts."
Her pulse jumped. "What do you mean they reacted to me?"
"They responded to your touch. Grew warm, glowed." His dark eyes met hers from the far end of the table, pinning her in place. "Death artifacts don't typically do that for mortal thieves."
The way he said it made it clear that was exactly what he thought she was. Nothing special. Nothing important. Just someone who'd stumbled into something she didn't understand.
"So what does that make me?" She kept her voice level even as frustration built in her chest.
"Useful."
She set her fork down with more force than necessary, the clatter echoing in the vaulted space. He'd gone back to his meal as if the conversation was over. As if reducing her to a single word—useful—was sufficient.
"That's it?" she pressed, leaning forward slightly. The armrest pressed against her forearm. "Just useful?"
His eyes snapped up, and the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. His shadows pressed closer to his chair, restless and agitated. The flames in the ribcage chandeliers guttered.
"For now," he growled.
A warning wrapped in two syllables.
Her heart skipped. She looked down at her plate, picked up her fork, and suddenly found her vegetables fascinating. Too aware of The Reaper watching her, of the tapestry figures that had shifted positions, the armrests that felt closer than before.
Right. She'd pushed too far, asked too many questions. Forgotten for a moment that a friendly dinner conversation didn't exist with the Lord of the Forsaken.
They finished the rest of the meal in silence.
But this silence felt different from the beginning. Charged. Like a boundary had shifted between them that neither was willing to acknowledge.
When the last course was cleared away, he stood and left without a word. Shadows flowed after him like a cloak, and the skeletal hands on his abandoned chair slowly uncurled, releasing nothing.
Brynn sat there, alone at a table built for fifty, her heart still racing from a two-word warning.