Chapter 12
XII.
brYNN
Brynn woke to the sound of rain against stone, though she'd learned not to trust her ears in this place. The drops struck the window in patterns too rhythmic to be natural, each impact creating flares of blue light that faded almost too quickly to see.
On the wall beside her bed, the drowning woman in the death-woven tapestry had finally surfaced. Her silk-threaded eyes stared directly at Brynn now, one hand reaching toward the bed frame.
The council meeting kept replaying in her mind. The way the other Death Lords had studied her like a prize to be claimed. The undercurrents she sensed but could not fully decode. And worst of all, the moment when his voice had dropped to that growl.
She stays with me.
The words had echoed through that bone temple with finality. Every immortal present had heard the claim beneath them. Whatever game the Death Lords were playing, she was now a piece on the board, whether she wanted to be or not.
And the way he'd looked at Caelum when the offer was made. Like he was considering murder. She'd seen killers before, had worked with a few, stolen from more than she could count. But she'd never seen someone go from complete control to violence so fast.
Over her. A thief he'd known for barely a week.
What the hell was that about?
She pushed the thought aside and swung her legs out of the bone-framed bed, bare feet hitting stone that should have been cold but somehow held just enough warmth to be comfortable.
Everything in this realm seemed designed to unsettle. Beauty twisted just enough to feel off, comfort offered with an edge that suggested it could be withdrawn at any moment.
The twilight filtering through her windows offered no clue about actual time, but her stomach suggested it was well past dawn by mortal standards. Though what constituted morning in a place where the sky never brightened was anyone's guess.
That's when she noticed the wardrobe.
The doors stood slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of fabric that hadn't been there when she'd gone to sleep. She crossed the room, passing the chair with its skeletal hand armrests, and pulled the wardrobe open, then stopped short.
Where three gowns had hung before, an entire wardrobe now waited. But these weren't just more silk confections meant for formal dinners. Someone had provided options.
Gowns in varying shades of blue hung alongside practical clothing. Midnight blue silk appropriate for court functions. Steel blue velvet that struck a balance between elegant and understated. Deep sapphire that would catch the light.
But interspersed with the formal wear were clothes designed for someone who might need to move. Work. Maybe even fight.
Tunics cut close to the body, with room to move.
Riding pants in dark gray that looked like they'd stay in place during activity.
A jacket in sapphire blue with reinforced seams and what felt like hidden pockets along the inner lining.
The kind of details that showed an understanding of concealed tools.
And boots. Real boots, not delicate slippers. Dark leather with good tread. Footwear you could run, climb, and fight in if necessary.
Everything was in shades of blue.
She ran her fingers along the nearest tunic, noting the quality. These weren't servants' clothes or basic wear. The fabric matched the court gowns in quality, but was cut for utility rather than display.
Someone had noticed her preference for the blue silk and accommodated it.
She'd spent years learning to read people's intentions through their actions. Gifts always came with strings attached. Kindness always had a price. Considerations were usually the prelude to demands.
So what was the angle here?
But even as she questioned it, she appreciated the craftsmanship. The cuts that didn't sacrifice elegance. The hidden pockets were positioned exactly where she would have placed them herself. The boots that looked like they'd been made for her feet.
Whoever had arranged this understood what she needed. And more unsettling, understood what she would want.
She selected the midnight-blue tunic and fitted gray pants, adding the jacket with its hidden pockets. The clothes fit perfectly—either magic or a highly observant eye for measurements. The fabric felt luxurious but practical enough that she could forget she was wearing it.
When she caught her reflection in the bone-framed mirror, she barely recognized herself.
Gone was the desperate thief in stolen noble's clothes. Gone was the overdressed tribute drowning in silk. This version of her looked lethal, as if she belonged in this world of death magic and politics.
Like someone who might survive here.
Weeks ago, she'd been a prisoner waiting for death. Now she stood in a Death Lord's palace wearing clothes chosen for her preferences and needs, surrounded by purple silk walls where death scenes shifted when she wasn't looking.
Three knocks at her door interrupted her thoughts.
"Miss Brynn?" Naia's voice carried through the wood, but tension threaded through her tone. More formal than usual, but also more urgent.
"Come in," Brynn called.
The soul entered carrying a breakfast tray, but her usual manner seemed strained. The translucence that marked her as one of the dead flickered more noticeably than normal, as if whatever animated her was struggling with emotion. She set the tray on the small table near the window.
"Thank you for the clothes," Brynn said, gesturing toward the wardrobe. "They're perfect."
"The Reaper was quite specific in his requirements." Naia’s eyebrow arched as she gave Brynn an assessing look. "He also requests your presence in the deep chambers."
Brynn paused in the middle of lacing her boots. The bone fingers of the chair's armrests seemed to press against her forearms, though surely that was her imagination.
So it had been him.
The Death Lord, who barely spoke to her beyond instructions. Who maintained distance at all times. Who looked at her like she was a problem he hadn't figured out how to solve yet.
That same Death Lord had personally selected her wardrobe. Right down to the reinforced pockets and sturdy boots.
After yesterday's display in front of every Death Lord in existence.
"The deep chambers?" she asked, keeping her voice neutral.
"Below the palace proper. Where the oldest foundations lie." Naia's voice flattened in that way that suggested bad news. "Few are brought there."
"And fewer still come back unchanged?" Brynn guessed, echoing the pattern from their first conversation.
A ghost of a smile flickered across Naia's face. "You learn quickly. Yes."
Brynn finished with her boots and stood, testing the fit. They felt reliable. Like someone had considered what she might need them for. "What's down there that requires my presence?"
"Old magic," Naia said. "The kind that remembers things we'd rather it forget."
That wasn't ominous at all.
"Any advice for someone about to descend into ancient magic chambers?"
"Be careful what you touch," Naia said seriously. "The old magic recognizes things about people that they haven't figured out about themselves yet. Sometimes that recognition comes with consequences."
Brynn studied her face, looking for more warnings. Behind Naia, the death-woven tapestry showed the battle scene—warriors falling in almost graceful poses. One of them had turned his head since yesterday. He was looking toward the door now. "What kind of consequences?"
"The kind that changes you. Permanently." Naia moved toward the door, then paused. "But then again, perhaps change is exactly what's needed."
After Naia left, Brynn stood there for a moment, processing.
The Reaper had summoned her to work with old magic after giving her clothes suited for dangerous conditions. Or running. Or fighting her way out.
She retrieved the tools from where she'd hidden them beneath her mattress, slipping them into one of the jacket's inner pockets. The fabric muffled any sound they might make against each other.
She was adjusting the jacket's fit when a different knock sounded at her door. Heavier than Naia's, more authoritative.
"Enter," she called.
The door opened to reveal one of his death knights, the tall figure's armor glowing dully in the twilight. Unlike the servants, this one radiated an aura of contained power that made the air feel thicker.
"Lord Reaper awaits," the knight said, voice carrying the echo of someone who had died in battle and chosen to keep fighting. "I am to escort you to the deep chambers."
Brynn nodded, though her pulse quickened. Whatever was about to happen, there was no turning back now.
The knight stepped aside, waiting for her to precede him into the corridor.
"This way," the knight said, turning toward a section of the palace she'd never been to before.