Morrath
SEVRIN
Screaming. Interrupted. Dragged. Cut short. The kind that is worse for not being constant.
Sevrin does not slow.
A figure cuts across the sky. Then another. Red bodies, black wings, the sound they make somewhere between a screech and a roar, stretched too far in both directions. One dives low enough that the cook flinches.
Sevrin does not look up. "She is not for you," he says mildly.
The creature pulls back at once. The palace rises out of the landscape like something forced upward rather than built. Dark stone, too tall, too narrow in places and too wide in others, following no rule anything human would recognize.
A figure descends as they approach.
She lands lightly in front of him. Her skin is pale, almost untouched by whatever has claimed the rest of Morrath. Black wings fold behind her. Two curved horns frame her face, elegant rather than grotesque.
"Majesty."
"Ivernet," he says. "How are the preparations coming along?" For six long months his gift for Asharin had been worked on. He was ready to see some results.
Her smile is small and controlled. "Lovely. Allow me to show you."
He studies her for a moment, then nods. "I wish for a full meal while I am here."
"Of course." Her expression does not shift. "Yorali was kind enough to provide provisions this morning. Fresh from the Sorting Hall."
They enter the palace. The temperature drops immediately. The air thickens, carrying the scent of blood layered over something older. The guards do not move. Their eyes follow instead, too many joints, too still in the wrong places.
"King Axar of Korakar personally selected your staff, as commanded," Ivernet says.
Sevrin smiles. Not at the answer. At something behind it. "How kind of him."
The group of workers from the pit huddles together, chains dragging at their ankles. One of them shuffles forward and bows, trembling. "Majesty, my name is Worvis. I have heard, in stories, that humans cannot live in Morrath, only feeders. So how are we here?"
Sevrin looks at him. "Oh, Worvis, you are right. Humans cannot live in Morrath. Which is why you aren't human."
Ortsan went pale. "The magic used to cast you into Morrath is exceptional. The moment you crossed the threshold into Morrath, your heart stopped beating, and it will never beat again. If you were to leave Morrath, you would fall into ash."
He smiles reassuringly. "But do not worry, there is plenty of work to be done here. And so long as you stay in Morrath you will feel alive, at any rate."
A quiet sound escapes the maid. The cook's hands begin to shake. The dressmaker stares too long at something she should not be looking at.
Sevrin continues walking.
He stops only once.
"Cook."
The man jerks. "Yes, Majesty."
"When my guest arrives, I will require fowl. And dessert. A great deal of it." He pauses. "All utensils that come into contact with her mouth are to be preserved."
The cook blinks. Does not understand. Then understands. What little color he had left drains from his face.
"Yes, Majesty."
Sevrin turns. "Come."
The staircase is wide enough to impress and tall enough to exhaust, the kind of thing built to remind people of their place with every step they take. At the top he opens the doors without pausing.
The maid gasps. The dressmaker follows a heartbeat later.
The entire floor is mirrors, curving and twisting through the space in endless paths, reflecting light that has no source, multiplying the room until it feels as though it stretches far beyond the walls that contain it. A labyrinth of glass and refracted nothing.
Sevrin steps inside. "Once our guest arrives, she will not leave," he says conversationally. "The mere thought distresses me." He glances back at them. "I thought this might make the space feel more open. Do you agree?"
"Yes, Majesty," the maid says quickly. "It is very thoughtful."
"Good. I want each mirror scrubbed. Clean. Perfect."
"Majesty, there are so many—"
He brings his hands together once.
The sound echoes through the room.
Three Morraks descend, too fast and too sudden, one still holding a human hand between its teeth. They land beside the maid, watching, waiting, their attention fixed on her with the particular patience of things that have learned patience is more frightening than urgency.
Sevrin tilts his head slightly. "She does not wish to work alone."
The creatures hiss.
The maid begins to shake.
"See to it that she is given suitable company."
They take her. Her scream does not last long.
Sevrin does not watch her go. He turns instead to the dressmaker, who straightens instinctively.
"Your role is more important. At the palace I have a dressmaker for the princess, and another to approve what is made. I do not have that luxury here." A pause. "You will adjust."
"Yes, Majesty."
"I expect a multitude of dresses upon my return."
"Yes, Majesty."
Ivernet reappears at his shoulder. "Your meal has arrived, Majesty."
He nods with approval, his eyes flashing red. The dining room is too large. He notices it immediately, his attention moving across the space and already altering it in his mind.
"When she arrives, this room will be smaller," he says. "More intimate." He does not wait for a response. "See to it."
The Morraks shift. They understand.
The throne room waits beyond, the table already set with careful attention. He takes his seat, looks at what has been laid before him, selects one, and smiles.
The screaming begins.
Hours later he steps back into the open air. His eyes burn, crimson and alive with it. The Morraks have gathered in their hundreds, wings folding and unfolding, bodies pressing closer, drawn toward him without instruction.
"Until Yorali chooses to be reasonable," he says softly, "I cannot release you." They quiet, listening. "But I do have a task." He pauses. "Do I have any volunteers?"
They surge forward, a mass of movement and sound and need.
"Find her." The world seems to still around the words.
"Bring her to me." A slight tilt of his head.
"Unharmed." Another pause. “The undead mean to harm her, you must kill any that cross your path.” A pause.
“You must protect her, or die trying.” He smiles.
“And you must be gentle. She may be with child.”
The creatures shudder with anticipation.
"If she is found, come to me at once," he says. They screech in understanding.
He turns to Ivernet. "See to it that those who scout are the strongest. If they find her but die before I can be notified, then the outcome for all involved would be…disappointing."
"Yes, Majesty," Ivernet says.
He looks around the palace, pleased with its new appearance.
"Yes," he murmurs. "A nursery should be prepared, just in case."
Ivernet inclines her head. "It will be done."
"How are the provinces?" he asks.
"Quite well, Majesty, although typical bickering seems to exist between Korakar and Slurvina."
"And the Umbrelai?"
"They keep mostly to themselves, although their princess allegedly has a taste for death and punishment." She pauses. "But Umbrelai is forever aligned with Korakar, Majesty, and together they are too strong for Slurvina to start a civil war against."
"Very well. See that you visit Korakar in person again soon. Axar is the most reasonable of them all. I will not have Asharin here amongst unrest."
"Yes, Majesty," Ivernet responds with a respectful nod.
Servants approach, careful and controlled. One drapes his furs over his shoulders. Another opens the case. He selects one of his utensils, places it between his teeth, and closes his eyes.
When he opens them again the sky is waiting.
"She is mine," he says quietly. "And yet she has disappeared." A breath, something almost like amusement in it. "When she returns, she will never leave."
The Morraks begin to rise, one by one and then all at once, filling the sky in a storm of red and black. Sevrin watches them go with the particular satisfaction of a man who has never had to ask for anything twice.
"She will be your queen."
Ivernet smiles. "I look forward to it, Majesty."
He is almost to the gate when it happens.
A pull. Low and certain, moving through the ground beneath him the way a sound moves through water, felt before it is heard.
He goes still. He has stood in Morrath a hundred times and felt nothing like this.
This is not the Morraks. This is not the gate responding to his blood.
This is something else entirely, a frequency that does not belong to anything here and yet is unmistakably recognized by everything here.
Ivernet appears at his shoulder. "Majesty?"
"This place calls to her," he says.
A pause. "Majesty, that is not possible. She is not a feeder. The gate would not recognize her."
He does not answer immediately. The pull moves through him again, faint and certain.
"Unless—" Ivernet begins.
"Blood calls to blood," he says. "If someone here is of her bloodline, she would be allowed in."
Ivernet goes very still beside him.
He looks out at the red sky, at the Morraks still rising in their hundreds, and something in him that has been waiting a very long time goes quiet in a way that feels like arrival.
He does not know whose blood it is. He does not need to know yet.
He only knows the gate already recognizes her. Perhaps he will not need Yorali at all.
Everything he has built is waiting.