The four hundred moved in disciplined silence, weapons drawn, boots echoing against the black stone of the irathy palace.
The Lord Chancellor, wearing white armor faintly luminous in the dim, rarely donned by the Kalandir, walked at the head of the warband, the spearhead.
Sonder kept close to Vell, her fingers twitching with worry.
She had imagined this place countless times, the heart of the Irath's power, the place where she would finally see him and maybe even kill him.
But she was also just a girl. A little girl who knew some magic, who had trained, yes, but not to kill.
Vell's eyes swept the corridor ahead, his hand firm on his staff.
"You're trembling," he murmured without looking at her.
"I'm fine," Sonder whispered back, though she knew her voice lacked conviction.
She tried to focus on the steps ahead, but anticipation and dread twisted together in her chest. The thought of the Irath king waiting somewhere in the dark was suffocating.
This was it. This was the moment. Everything that happened since the day her family died led up to this moment.
But the walls around her seemed to close in on her.
Vell glanced at her again, briefly, as if trying to read her thoughts, but said nothing. He didn't approve of this war; she knew that much. But he had come anyway.
The warband pressed on. Every so often something moved, just out of sight.
The Lord Chancellor's voice rang quietly through the hall. "Stay close. Do not wander."
Sonder's skin crawled. She clutched the strap of her satchel tighter.
She told herself she was ready. She told herself she was strong now. She told herself that this place, no matter how it twisted or stared, could not frighten her away from her goal.
The corridors widened into a vast hall.
No one had opposed them. No guards, no beasts, no traps, not a single thing since they'd passed through the gates.
It felt wrong; it was wrong.
The Lord Chancellor slowed, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword, eyes sweeping the silent chamber ahead. The black stone floor gave way to white marble veined with gold, and at the far end, upon a dais of seven shallow steps, sat a throne of beaten gold.
And upon it, a single figure.
Radiant.