The man, the king, the absolute dictator of the Kingdom of Irath, was still as carved stone, yet alive with a light that seemed to burn beneath his skin.
His face was smooth, symmetrical and expressionless.
It was the same as the masks his soldiers wore and all those who had ever seen the irath out of their home; those blank visages that had hidden their features from the world.
The underlings had been imitations. This was the original.
The glow was constant, neither flickering nor dimming, as if lit from within.
Shadows recoiled from him, fleeing to the farthest corners of the throne room.
He sat high on the golden seat, and in his hands, resting across his knees, lay an object that seemed both familiar and wrong.
It was another mask, or perhaps a helm, shaped like his own face and head. But the surface was darker. Its eyes were deeper, hollower. The mouth was parted ever so slightly.
The Kalandir Lord Chancellor stepped forward, sword in hand but held low, his voice steady as ever.
"You will come with us, peacefully or by force," he said.
Endrith's gaze fell upon him, deliberately slow. He did not blink. He did not speak.
Instead, with an almost ritual grace, he raised the mask in both hands and brought it toward his face. The light in the room seemed to draw inward, drawn toward the black metal as it settled into place.
No signal, no movement beyond that.
But the four hundred soldiers who had entered were gone. Not slain, not wounded - gone. No sound, no bodies, not even the clatter of dropped weapons. Only emptiness where they had stood.
Vell's ears rang in the sudden stillness. The throne room was larger now. Space itself warped around him.
Only he, Sonder, the Lord Chancellor, and two other Kalandir remained.
The Irath King lowered his hands from the mask and looked at them.
As if they were next.