The hall was silent now, save for the faint hiss of shadows drawing breath.
Vorath stood halfway down the steps of the Throne, Nox Obscura resting lightly against his shoulder. The black steel thrummed in his grip, the shifting sigils along its length whispering in a tongue only he could hear — a woman's voice, soft, melodic, though warped by echoes of something darker.
"They are bright, my love. Too bright. Will you snuff them… or use them?"
He let the voice fade, crimson gaze fixed on the two who stood before him. Kaelen — ever defiant, bathed in silver flame, his blade a relic of gods who thought themselves eternal. Seralyn — her wards flickering, but her spine unbroken, defiance burning even as fear gnawed at her resolve.
The Citadel itself stirred around him, its heartbeat syncing with his own. The Throne of Skulls shivered, the blue flames in their sockets flickering in patterns that almost resembled faces — faces from his past. Some screaming. Some smiling. One… just watching.
Vorath's lips curled into the faintest shadow of a smile. Not joy. Not malice. Something colder.
"They do not understand," he murmured to the empty hall, though the Citadel seemed to listen. "The gods send them, but they are not merely pawns. The light in them… it reminds me."
His grip tightened slightly on Nox Obscura. The blade's whispers grew louder, more insistent, echoing like overlapping voices.
"Kill them. Spill them. Or—"
"Silence," he said, the single word enough to quiet both the sword and the Citadel itself. The skull-flames dimmed as though in fear.
He closed his eyes for a breath, letting the weight of the hall and its endless dead press into him. His thoughts brushed the edge of a memory — a woman's face, her laughter echoing against a battlefield of ash. Her blood on his hands. The promise he made as the gods watched from above and did nothing.
His eyes opened again, cold and resolute.
"They will learn soon enough why I walk this path," he murmured. His voice was calm, but beneath it, there was an undertone — a subtle, chilling reverence, as if every word was a prayer.
He began to descend the last of the steps, each movement silent, purposeful, his crimson eyes never leaving the two intruders. The shadows around his feet pooled unnaturally, trailing behind him like liquid night.
"Two souls bearing light…" His voice was soft, almost contemplative now. "Perhaps… the Citadel has found the keys I've been waiting for."
And then he moved to strike.