Seralyn couldn't breathe.
Not because the air was thin — there was plenty of it — but because every breath felt like drawing in shadow itself. The Citadel's walls pulsed faintly, like veins, each throb echoing in her ribs as if her heart no longer belonged to her.
The Throne of Skulls loomed above, each hollow gaze burning with faint blue light. They didn't just watch — they saw. Through skin, through soul. Every time she met their gaze, a whisper slid behind her ears.
"Your bones will join us… Kaelen's skull will sit beside you… your light will taste sweet…"
She bit her lip until she tasted copper, trying to focus on the steady weight of her staff. Her wards flickered like candle flames in a storm. Even the oldest sigils, drawn from scriptures that predated the gods themselves, wavered in the Citadel's presence. It was like this place… knew her.
And then Vorath appeared.
No warning. No sound. One moment the Throne stood empty, the next, he was there, like he had always been. As if the Citadel itself had simply decided to give him form.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Vorath wasn't just powerful — his very presence made the air bend. Every flicker of her magic strained as if dragged under an unseen tide. His crimson eyes swept over them without urgency, as though he were regarding ants debating a war with a flame.
And yet… there was something else. A weight behind his gaze. Something she couldn't name but felt in the marrow of her bones — like staring into an abyss that mourned as much as it devoured.
Kaelen stood firm beside her, silver fire radiating from his blade, Lumenbrand. His knuckles were white on the hilt, but his voice was steady. He would not falter. He could not.
Seralyn wished she shared his certainty.
For all her power, for all her years studying the hidden truths of the world, she had never felt so small. Even when facing gods, she had stood her ground without her breath shaking in her chest. But Vorath wasn't a god.
He was something older. Or worse.
The whispers from the skulls grew louder, overlapping into a single chorus, a chant that crawled beneath her skin:
"…Two souls… bearing light… before the Throne of Night…"
Her grip on her staff tightened until the wood creaked. She forced herself to breathe, forcing her thoughts into order.
Remember the wards. Anchor your will. The Citadel feeds on fear.
But her mind betrayed her. Against her will, images flickered in her thoughts — Kaelen falling to his knees, his light guttering like a dying flame; her own soul torn apart, screaming, as the Throne drank her essence dry.
Vorath's gaze brushed hers. Just for a moment.
Her wards faltered. Her breath hitched. And for the first time in centuries, Seralyn felt a whisper of something she had not known since she was a child staring up at the dark sky…
Dread.
When Vorath spoke, his voice was calm, smooth, but every syllable carried the weight of inevitability.
"Two souls bearing light," he said softly, almost as if to himself. "Perhaps… the Citadel will feast tonight."
And then his blade — Nox Obscura, that abyssal edge that made even the light of Kaelen's sword dim — rose, and the hall itself seemed to hold its breath.
Seralyn's heart pounded once, hard.
There would be no second chance.