The silence that followed Vorath's command still hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
Vekaros, General of the Obsidian Legion and First Blade of the Citadel, stood just beyond the edge of the Throne Hall. The iron doors had been sealed again, but he had seen enough. He had felt the moment the killing intent faltered — heard the word that was not meant for mortal ears.
Lyssara.
He repeated the name in his mind like a curse, a fragment of old history long thought erased.
"Two intruders," Vekaros growled, pacing the corridor outside the throne room. His clawed gauntlet scraped against the obsidian wall as he walked, sparks dancing along the stone. "Two light-bearers. And he lets them go."
His words weren't for anyone. Most of the Citadel's denizens knew better than to linger near the throne. The Skull-Wardens patrolled in silence, their hollow eyes dim with confusion. Even the infernal wraiths that roamed the upper reaches of the fortress moved cautiously, as if the dark itself had grown uncertain.
Vekaros stopped before one of the massive stained-glass windows overlooking the outer abyss. Storms raged far below, lightning streaking across the corrupted skies.
He had fought gods beside Vorath. He had burned entire cities to ash in his name. He had watched empires fall before the black tide.
But never had he seen Vorath hesitate. Never had he seen that look — the faintest flicker of something… human.
"She speaks to him again," came a soft voice.
Vekaros turned. Behind him stood Althera, one of the Pale Seers — a withered creature veiled in shimmering ashcloth, her sockets weeping black ichor. Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but it carried like a scream in the emptiness of the hall.
"She who was lost," she said. "She who was burned from time. She walks the dream-path again. You saw it too."
Vekaros didn't answer at first. Then, quietly: "Do you think he's weakening?"
"No," Althera replied. "I think he is remembering."
Lightning crackled in the distance. The Citadel's walls trembled, faintly.
"What happens," Vekaros asked, "if the King of Shadows starts to doubt himself?"
Althera tilted her head. "Then the rest of us should be very, very afraid."
The whispering skulls in the high halls began to murmur again — louder this time, and faster. Words without language. Truths without shape. A madness that smelled like the future.
"…Two souls bearing light… before the Throne of Night… chained fates… broken stars… Lyssara…"
Vekaros turned away, his crimson cloak billowing as he walked toward the upper levels. "The next time they step foot in this place," he muttered, "there will be no mercy. Voice or no voice."
And yet, even as he said it, he could not shake the feeling — a growing crack in the monolith that was Vorath — something ancient shifting beneath the stone.
Not weakness.
Change.