The prison corridors of the Black Fortress were drowned in silence, broken only by the slow drip of water from unseen pipes. The walls were carved from obsidian, each surface veined faintly red as though blood seeped through the stone itself. Most who walked here entered screaming, and fewer still returned.
Vorath walked without hurry. Each step echoed like a war drum, steady, patient, final. Behind him, Serikar and Velira kept pace, their expressions carefully measured. Ahead, the cell of the Archivist and the shackled goddess waited.
At the door, Vorath stopped. His gaze flicked toward his subordinates.
"Leave us."
"Lord Vorath—" Serikar began, but the words died when amber eyes cut into him.
Velira inclined her head. "As you command."
They both retreated, though Velira cast one long look back, crimson eyes sharp with curiosity. But she, too, vanished into the shadows.
The heavy iron door opened with a groan. Inside, the cell smelled of damp stone and the faint copper tang of blood. Two figures occupied it: the Ancient Archivist, chained but still carrying a quiet dignity, and the goddess of Victory, her golden hair dulled by dust, her wrists scarred where celestial bindings dug deep.
Vorath stepped inside. The door clanged shut behind him.
Neither prisoner spoke. Their silence was a wall, yet Vorath moved closer without breaking pace, stopping just far enough for his presence to smother the air between them.
"You've resisted Aethra's attentions," Vorath said, his voice low and smooth, carrying both amusement and menace. "That alone tells me you value something more than your own agony."
The Archivist raised his eyes. They were tired, but not broken. "I've lived long enough to see torment in all its forms. Yours is but another mask."
Vorath tilted his head slightly. "You mistake me, Archivist. I did not come to torment you. I came for truth."
He shifted his gaze to the goddess. "And you. Victory, chained. The irony is almost artful."
Her golden eyes hardened, but she said nothing.
Vorath smiled faintly — not cruel, but sharp as a knife's edge. "Then let us speak plainly. Tell me why the gods fear the Hollow Spire."
The Archivist's composure faltered, barely. A flicker of tension rippled across his features. He exhaled slowly. "The Spire is not meant for you."
Vorath's tone remained calm. "Everything is meant for me. The gods buried their sins in stone and shadow, believing mortals would never touch them. But you, Archivist… you scratched at those graves. You recorded what should have been forgotten."
The goddess broke her silence, voice like tempered steel. "You cannot touch the Hollow Spire. Even if you reach it, its truth will burn you. It was made for those who guard life, not those who devour it."
Vorath's expression did not change, but something sharpened behind his gaze. He stepped closer, until the chains binding Victory rattled faintly with his presence.
"Burn me?" he asked softly. "You think I have not burned? Lyssara's ashes are carved into my soul. Fire does not frighten me."
The goddess flinched, not at the name, but at the way he spoke it — not as weapon, but as memory.
The Archivist tried to redirect. "Vorath, the Hollow Spire is not your path. It belongs to the prophecy you already twist."
Vorath's eyes gleamed. "Ah. So the Spire is bound to the prophecy after all. You've said more than you intended."
Silence fell again, heavy as stone.
Vorath let it stretch, savoring the weight of their discomfort. Then he leaned closer to the Archivist, voice dropping to a whisper that coiled like smoke. "Tell me, old man… who are the 'two souls of light'? I've heard the riddle, seen its half-carved truth. You know the rest."
The Archivist's jaw tightened. His chains clinked softly as his hands curled into fists. "If I spoke it, even the walls would mourn. That knowledge is not yours to hold."
Vorath studied him for a long moment, then shifted his gaze to the goddess again. "And you? Will you waste eternity in silence? Or admit why you wished to see him?"
The goddess of Victory closed her eyes. For a heartbeat, she said nothing. Then, softly: "Because he matters."
Vorath's brow arched. "The Archivist?"
"No." Her eyes opened, burning now with defiance. "Kaelen."
The name hung in the air like a blade. The Archivist winced, but did not deny it.
Vorath said nothing at first. He let the word echo in the silence, reverberating in the marrow of the chamber. When he finally spoke, it was in a tone that dripped with both satisfaction and amusement.
"Kaelen…" He tasted the syllables as if savoring wine. "So the gods place their hopes in a reluctant heir, a child of light too blind to his own blood. Delicious."
The goddess bit back her words, but her silence betrayed enough. The Archivist closed his eyes, as though bracing against a storm.
Vorath straightened, his dark silhouette towering over both prisoners. He did not roar or threaten. His power was quieter, more terrible in its restraint.
"At last," he said softly, almost to himself, "the gods themselves feed my hand the blade meant to cut them."
He turned, his cloak sweeping across the stone like a shroud. At the threshold, he paused and looked back one final time.
"You've given me more than you know," he said, voice edged with rare satisfaction. "For that, I will grant you time. Not mercy. Time. Use it as you will."
The door groaned open. Light from the corridor cut across his form, casting half his face into shadow. For the briefest moment, his lips curved into a thin, unmistakable smile.
Then the door closed, and the prisoners were left in silence.
The Archivist exhaled shakily. Victory bowed her head, her golden hair falling like a curtain to hide her expression. Both knew what had just happened. They had given Vorath truths he had not possessed before — and he was pleased.
Too pleased.