The transition from the sulfur wastelands to the capital city was like moving from a garbage graveyard into a furnace.
Karas followed Vexra through the iron gates, his head low, the mud on his face stinking and itching with every step. The air here was thicker than in the wastes, but it was a little fresher. the sound of a thousand voices, the clacking of metal against stone, and the strange, bioluminescent glow of "night-blooms" that clung to the basalt walls like neon moss echoed in the supposedly silent area.
"Keep your eyes on my heels, Mud-boy," Vexra called over her shoulder. She moved with a hip-swaying confidence that seemed to part the crowd of horned, winged, and multi-eyed citizens. "And try not to breathe too loudly. Your lungs sound like a bellows in a library."
Karas didn't answer. He was too busy trying not to stare. They passed a butcher shop where a man with four arms was expertly carving slabs of meat that glistened with an, oily purple light. He saw a group of children-small, pale things with pointed baby horns, bay like feathers -playing a game with a skull that still seemed to be whispering.
"Here," Vexra said, stopping before a door made of breast rib cage.
She pushed it open, and Karas was hit by a wave of smells: dried lavender, sulfur, fermented honey, and something sour like vinegar. This was her laboratory-a cramped, chaotic space filled with bubbling glass vats, hanging bundles of blackened herbs, and a large, velvet-cushioned chair in the corner.
In that chair sat Onyx.
The cat was a massive, sleek creature with fur the color of a void and three glowing yellow eyes. As Karas stepped inside, the cat's third eye opened wide, fixated directly on the mud-covered human. A loud, growl started in the cat's throat.
"Shh, Onyx. He's just a stray I found," Vexra said, tossing her shawl onto a workbench. She turned to Karas and pointed at a stone basin filled with a thick, phosphorescent green slime. "Get in. Scrub yourself until you bleed. I can't have a date that smells like a rotted corpse."
Karas hesitated. "What is that?"
"A de-pollutant," Vexra said, pulling out a vial of dark blue liquid. "Unless you prefer the Mud Freaks following you by scent? If you want to survive the streets, you have to strip the human world-and the wastes-off your skin."
Karas was shocked, his eyes widened in disbelief "how did you know I'm Human?"
"Your eyes .....they carry a light that doesn't belong here , plus my cat Onyx he just told me"
Karas was confused , Could cats talk ? why didn't Vexra scream? Why didn't she expose him ? Does she have an ulterior motive?
"What do you want"
"I want you to shower and stop polluting my house duh" Vexra rolled her eyes but karas still wasn't buying it .
"You are not going to expose me? "
"Brother I really don't care, just step into the stone basin"
Karas stripped and stepped into the basin. The slime was ice-cold and felt like thousands of tiny needles pricking his skin. As he scrubbed, the mud fell away, revealing the chiseled, physique which stayed hidden under all those layers of silks he usually wore.
Vexra, who had been busy grinding a root into powder, glanced over. Her eyes widened slightly, a smirk playing on her lips. "Well. Beneath all that filth, you've actually got a frame on you. You're a little... delicate in the face, but you'll do."
"Delicate?" Karas grunted, his skin stinging.
"Ethereal," she corrected. "Like a high-tier warlock who hasn't seen the sun. It's a good look. Very 'Northwest territory.'"
She walked over, her fingers catching the stark white streak in his hair. "This, though. This is a mess. It's ritual-scarred hair. What did you do, brother? Try to summon a god and fail?"
Karas pulled away, his heart hammering. "Something like that."
Vexra sighed, pouring a dark dye into a bowl.
"Well, sit still. If we don't hide this, the Palace Guards will think you're a rebel scholar. No one walks around with ritual-bleached hair unless they've been doing something illegal."
As she worked the dye into his hair, she spoke with a casual bluntness of a woman like she had known karas for the longest time , she told everything she had seen , she was young but had lived so many experiences.
"The city is buzzing, you know. Everyone is talking about the King's new toy. They call him the 'Purple-Eyed Siren.' They say the king burned down an entire human village just to get him."
Karas felt a surge of nausea. "Is that what they say?"
"Among other things," Vexra said, her voice dropping. "They say he's a half-breed , we don't know what he's mixed with , most people believe he's a human and the king is lying about him being a half breed to save face . Some think he's a spy. Others think he's a snack the King hasn't finished yet. Either way, the banquet is going to be a bloodbath of judgment. Every general's and commanders in the four corners is coming to see if the Siren is worth the trouble."
Karas clenched his fists beneath the slime.
He isn't a siren. He's Zi, my Zaliyah.
While Karas was being "cleaned," Zaliyah was being broken.
Zaliyah stood on a large rooftop
A tall, spindly demon named Tavian-Malachi's personal court tutor-stood over Zaliyah, holding a long, thin rod made of thorns.
"Again," Tavian hissed. "The walk of a consort is not the walk of a human peasant. You are the center of the room. Every step must claim the floor."
Zaliyah, dressed in heavy, layered silks that felt like he was carrying sacks of grains, he tried to walk across the floor. His neck was still bruised from Malachi's grip, making every breath a shallow struggle.
"Shoulders back. Eyes level," Tavian barked. "And for the love of the Void, hide your eyes."
Zaliyah stopped. "Hide them? They're part of my face."
"Your fear shines through them like a beacon!" Tavian shouted, his own yellow eyes narrowing. "When a High General looks at you, he shouldn't see a boy wondering if he's about to be eaten. He should see a cold, untouchable deity. Your purple eyes are your power, but right now, they are your leak. Seal them. Coldness, your highness. Not fear."
Zaliyah took a breath, closing his eyes. He thought of the library floor as the ritual circle back home. He thought of Malachi's hand on his throat. He turned that terror into a hard, crystalline frost. When he opened his eyes again, the purple was cold and terrifying.
"Better," Tavian whispered. "Now, the bow. Lower. You are acknowledging the King's authority, but you are not begging for your life. There is a difference."
Zaliyah bowed, his muscles aching. He had been practicing for ten hours straight. His feet were blistered, and his mind was frayed.
"What happens if I fail?" Zaliyah asked.
Tavian leaned in close, the scent of death rolling off him. "If you fail to act like a demon, they will treat you like a human. And in this court, a human is just a very expensive piece of meat. The king can certainly not protect you from a thousand hungry predators if you give them a reason to bite, he would let them tear you limps to limps."
Zaliyah nodded, "I understand."
"Good," Tavian said, tapping the rod against his palm. "Because the Banquet is in two days. And the Commander of the Northwest has already crossed the border. If you think the king is terrifying, pray you never have to face a Warlock who can hear your heart beating from a mile away."
Ailla sat on her divan, her fingers drumming impatiently against the silk cushions. Her room was a flurry of activity, maids were sorting through piles of emerald and gold fabrics, and the scent of expensive oils filled the air.
Her Chamberlain, Shakdam, scurried into the room. She held a silver tray, upon which sat a single, wax-sealed letter.
"My lady," Shakdam bowed low. "A courier just arrived from the Northwest. A personal missive for your eyes only."
Ailla's eyes lit up. She snatched the letter, her sharp nails tearing through the black wax seal.
As her eyes scanned the elegant calligraphy, a slow, triumphant grin spread across her face. Her breathing hitched, and she let out a short, melodic laugh that made her maids pause in their work.
"Oh, this is delicious," Ailla whispered, her fingers trembling slightly with excitement.
"My lady?" Shakdam asked, tilting her head. "Is it bad news?"
"Bad news? No, Shakdam. It's the best news," Ailla said, standing up and holding the letter to her chest. "My brother, Xulthas, is already at the border. He's attending the banquet. He says he 'cannot miss the unveiling of Malachi's little flower.'"
She turned to her reflection in the mirror, her eyes dancing with malice. "The warlock Commander is coming. Malachi thinks he can keep his little secret hidden under his scent? He has no idea."
She looked back at the letter, her grin widening. "Xulthas doesn't just see people, Shakdam. He sees souls. If there is anything 'off' about our new Consort, my brother will rip the truth out of him before the first course is served."
She tossed the letter onto the table, her excitement radiating through the room. "The Banquet just became a lot more interesting. Tell the seamstresses to add more gold to my gown. I want to shine the brightest, if possibly , I want to outdress Kizari, "
Shakdam bowed, sensing the shift in the air. "As you wish, My lady."
The countdown was down to forty-eight hours. The King was preparing a mask, the Brother was preparing a rescue, and the Warlock was preparing to see through it all.