Shadows writhe up from the floor like living smoke, coiling around his ankles with serpentine grace. He stumbles, arms windmilling for balance, then crashes face-first into the stone. The shadows spread upward, binding his wrists, his torso, until only his head remains free.
"Please." The word emerges as a strangled whisper. "I have information?—"
I approach with measured steps, each footfall echoing off the chamber walls. The celestial markings across my skin pulse brighter now, white-hot chains of binding light that contrast sharply with the surrounding darkness.
"The contract was clear." I kneel beside him, placing one palm flat against his forehead. "You should have thought about what it was worth to you."
"Wait, I?—"
The soul extraction begins with surgical delicacy. His essence unravels in threads of pale violet light, each strand drawn forthwith careful control. No screaming—the process numbs mortal nerve endings while preserving consciousness until the final moment.
His eyes remain aware as I gather the last wisps of his life force, compressing them into a sphere of condensed energy. The body beneath my hand settles into stillness, expression peaceful as sleep.
Contract satisfied.
I rise, brushing dust from my coat as the shadows dissipate. The caged humans huddle in absolute silence, some weeping quietly. Their chains will rust away within hours without Elren's binding magic to maintain them.
The rift tears open again, reality bending around my will as I step toward the infernal plane. But as the dimensional barrier thins, something else brushes my awareness—faint as moth wings against glass.
A whisper. Mortal. Female.
Grief and desperation twined together in desperate prayer, reaching across planes with surprising strength. I pause at the threshold, one foot in shadow, one in dying torchlight.
Curious.
I file the sensation away and step through, leaving the Undercity's stench behind.
3
ILYRA
The market basket weighs heavier than usual against my hip as I climb the worn stone steps to our door. Turnips, a small wheel of hard cheese, barley flour—the same modest provisions Father sends me for each week. But tucked beneath the coarse cloth, wrapped in brown paper, lies my real purchase: dried elderflower and honey-mint leaves. The herbalist promised they'd soothe the worst coughs.
Father's been in bed since dawn, that terrible rattling sound echoing from his room every few minutes. Each cough seems to tear something loose inside his chest.
I push through the front door, already planning how I'll steep the tea—hot but not boiling, just long enough to release the oils. The sitting room stops me cold.
A stranger occupies Father's chair. Tall, unnervingly graceful, with skin the color of ash and silver-blond hair tied precisely at his nape. His violet eyes assess me like I'm livestock at auction. Dark leathers and fine silks mark him as Undercity nobility, though his presence here makes no sense.
Two guards flank the doorway—silent, armored shadows that make our modest room feel cramped.
Vaelra rises from the settee, her smile stretched too wide. "There she is. Lord Hethryn, this is Ilyra."
The stranger unfolds from Father's chair with liquid grace, his gaze never leaving my face. I clutch the basket tighter.
"Who are you?" The words escape before I can stop them. "Why are you here? Where's my father?"
"Ilyra." Vaelra's voice carries warning wrapped in silk. "Lord Hethryn has traveled a considerable distance to visit us. Brew some tea for our guests."
"But these leaves are for Father?—"
"It doesn't matter." She gestures toward the kitchen alcove. "We have company."
The elderflower crinkles in its paper wrapping as I set the basket down. Father needs this tea. He's been coughing blood into his sleeves when he thinks no one notices.
"The special leaves?" I try again. "They're medicinal. For his cough."
"Ilyra." Vaelra's tone sharpens. "The tea. Now."