"I am Archduke Vasilen Sangomar."
The voice was dry as paper and smooth as silk, ancient in a way that made centuries feel like hours.
It came from a throat that should not have been able to produce sound and filled the chamber without effort, each syllable pronounced with the careful precision of someone who had been speaking when language itself was young.
The living corpse's skeletal hand lifted from the armrest, one finger extending toward the dwarf.
"And you, Primordial, will cease this graceless skulking through borrowed eyes."
The red eyes burned brighter.
"Come before me as you are, or do not come at all."
Isveth's gaze jumped from the dwarf to the throne and back again.
"What are you? What happened to the Holy Daughter? This is her resting place! Where is she?"
The Archduke did not look at her.
