The throne hall was drenched in shadow, lit only by the faint pulse of runes carved into the obsidian floor. Vorath sat unmoving upon his throne of skulls, one gauntleted hand resting on the hilt of Nox Obscura. His eyes burned with that cold, sovereign fire that made even silence seem alive with malice.
The Nightscythe knelt before him, dragging behind him the limp form of the Archivist. The gaunt, robed figure struggled against his captor's grip, but the chains that bound him were not wrought of iron—they were woven of shadow itself, tightening with each futile resistance.
Vorath's gaze lingered not on his prisoner, but on the Nightscythe. "You lingered," he said. His voice was quiet, but every syllable reverberated like a tolling bell. "Do you bring me excuses… or spoils?"
The Nightscythe bowed his head, pressing the Archivist down until his knees cracked against the floor. "Spoils, my lord. He resists, but he carries what we need."
The Archivist spat blood onto the black stone, glaring up at the dark sovereign. "You think truth bends to your will, tyrant? You cannot force the echoes of Lyssara to speak. Not even you."
At that name, Vorath stirred. Slowly, he rose from his throne. The runes on the floor flared as his armored boots touched stone, and the hall seemed to tremble in anticipation of his wrath.
"You dare," Vorath murmured, his tone dangerously soft, "to speak her name in chains of mockery?"
The Archivist met his gaze with surprising steadiness. "I speak it as remembrance. You speak it as obsession. There is a difference, tyrant."
The Nightscythe tensed, ready to silence him, but Vorath raised a hand, stilling his servant. His eyes, burning like suns in eclipse, did not waver from the Archivist.
"You know nothing of remembrance," Vorath said, his voice hollow with restrained fury. "The gods sacrificed her. They tore her from me. Every breath I take is in defiance of their cruelty."
The Archivist's lips twisted into a thin smile. "And yet… you hunt her memory as if you fear it slipping from your grasp. Love is no weapon, Vorath. It corrodes even the hand that wields it."
For a heartbeat, silence stretched—an unbearable stillness where only the faint creak of the Archivist's chains filled the hall. Then Vorath's laughter erupted, jagged and thunderous, echoing like a storm in a cavern.
"You think you've named my weakness," Vorath said, voice reverberating with both scorn and pain. "But you've only named the gods' crime. Lyssara was not yours to guard. She was mine to love—and mine to avenge."
The Archivist struggled against his bindings, his voice strained but defiant. "She would not have wished this. You turn her into a banner for conquest. Into an excuse for your ruin."
Vorath's eyes narrowed. "She would have wished to live. And since she cannot, I will make the gods themselves weep for what they've taken."
The Nightscythe, still kneeling, leaned closer to the Archivist's ear. His whisper was low, serpentine—yet it carried, as if meant for others hidden in the shadows:
"Victory wishes to see you too."
The Archivist's eyes widened with a flicker of recognition, and perhaps of fear. But before he could answer, shadow surged from the Nightscythe's chains, dragging him flat against the stone. His scream was swallowed by the dark.
On the far side of the hall, unseen, Lyra's heart hammered. She had been permitted to linger in the margins, a "useful stray" in Vorath's court, though none knew her true allegiance. She had heard the whisper—the words meant only for the Archivist. Victory wishes to see you too.
Her breath caught, though she hid it swiftly behind the mask of obedience. Victory. The goddess of triumph, once radiant in the divine pantheon… now a prisoner in chains. Vorath's chains.
The implications tore at her, but she did not move. If she betrayed even a flicker of knowledge, Vorath's gaze would find her. And if that happened, not even her order could save her.
Vorath turned back to his throne, seating himself once more with the weight of inevitability. The Nightscythe dragged the Archivist into the dark recesses of the chamber, where shadow swallowed light. The prisoner's protests became muffled, then silent.
At last, Vorath spoke again, his tone colder than death. "You will unmake the gods, my shadow. One by one, until the heavens kneel."
The Nightscythe bowed deeply. "As you command."
Lyra's eyes flicked upward, meeting the blackened ceiling where no stars shone. She thought of Kaelen, Seralyn, and the others wandering deeper into the Library of Ashes. They sought truth, unaware of the chains already binding it. She clenched her fists, forcing her expression into practiced calm. She could not yet reveal what she had overheard. Not until the moment was right.
And still, she felt Vorath's gaze, heavy as stone, though he never turned his head. As if he already knew her heart's turmoil, as if her secrets were his playthings.
The goddess of Victory lived, bound in silence. Lyra's order had told her fragments of the truth, but now she saw the full horror: Vorath did not only kill gods. He kept them too.
Her mind screamed to flee, but her body obeyed the role she had chosen. She bowed her head, silent, and remained the hidden ear in the court of shadows.
Vorath rested his chin upon his gauntleted hand, eyes glowing dim as distant suns. His whisper was not for his servants, not for the Archivist, not for the Nightscythe. It was for the memory that haunted him still.
"Lyssara… I will tear down heaven itself until they beg your forgiveness."
The runes pulsed once more, and the hall returned to silence.