The chamber of chains lay deep beneath Vorath's citadel, a wound in the earth where even echoes dared not linger. Torches guttered in their sconces, burning with violet flame that cast long, skeletal shadows. The walls dripped with moisture, yet the air was parched, as if the stones themselves had been bled dry.
Two prisoners endured the darkness.
The Archivist hung in chains of living shadow, their links flexing like serpents with every breath he drew. Blood crusted his face where Serikar's gauntlets had struck him, but his eyes burned with quiet defiance.
Opposite him knelt the Goddess of Victory, bound in greater chains still. Her divine light had been smothered, her golden hair dulled to silver ash, her skin marked with sigils of suppression. Yet her back remained straight, her gaze unbroken, her silence itself a challenge.
Serikar's armored bulk loomed over them, his gauntlets dripping venom that hissed as it met the stone. Velira, robed in trailing black silk, watched with cool, predatory eyes that glowed faintly with sorcery.
"Speak," Serikar growled at the Archivist. "You have no weapons, no allies, no hope. Only your tongue. Use it wisely, or lose it."
The Archivist spat blood at his feet. "I carried centuries of memory. Do you think a little silence frightens me?"
Serikar struck him again, chains rattling as the prisoner's head snapped sideways.
Velira turned to Victory, her voice soft as silk, but sharp enough to cut. "And you? Champion of champions. Herald of triumph. You rot in chains beside a mortal scribe. Tell us why the gods feared Lyssara's death so much. Tell us why Vorath hunts the shadow of her name."
Victory's lips parted. Her voice, when it came, was soft, cracked, but steady. "You cannot bind victory. It will slip through your hands. Always."
Velira's pale fingers twitched, and the goddess's chains drew tighter, cutting into her flesh. Victory's jaw clenched, but she gave no cry.
"You may break me," she said, her eyes meeting Velira's. "But you gain nothing."
Velira's calm cracked, shadows lashing from her fingertips—only to fizzle uselessly against the goddess's skin. Frustration flashed across her face.
The Archivist chuckled, though blood painted his teeth. "Even in chains, she defies you. And you imagine yourselves his chosen?"
Serikar seized him by the jaw, forcing his head back. "Tell me what she knows. Or I'll pull your soul apart and feed it to the stones."
The prisoner smiled faintly. "Do it. You'll only feed the silence."
The hours bled away in violence and futility. Serikar's gauntlets struck until his fists were slick. Velira's whispers wormed into their prisoners' minds, yet drew only defiance. No answers. Only barbs, hints, and silence.
At last, the two lieutenants drew back, their frustration heavy in the chamber.
"They will not speak," Velira hissed.
"Then let our lord decide," Serikar snarled.
With one final glare at their captives, they turned and left, the iron doors groaning shut behind them.
Silence fell again.
For a long while, neither prisoner stirred. Then, faintly, the Archivist's lips twitched. "You asked why you were brought here," he rasped.
Victory's eyes slid toward him, though her head did not move.
The Archivist's smile was bitter. "The Nightscythe whispered in my ear before he dragged me down. He said… 'Victory wishes to see you too.'"
The goddess's eyes flickered. A tremor passed through her bound hands.
"They know," the Archivist continued, voice barely above a whisper. "They know what lies between us. They think they can use it."
For the first time, Victory's composure faltered. A shadow of sorrow crossed her face. "Fools," she whispered. "They do not understand."
"They will," the Archivist said. "When they break us. Or when we break them."
Victory fell silent again, her gaze fixed not on the chains, but on the door that had closed behind Velira and Serikar. For a heartbeat, the torchlight flared brighter around her, though her power remained bound.
Meanwhile, the lieutenants ascended the stone corridors toward Vorath's throne hall. The silence of failure weighed heavily on them, broken only by Serikar's grinding voice.
"They will never speak. Not to us."
Velira's hands tightened in her sleeves. "Then let someone else have them."
At last, the great doors groaned open, and Vorath rose from his throne, the runes at his feet pulsing red. His gaze fell on them, sharp as a blade.
"They remain silent?" he asked, voice low, cold.
"Yes, my lord," Velira admitted, bowing deeply. "Even under torment."
For a long moment, Vorath said nothing. Then, he began to descend the steps of his throne, Nox Obscura whispering faintly as his hand brushed its hilt.
The air grew heavy, every torch guttering in submission. Serikar swallowed hard, then dared to speak.
"My lord…" His voice scraped like stone. "Perhaps… perhaps she should be given the chance first."
Vorath's burning gaze shifted, lingering on him.
Velira, eyes lowered, added quickly: "She is the best torturer in your castle, my lord. Even if she is… a spirit."
A pause. The silence was suffocating.
Then Vorath inclined his head, the faintest movement, but enough to make the chamber shudder.
"Very well," he said at last. "Bring forth Aethra. Let her work begin."
His voice was a death sentence, and a promise.