The throne was a monument to cruelty. Carved from a single, massive block of obsidian, it was not designed for comfort, but for intimidation. Jagged, sharp edges defined its form, and the back rose high, culminating in points like the fangs of some great beast. It sat on a raised dais in the center of the Obsidian Keep's throne room, a vast, cavernous hall where the only light came from glowing fungus that clung to the high, vaulted ceilings, casting everything in a sickly, blue-green pallor.
Lord Malakor, Regent of the Shadow Council, did not sit on the throne. He stood before it, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the shimmering image that floated in the air before him. It was a scrying pool, a window of captured shadow, and it currently showed the terrified, furious face of one of his Enforcers.
"...a Wielder, my Lord. Unmistakably," the Enforcer reported, his voice tinny and laced with fear. The image showed a raw, unnatural angle to his arm, a testament to his failure. "The shadow itself… it obeyed her. It struck with intent. She carries the Aegis. We saw it."
Malakor's expression remained placid, a mask of aristocratic calm. He was a tall, imposing figure, his age impossible to guess. His hair was the color of polished silver, swept back from a high forehead. His features were sharp and noble, a stark contrast to the malevolence that glittered in his dark eyes. He wore robes of deep crimson and black, the colors of his house, House Vane.
"And you let her escape," Malakor said. It was not a question. His voice was a silken whisper, but it carried the chilling weight of absolute authority. The temperature in the throne room seemed to drop several degrees.
The Enforcer flinched. "My Lord, we were not prepared for—"
"You were prepared for a frightened girl," Malakor interrupted, his voice still quiet, yet cutting like glass. "An archivist. A creature of paper and dust. Instead, you found a spark of the old fire. And you let it slip through your clumsy fingers."
He raised a hand, and the Enforcer in the scrying pool cried out, his body convulsing as if struck by an invisible whip.
"Do not insult my intelligence with excuses," Malakor hissed. "You failed. You not only failed to retrieve the Aegis and eliminate the target, but you confirmed her nature. You showed her that she has power. An invaluable lesson she should have learned at the point of your blade, not from the safety of her escape."
He let the unseen punishment cease. The Enforcer was gasping, sweat beading on his pale forehead.
"Where is she now?" Malakor demanded.
"She vanished, my Lord. Near Union Station. There was another… a man. He was waiting for her. Tall, dark coat. He pulled her into the crowd. We lost them."
Malakor's eyes narrowed. A flicker of genuine annoyance disturbed his calm facade. "A guardian. So, the old loyalists were not as dormant as I believed." He waved a dismissive hand, and the image in the scrying pool dissolved into black mist.
He turned his back on the empty space and slowly ascended the dais, his robes whispering over the cold stone. He ran a hand along the sharp arm of the obsidian throne. *His* throne. He had bled for it, betrayed for it, killed his dearest friend for it. For twenty years, he had ruled the Umbral Realm, crushing dissent, rewriting history, and consolidating his power. He had brought order to the chaos the Blackwoods had allowed to fester. He had made the shadows strong.
And now, this. A ghost from the past. A child he had been assured was ash and memory. Alistair's daughter.
A woman emerged from the deep shadows at the edge of the hall. She moved with the silent grace of a panther, her form clad in tight, black leather that seemed to drink the pale light. Her face was sharp, angular, with eyes that held a knowing, cruel intelligence. A cascade of raven-black hair fell over one shoulder. This was Lyra, his foremost assassin, the leader of his Hunters.
"Lyra," Malakor said without turning. "You heard."
"Every pathetic word," she replied, her voice a low, smoky purr. "The pup has claws."
"She has the Aegis," Malakor corrected, his voice tight. "And a keeper. This complicates matters."
"All matters can be uncomplicated with the right application of steel," Lyra countered, stepping up onto the dais beside him. She showed none of the fear his other subordinates did. Theirs was a relationship built on mutual respect for each other's capacity for violence.
"This is not a simple assassination," Malakor mused, his gaze distant. "This is a symbol. The Blackwood line was thought to be extinct. Her survival, especially now that she has been 'awakened,' will be a rallying cry for the malcontents and loyalist fools who still dream of the 'old ways.' The whispers have already begun, ever since the Aegis vault opened."
"Then we silence the whispers before they become a roar," Lyra said simply. "Give me a pack of Hunters. We will find her. We will retrieve the Aegis. And I will bring you her head in a box."
Malakor turned to look at her, a faint, cold smile touching his lips. "As much as I appreciate your directness, my dear Lyra, a public display of brute force is not what is required here. Not yet. That would show fear. It would give credence to her claim. No, this must be handled with surgical precision."
He paced the dais, his mind working, piecing together the implications. "The girl's guardian… there are few who had both the skill and the loyalty to Alistair. Kael of House Cinder. I thought him long dead. He is resourceful. He will not stay in the mundane world. He will seek sanctuary."
"The Gloomwood Exchange?" Lyra guessed, her eyes narrowing. "Silas is the only one foolish enough to harbor them. He values his neutrality more than his life."
"Precisely," Malakor confirmed. "Silas is a slug who believes his hoard of secrets and his position as a broker makes him untouchable. We will disabuse him of this notion."
He stopped his pacing and looked directly at Lyra, his eyes burning with a dark fire. "This is what you will do. You will take your two best Hunters. Not a pack. A scalpel, not a hammer. You will go to the Exchange. You will not engage the girl directly. Not at first."
Lyra raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You want me to… observe?" The word sounded distasteful on her tongue.
"You will observe her," Malakor commanded. "You will observe her protector. You will learn her weaknesses, her fears. This girl has spent her life in a world of softness and light. She is untrained, terrified. Her power is a wild, uncontrolled thing. Her guardian, Kael, will try to train her. Let him. Let her taste her power. Let her begin to think she has a chance."
"You want to give her hope?" Lyra asked, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her own face as she began to understand. "So you can watch it die in her eyes."
"Hope is a potent poison," Malakor whispered, his own smile mirroring hers. "It makes the fall so much more devastating. When she is at her most confident, when she believes she is finally becoming the hero her parents dreamed she would be… that is when you will strike. You will dismantle her, piece by piece. You will take her protector, you will take her allies, and you will leave her broken and alone. Then, and only then, you will bring her to me."
He stepped closer to her, his voice dropping to an intense, conspiratorial murmur. "I don't just want her dead, Lyra. I want her spirit shattered. I want the last Blackwood to kneel before this throne and renounce her own name, to admit that the age of Egoro is over and the age of the Council is absolute. I want the last flicker of the old fire to be snuffed out by my own hand."
He paused, his gaze turning to the empty throne. "Alistair thought he was protecting his legacy by hiding her. He was only marinating her in fear. I will show the Umbral Realm what a true Blackwood looks like when stripped of all her hope and dignity. Her public submission will be the final nail in the coffin of the old regime. It will be my ultimate triumph."
Lyra's eyes glittered with sadistic glee. This was not a mere contract killing. This was artistry. "And the Aegis?"
"Bring it to me when you bring me the girl," Malakor commanded. "Once she is broken, it will be little more than a trinket. Its power is tied to the will of the bearer. A bearer with no will is no bearer at all."
He turned and finally seated himself upon the obsidian throne. It was cold and hard, but it felt like home. He leaned back, steepling his long, elegant fingers.
"Go now, Lyra," he commanded, his voice echoing with power in the vast hall. "Go to the Gloomwood. Do not fail me. The Council does not tolerate failure." He fixed her with a stare that promised agony beyond imagining if she disappointed him. "And Lyra… make it painful."
Lyra bowed, a gesture of respect for the sheer scope of his cruelty. "As you command, my Lord."
She turned and melted back into the shadows from which she had come, her mission clear. She was not just a Hunter going after prey. She was an artist, and the girl, Aria Blackwood, was to be her masterpiece of suffering.
Alone in the throne room, Malakor allowed himself a genuine, triumphant smile. The game had just become infinitely more interesting. The return of the Shadow Heir was not a threat; it was an opportunity. An opportunity to finally and completely erase the legacy of his former friend from existence.