Chapter Forty · Hooks of Grief

His head stopped.

Dark red eyes fixed on Lyra. Unblinking.

The room went still for a beat.

The man opened his mouth.

“Where did you come from?”

The voice carried, but not from him. From behind him.

Lyra saw it.

Something hovered.

No arms. No legs.

Its body wouldn’t hold a shape. One moment it thickened like flesh; the next, it thinned into smoke, then stretched as if being pulled apart.

Black hooks hung from its warped mass, swaying faintly.

A soft clink.

Its mouth split open.

“Outsider.”

Sion clutched the back of Lyra’s coat, pressing in close behind her.

Lyra didn’t answer. She didn’t look away.

The man tilted his head.

The thing tilted with him, matching that same wrong angle, as if both were fixed to one unseen axis.

“And the one behind you.”

Sion cracked one eye open.

One glance—

She recoiled at once.

Lyra stepped forward half a pace.

“Who are you?”

He laughed.

This time, the sound came from his own mouth.

“You walk into my domain and ask me who I am?

But since you’re here… you’ll be received.”

He tipped his head back slightly, drawing in a quiet breath.

“I can smell it…”

His body twisted a fraction, his gaze sliding toward Lyra.

“Pain.”

Lyra tightened her grip on the hilt.

“I was pulled here.”

“Pulled?”

The man went still for a moment, then arched a brow.

“I didn’t call you.

Then something else in you answered my summons.”

He flicked his hand.

A strand of shadow slipped from his fingertips and swept over Lyra.

The scar on her left wrist flickered beneath her sleeve.

The air dipped.

The hooks fell silent.

The thing behind him opened its mouth wider.

“Why do you carry the mark of Vael’Kharoth?”

Lyra glanced down at her wrist. She didn’t answer.

From the far doors, another voice rang out.

“Eirios.”

Another man stepped in.

The same face. The same hair. The same build.

Only the eyes were different.

Eirios dipped his head slightly.

“My Lord.”

Lyra frowned.

The High Lord of Drazhune.

He paused when he saw the two girls.

“Well, well.” A faint smile touched his lips.

“We have guests.”

“I didn’t invite them,” Eirios said.

“I was calling to the darkness in Vael’Kharoth. She answered instead.”

The High Lord stepped closer.

His gaze passed over Lyra’s wrist, then settled on the sword.

The corner of his mouth lifted.

“Fine blade.”

The sword trembled faintly.

A thin vibration ran up the hilt into her wrist.

The High Lord tilted his head, drawing in a quiet breath.

“I can smell…”

He looked straight at her.

“The grief of many souls.”

Lyra tightened her grip on the hilt, forcing the tremor down. The blade settled.

Sion leaned in close, her voice barely a whisper.

“We gotta move. Now.”

The High Lord seemed not to hear. He folded his arms.

“Only those who’ve touched Vael’Kharoth carry its mark,” he said.

“Strange. You haven’t lost your mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“Vael’Kharoth isn’t something you touch.

Anyone who does… stirs the darkness inside themselves.

After that, they can’t tell what’s real anymore.”

He took another step.

“Vael’Kharoth was a relic of Drazhune.”

His mouth curved faintly.

“Pity my father gave it away as a wedding gift to my sister, when she married Aethrador.”

Lyra stilled, just for a fraction.

The Umbral Tower.

Orlas beside her.

Had he known what he was leading her into?

Something in her trust cracked.

Her heartbeat quickened.

The High Lord saw it and didn’t let it pass.

“Ah.” His voice dropped.

“Looks like you’ve remembered something.”

Behind him, the creature drew in slightly. The hooks touched, soft and metallic.

The High Lord’s mouth curved, as if the game had just begun.

“King Eryndar is dead.”

Lyra’s chest tightened. She went still.

The High Lord’s gaze drifted toward her.

“My nephew, Syveris, holds the regency.”

The hooks stretched a little farther. Eirios remained still, watching like a predator gauging how much the prey could take.

“The heir is missing. If Syveris takes the throne…”

He gave a small shrug.

“Perhaps he’ll return Vael’Kharoth to us.”

“That’s impossible.”

The words slipped out before Lyra could stop them.

The High Lord paused.

Then smiled.

“Quick reaction.”

He flicked his hand.

A hook snapped out from the creature. Lyra twisted aside, but it still found her.

It punched into her shoulder, tearing through fabric and biting into skin.

There was no blood, but a cold surge drove straight into her chest.

Lyra sucked in a breath. It wasn’t ordinary pain. It felt like something had opened her up and reached inside, grinding.

Sion grabbed for the hook, trying to wrench it free. It didn’t move.

“A princess… borrowing power from Vael’Kharoth.”

“Shut up.”

Another hook struck, sinking into her other shoulder. Lyra dropped to one knee.

The High Lord circled her slowly, his gaze fixed and unblinking.

“You’re the one to blame. Your father died because of you.”

Lyra gripped the hook and pulled. It only drove deeper.

The pain broke through her control.

Sion shot a glance at him, then back to Lyra, panic flashing across her face.

“Don’t listen to them. It’s all garbage.”

Eirios let out a quiet laugh. Behind him, the creature shuddered, its hooks shifting with a faint metallic whisper.

The High Lord flicked a glance at Sion.

“Child.”

Sion raised her fist but didn’t move.

He turned back to Lyra.

“Be careful with those you keep close. One day… you’ll be the one to drive the blade into them.”

“Shut your mouth.”

A third hook lashed out, striking lower, just beneath her collarbone.

Lyra gasped as the cold drove inward, not spreading, but plunging straight into her.

Her hand found Sion’s and tightened. She hated how cleanly his words had struck something she hadn’t been ready to face.

The palace. The people she had left behind. And what she was chasing… might not even exist.

“Enough.” She dragged in a breath.

No. The more she reacted, the deeper the hooks would bite.

She couldn’t react.

The High Lord tilted his head.

“That’s not the worst of it.”

He pointed at her sword.

“The worst part is…” His gaze slid to the scar on her wrist.

“…you’re becoming more like the thing you’re trying to fight.”

Her throat tightened. Her pulse surged, fast and hard, climbing toward something she couldn’t hold.

She forced a breath in.

Let it go.

Another breath.

Let it go.

It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing.

Her grip steadied. Her pulse slowed. The pressure eased, just enough.

She gave him nothing.

For a moment, nothing happened.

No more hooks fired. The creature went still.

The High Lord kept speaking, but it no longer reached her.

The hooks loosened, slipping free of her body.

Lyra pushed herself upright.

“That’s enough.”

She drew her sword.

A clear, whistling note slipped free, sharp as wind over a taut harp string.

The tip leveled between the two brothers.

“Say one more word,” she said, her voice cold, “and we’ll see how many of those hooks you have left.”

Eirios raised a brow. The creature stirred behind him, reaching.

Lyra moved.

The High Lord snapped his hand out. A burst of shadow slammed Eirios aside.

Lyra pivoted with the motion, her blade cutting toward the High Lord.

He stepped back and swept his hand.

Darkness coiled around Sion’s throat, lifting her off the ground.

“Stop, or I’ll kill her.”