For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The silence that descended on the chamber was a physical weight, heavier and more suffocating than any velvet curtain. It was a silence made of shock and the obscene, pounding stillness that follows sudden, brutal violence. The air, moments before filled with frantic hissing and screams, was now thick with the chemical, coppery smell of blood.
Doreah lay in a heap by the balcony, a grotesque painting on the white marble. Her eyes were open, wide with a final, uncomprehending terror. Her throat was a gaping, red ruin.
I didn't move. I couldn't. This was my fault. My arrogance. My failure. I, a being who had schemed against the King of Asgard, who had toyed with gods and monsters, had been outmaneuvered by a blue-lipped corpse in a silk dress. He had used my own face, my own magic, as a distraction. He had murdered one of her handmaidens and stolen the dragons, the very soul of her ambition, right from under my guard.
The shame was a burning, abrasive scrape on my soul, hotter than any pyre. David's horror and Loki's pride were fused in a single, agonizing explosion of self-loathing.
"Loki."
Her voice. It wasn't a scream. It wasn't a sob. It was a low, flat, terrifyingly calm whisper.
I turned. Daenerys was standing over Irri's still form. She was not crying. Her face was a mask of pale, cold marble, her lilac eyes no longer the eyes of a girl, or even a queen. They were the eyes of a dragon. Pure, incandescent, and utterly without mercy.
"You said," she whispered, her voice a low, abrasive scrape, "you promised."
The accusation was a physical blow, a sledgehammer to my chest. It was the truth.
My paralysis shattered, replaced by a cold, singular focus. Rage. A pure, undiluted rage that was colder than any Asgardian winter and hotter than her dragonfire. This was not the petulant anger of Loki. This was not the righteous flash of David. This was the deep, possessive, absolute fury of a being who had just had his future torn from his grasp.
I crossed to Irri in two strides, brushing past Daenerys. I knelt, my fingers pressing against the Dothraki girl's neck. A pulse. Faint, but steady. My Seidr, my magic, could feel her consciousness—not gone, but violently suppressed, knocked into a deep, unnatural sleep. A magical concussion.
"She's alive," I said, my voice a low, hard growl. "He was toying with us. He killed one for effect, left the other as a message."
"He... he took my children," Daenerys breathed, her hands clenching at her sides, her knuckles white. "He took them."
"And I," I said, standing to face her, "am going to tear his entire black-magic world apart, stone by stone, until I get them back."
My gaze met hers. There was no apology. There was no comfort. There was only a shared, terrible, and profoundly intimate pact. This was beyond desire, beyond alliance. This was a joining of vengeance. This was blood.
The heavy bronze doors of the chamber suddenly burst open, the sound a thunderclap in the tomblike silence. Jorah Mormont rushed in, his sword drawn, his face a mask of frantic worry. He was followed by Xaro Xhoan Daxos, who was pale, trembling, and wringing his hands.
"Khaleesi!" Jorah yelled, his eyes sweeping the room, taking in the scene. He saw Doreah's body, the blood, the open, empty cage.
His eyes, full of hatred and suspicion, snapped instantly to me. "What have you done?" he roared, raising his sword. "By the gods, demon, what did you do?"
"Jorah!" Daenerys's voice was a whip-crack. She stepped in front of me, a small, silk-and-leather shield, her eyes blazing with a fury that made the old knight freeze. "He did nothing. It was the warlock. Pyat Pree."
Jorah's arm wavered, his fury collapsing into horrified confusion. "The... the warlocks? They were here? They took..." He stared at the empty cage, the reality crashing down on him. "All of them?"
"All of them," Daenerys confirmed, her voice flat. "He killed Doreah. He struck Irri down. He took my children."
"This is... this is madness," Xaro stammered from the doorway, his body shaking so hard his jewels rattled. "No one... no one angers the warlocks. No one survives it. They are...unnatural."
My rage, which had been a cold, contained singularity, found its target.
I crossed the room in a blur of motion. I grabbed Xaro by the front of his ridiculous silk robes, yanking him from the doorway and slamming him against the marble wall. His head hit with a sickening thud.
"Loki, no!" Daenerys cried, but there was no conviction in her voice.
"You," I snarled, my face inches from his, my voice a low, lethal hiss. I was done with bluffs. I was done with parlor tricks. He would see the monster he had caged. "You knew he was a threat. You heard his challenge at the gala. You left us here, defenseless, in your gilded cage, while your pet sorcerer stalked us."
"I... I didn't know!" Xaro shrieked, his eyes wide with terror, his hands clawing weakly at my gauntlets. "I swear! They are... they are dead men! They do not answer to the Thirteen!"
"But they answer to me," I growled. My free hand rose, green-gold Seidr, my true magic, flaring to life, cold and bright. I didn't blast him. I didn't conjure an illusion for the room. I did something far more intimate.
I pressed my glowing fingertips to his temples.
I didn't just show him an image. I pushed the memory into his skull. The memory of my true self. The memory of the Void. The feeling of falling, endlessly, through the gaps of reality. The chilling, cosmic wrongness of the TVA. The screeching, soul-tearing howl of Alioth, the God-Eater I had bluffed about. I gave him one, undiluted second of pure, metaphysical, god-level terror.
Xaro screamed.
It was not a human sound. It was a raw, primal shriek of a soul that has glimpsed the abyss. His eyes rolled back in his head, and the stench of urine filled the air as his bladder let go.
I let him drop. He collapsed to the floor, a sobbing, 'wet' heap of shivering silks, his mind shattered.
"Loki!" Jorah breathed, his sword half-lowered, his face pale with a new, deeper fear. He had hated me as a rival. Now he saw me as an abomination.
I ignored him, my chest heaving, the small display of power having cost me. My head was pounding.
"The House of the Undying," I bit out, glaring down at the weeping Spice King. "Where is it?"
"The... the old tower," Xaro babbled, his voice a broken, childish whimper. "Beyond the... the gardens... It is a ruin... a tomb... No one goes there, I swear... They are dead men... dust and shadows... they will... they will drink your soul..."
I turned away from him in disgust. "Dust and shadows," I spat. I looked at Daenerys.
She was watching me. She had seen the entire, brutal exchange. She had seen me mentally torture the man, seen him break. She was not horrified. Her lilac eyes were burning, filled with a cold, terrible approval. This. This was the monster she needed. This was the power she craved.
"I am going," I stated, my voice flat. "Pyat Pree invited me. He wants my magic, my blood. He thinks I am weak. He is about to learn how wrong he is."
"Khaleesi, no," Jorah pleaded, turning to her. "You cannot. This is sorcery. Black magic. Let me go. Let me face this demon."
"He will kill you before you take ten steps, Jorah," I said, not unkindly. "Your sword is useless against him."
"We go together," Daenerys said, her voice a final, unshakeable command.
"No," I argued, rounding on her. "This is my failure. My fight. He wants me. You are the Queen. You cannot be seen walking into a warlock's trap. It is exactly what he wants."
"He took my children," she replied, her voice lethally quiet. She stepped toward me, her small form radiating a heat that had nothing to in common with the sun. It was the primal heat of the pyre. "I am their mother. I am the Unburnt. Their dead magic... it cannot harm me. I am fire."
I stared at her, my arguments dying in my throat. She was right. This wasn't just my fight. It was ours. This was the chemical reaction. This was fire and ice. Her fire, my magic. Together, we were the only chance.
"Jorah," she commanded, turning to the knight. "You will not follow. You will stay here. Bar this door. Guard Irri with your life. Gather what loyal Dothraki you can and have them armed and ready in the courtyard. If we are not back by the rise of the sun... take them. Flee this cursed city. That is my final command. Do you understand?"
Jorah looked devastated. He was a soldier being told to stay behind. "Khaleesi... Daenerys... please. Let me come."
"No, Jorah. I need you here. I need my people to have a protector if... if we fail." Her voice softened. "I trust no one else. Protect my people, Ser."
He looked at her, his heart breaking, but his oath held. He knelt, his head bowed. "As my Queen commands."
Daenerys turned back to me, her eyes all fire and steel. "Now."
We didn't waste time. I re-buckled my armor, the familiar weight a comfort. She was already in her leathers, her hands working fast. It was the grim, efficient intimacy of soldiers preparing for battle. She strapped a Dothraki arakh to her waist.
My own magic was still low, a guttering candle flame. I couldn't risk it on grand illusions. I needed it for combat. I held out my hand, palm up, and focused. The Seidr answered, slow and sluggish, but it came. Green-gold light shimmered, and a long, wicked-looking dagger, formed of pure, hard-light magic, solidified in my grip. It was a pale imitation of my Asgardian blades, but it would have to do.
I offered a second, smaller one to her. She looked at it, then at me.
"I have my own blade," she said.
"This one," I said, "will cut them. It is a piece of me."
She took it. Her warm fingers brushed mine, and a jolt of energy passed between us. The pact was sealed.
I looked at her, this small girl in leather, a dragon's blade in one hand, a god's in the other. She was no longer a victim. She was a terror.
"You are ready to walk into the fire again?" I asked.
A slow, terrible, and beautiful smile spread across her face. "I am fire," she whispered. "Let us go burn them."
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