The distant, rumbling echo of the flood—of the thousands of lives she had just ended—was still vibrating in the stone floor.
Kaelen's words, "I have you," hung in the air, a declaration of ownership so total it made Elara's skin crawl.
General Vorak was still on his knees in the doorway, stunned into silence by the "miracle" he had witnessed.
Elara stumbled backward, pulling away from Kaelen's intense gaze. The reality of what she had done hit her like a physical blow. It wasn't a history report anymore. It wasn't a line in a textbook.
"No survivors," she whispered. Her voice was hollow. She looked at her own hands, shaking. "I... I told you how. I killed them. All of them."
She expected... she didn't know what she expected. Shock? Regret?
Kaelen just stared at her, a flicker of genuine confusion in his golden eyes. He could not understand her reaction.
"They were pests," he said, his voice flat. "They raided our northern farms. They burned villages and stole children. You saved my empire, and you saved my soldiers. Do not waste your tears on dead pests."
"They were people," she choked out, horrified by his coldness.
"They were enemies," he replied, as if that simple fact ended the entire discussion.
He turned his head. The authority returned to his voice, sharp as a razor. "General Vorak."
The general flinched. "Your Majesty! The miracle... the gods..."
"Silence."
Kaelen's voice was low, but it cut through Vorak's awe. "The gods have nothing to do with this. This woman... is a Divine Guest. She is my guest. She is not to be seen. She is not to be spoken of. No one in this palace, no one in this empire, is to know she exists. You understand me?"
Vorak, who was now more afraid of Elara than he was of Kaelen, nodded quickly. He was staring at her as if she was a goddess or a demon.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Vorak scrambled to say. "A... a secret. The... the victory is yours alone."
"Go. Clean up the northern border. Do not fail me," Kaelen commanded.
Vorak bowed low, practically falling over himself to get away. He fled, leaving the heavy door ajar.
The room was silent again, save for the crackle of the brazier. It was just the two of them.
Kaelen turned to face her, his expression unreadable.
"You were right," he said softly. "You are no longer a prisoner."
He took a step toward her. "You are a hostage. My personal, very valuable secret."
Before she could react, he grabbed her arm. It wasn't a violent, bruising grip. It was a hold of pure, inescapable possession. It said, You are mine. You go where I say.
"You cannot stay here," he said, pulling her toward the door. "This room is known. Too many people, too many eyes."
"Where are you taking me?" she cried, stumbling to keep up with his long strides. He wasn't dragging her. He was moving her.
"Where I can watch you."
He did not call for guards. He pulled her from the Bronze Chamber and into a different set of hallways. These corridors were not the grand, open-air paths she had seen. They were narrow, dark, and carved from the same black stone as his throne. This was the King's private wing.
He stopped in front of a massive, carved wooden door, guarded by two men in black armor. They did not look at Elara. They simply slammed their fists to their chests and opened the doors for their king.
He pulled her inside.
It was his personal bedchamber. It was huge, dominated by a massive bed piled with dark furs and a fireplace large enough to stand in.
Elara's heart hammered. "I... I can't stay here..."
"You won't," he said, ignoring her panic.
He pulled her straight through his chamber, past his bed, to a smaller, unmarked door hidden in the far wall.
He opened it and pushed her inside.
It was another bedroom, smaller but still incredibly luxurious. The walls were covered in silk, the bed was soft, and a large, grated window looked out over a private, walled garden.
"This is your new home," Kaelen stated.
Elara turned, her back hitting the wall. She looked at the door she had just come through. "This... this is your bedroom. This room... it connects only to yours."
"Yes," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "My most loyal guards will be outside my door. No one enters my rooms without my permission. Therefore, no one can ever reach you. No one will ever know you are here."
He had not given her a room. He had hidden her in a box inside his own, most private space. She was completely, utterly his.
He didn't leave. He followed her into the room, his presence sucking all the air out of it. He sat down on a carved chair, watching her like a lion watches its prey.
"Now," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "We are alone. No guards. No generals. I want the truth. Not your story about 'patterns.' What are you?"
Elara was cornered. She was shaking, still horrified by the slaughter she had enabled. She needed a new lie, a better one.
"I... I am not lying," she stammered, holding her ground. "I am a scholar. A historian. In my... my land... we have records. We have prophecies. We study the past to predict the future. We know the patterns of the stars, the flooding of rivers..."
She took a deep breath. "And... the fall of empires."
Kaelen's golden eyes narrowed. He watched her for a long time, clearly not believing her whole story, but accepting the usefulness of it.
"The fall of empires," he repeated, tasting the words.
He stood up. He walked to a small, ornate chest on a table. He lifted the lid, took something out, and tossed it onto the silk bed.
It landed with a soft thud.
It was a dagger. It was made of a black, glassy stone that looked like obsidian, with a single, dark red gem in the hild. It was beautiful, deadly, and absolutely not Ashurian.
Elara's blood went cold. She recognized the style.
"My guards found that in my bedchamber last night," Kaelen said, his voice flat. "They killed the man who was holding it. He was an assassin, sent by the Black Sun Empire."
He turned to her, his gaze intense, all-knowing.
"My generals tell me the Black Sun is a small, arrogant tribe on the eastern border. A 'minor annoyance.'"
He leaned in, his face just inches from hers.
"But you," he whispered, "my little historian... you with your records of falling empires... What does your 'history' say about the Black Sun?"