The throne room doors swung open, pulled by servants who kept their eyes fixed on the floor. Bolt stepped through first, his messenger's uniform suddenly feeling inadequate against the weight of the space. Kahdijah followed, her posture relaxed, her expression curious.
The room stretched long and dark, lit by floating orbs of pale violet flame. Pillars of obsidian lined the walls, carved with scenes of conquest and submission. At the far end, on a raised dais of black stone, sat the Dark Lord.
He was not what Kahdijah expected.
No hulking monster. No twisted demon. The figure on the throne was tall, slender, dressed in robes of deep crimson and black. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and his hair fell in silver waves past his shoulders. His face was young—deceptively young—with high cheekbones and a mouth that seemed designed for subtle smiles. But his eyes gave him away. They were old. Ancient. They held centuries of calculation, patience, and cruelty.
