The heavy oak doors creaked open. A maid hurried inside, her eyes downcast, bearing a silver platter. Upon a black velvet cushion rested two rings—one gold, one silver.
Ana's posture stiffened, a subtle shift that betrayed her utter astonishment. "Elder Eranis, this is quite the surprise. I did not realise you intended to force the vows this very instant."
Taroh's thin smile widened. Beside him, Drahas stepped forward, his pale fingers reaching for the silver ring. "We need not delay the inevitable. This will allow you both to spend the siege getting to know one another without drawing whispers of immorality," Taroh said smoothly.
Ana took a slow, measured step forward. Her eyes locked onto the silver band between Drahas's fingers—and she froze. I saw the sudden, violent tension snap down her spine. She shot a glance over her shoulder, her eyes burning with a silent, lethal command. She gave a single, sharp nod.
My blood ran cold. I didn't hesitate. I ripped the heavy, wrapped claymore from beneath my cloak and hurled it across the room toward her, drawing Dark Sister from my hip in the same fluid motion.
Ana caught the bundle out of the air, the dark steel hissing as she tore it free of its scabbard. She levelled the massive blade directly at Drahas's throat.
I lunged for Taroh, intending to put Valyrian steel to the Elder's neck, but I never reached him.
Mid-stride, an unnatural, pull forced my boots seemingly fusing them to the floor. The muscles in my legs, my arms, my jaw—everything locked into a rigid, agonizing paralysis. I fought it, straining with every ounce of my strength, but only my eyes retained the freedom to dart wildly across the room.
I wrenched my gaze toward Ana. She was trapped in the same invisible vice, frozen mid-lunge. But then, the silver ring upon her right hand suddenly flared with a dark, pulsing crimson light. The paralyzing hold shattered.
With her momentum violently restored, Ana surged forward, bringing the heavy claymore down in a brutal arc aimed at Drahas's collarbone. But the delay had cost her. Drahas slid smoothly out of the blade's path. Her swing went wide, the Valyrian steel biting harmlessly into the heavy wooden table.
"You truly are magical, Flame-Kissed," a raspy, eerie voice echoed from the shadows behind me.
I saw the blood drain from Ana's face. She recognized that silken, chilling cadence.
"To possess a warded ring... it was most fortuitous that we found you when we did. Remove the trinket from her finger, Drahas."
The crimson glow on Ana's hand sputtered and died. The invisible vice slammed into her once more, forcing her violently to her knees. Drahas stepped forward, entirely unfazed by his near-beheading, and calmly slid the ring from her frozen, trembling fingers.
"And it would seem that there is another," the voice murmured, drawing closer.
Soft footsteps glided across the marble. A hooded figure stepped into my peripheral vision, moving to stand directly before me. High Priest Trahar. Beneath the deep cowl, his face was gaunt, starved-looking—but it was his eyes that sent a spike of primal dread through my chest. The striking sapphires were gone. His eyes were entirely pitch black, consumed by a fathomless, shifting abyss.
"Do I frighten you, flame-born?" he whispered. A pale, bony hand emerged from his spectral cloak and pushed the hood back from my head, exposing my silver hair. He stared deeply into my violet eyes while I strained fruitlessly against my invisible bonds, sweat beading on my brow.
"Resisting will do you no favours. You are bound by the shadows."
My eyes darted downward. The shadows in the room were no longer dancing with the firelight. They had stretched out, rigid and unnatural, wrapping around my boots like iron chains. Ana's shadow was even worse—it had pooled into a large, pitch-black circle that seemed to writhe and pulse with a life of its own.
Shadowbinder.
A ghastly smile stretched across Trahar's gaunt face, offering no comfort. "Yes. These arts are known to your bloodline, Targaryen."
"What?!" Taroh sputtered from the head of the table, his wine goblet clattering against the wood. "A Targaryen?"
Trahar's smile twisted into something wide and monstrously hungry. "Yes, brother mine. We have the Blood of the Dragon amongst us."
"But how? Why is a dragonlord guarding a nameless sellsword?" Taroh demanded, panic bleeding back into his voice.
"There have been whispers from the west. A winged shadow spotted flying over the Norvoshi hills," Trahar recounted smoothly, his black eyes never leaving mine. "And Prince Daemon has been reported absent from Runestone. It would seem the rogue dragonling came to Qohor seeking the thrill of the melee. Considering his age, his Valyrian features, and the raw, simmering magic I can feel boiling within him through my shadows... it is hardly a question of who stands before us."
"Shou—should we not release him?" Taroh stammered, wiping his brow. "We have the girl. We do not need to draw the wrath of the Old King."
"No," Trahar dismissed coldly. "Two Valyrians. Both brimming with ancient magic, one greater than the other. It will enhance the blood sacrifice tenfold, granting us the greater power to call upon him. Besides, since he has been masquerading in the mud as a common sellsword, I doubt any outside this room know his true identity. Jaehaerys will not burn a city on mere hearsay."
Before I could even attempt another struggle, Trahar produced a small, vial from the folds of his cloak. He stepped close, forcing my jaw open with startling, unnatural strength, and tipped a bitter, viscous liquid past my lips. I was forced to swallow helplessly.
The High Priest turned away, his robes sweeping over the floor. "Come. We must hurry. The hour of the dead approaches."
He moved to Ana, forcing the same foul draught down her throat. My vision blurred almost instantly. The edges of the room bled into darkness, and my heavy eyelids fluttered shut as the crushing weight of sleep dragged me down into the abyss.