The throne room was inside the mountain's heart, a chamber carved from the caldera of a dormant volcano. The air was an oven's breath, thick with the smell of sulfur and scorched metal. Magma flowed in glowing rivulets along channels in the floor, casting a hellish, pulsating light. The throne itself was a monstrous geode of fire-opal and obsidian, glowing with captive heat.
Corvannafax shook her head slightly. This is not the way of my people, she thought. This is spectacle. A forge is for making, not for sitting.
Emperor Ignatius was not seated. He stood before a massive sand-table map of the continent, its topography illuminated by the lava-light. He did not radiate wild power, but a contained, focused heat, like the heart of a forge. He studied the map, not them, as they entered. When he finally turned, his eyes were not pits of fire, but sharp, calculating golden embers. Power was a tool he wielded with precision.
"Wild red, you fight like a Malatak from the old tales," he began, dispensing with ceremony. His voice was the low rumble of shifting stone. "Direct. Uncomplicated. Effective. My people have forgotten that simplicity, wrapped it in too much ceremony and pomp." He gestured a broad hand over the map. "You want to go home. To your backwater world called… Terra Primius."
He said the name as if tasting something faintly moldy. "I care nothing for it. It is a drained, scarred world of no consequence. But I care for the weapon you carry… it belonged to one of ours, sort of, and the one you have at your side." His ember-gaze flicked to Corvannafax.
Koronos remained still, a rock in the thermal current. "The Sword is not for your wars. It has a singular purpose," he said, his voice a low counterpoint to the room's rumble, "unless I choose otherwise."
"All weapons have the purpose their wielder gives them," Ignatius countered, a hint of amusement in his tone. "But I am not a thief. Believe it or not, I am a merchant. I offer a trade: your martial skill for a doorway back to your forsaken dung heap."
He tapped the map, his finger landing on a jagged mountain range. "Frostveil Spire. A Bergian fortress of ice and arrogance, blocking an iron-rich pass. A year-long siege. A drain on my legions. They use the terrain, glaciers, cliffs, and bitter cold, to negate our fire and numbers." He looked directly at Koronos. "You are an… irregularity. You do not think like my generals. You have a beast that can climb ice. You have a human who can slip through shadows. You have a Red who fights like a winter gale. You might be a solution."
He leaned forward, the heat around him intensifying. "Break the stalemate. Take Frostveil Spire. In return, I will personally activate the Sky-Fire Nexus, a sacred, holy place, and open a portal to your so-called home. A clean transaction. Fair."
The offer hung in the superheated air, woven with an unspoken threat. Refusal meant being cast out, weaponless, into an empire that now saw them as either assets or enemies.
Koronos surveyed the map. He saw the tactical nightmare of vertical ice and stone. He also saw the only path home, held in the hands of this proud, dangerous man. He thought of the Southern Helfire Mountains, his true home. The Everliving Mandate's pull was towards the horrors of the Nightlands; this was not the real fight. They were merely sellswords at this moment; not a savory thought, but a necessary one.
"You will give me command," Koronos stated, his tone leaving no room for debate. "Not a title. Not an advisor. Full tactical authority over the forces assigned for this assault."
A thin crack appeared in Ignatius's stony expression. A smile. "A general who knows his worth. Done. You will have the Scarlet Talon cohort. They are… dissatisfied with the current stalemate. They killed their last commander over it. Motivate them."
It was not sealed with a handshake. Ignatius picked up a sliver of obsidian from the map's edge. It glowed cherry-red, then white-hot, in his palm before cooling to black. He offered it to Koronos. "The seal of the Talon. It will get you through my lines. Do not lose it."
Koronos looked at the token, then back at Ignatius. He laughed, a short, sharp sound. He did not take it. "I do not need your tokens to lead men."
Ignatius's grin widened, showing strong, white teeth. "Good. Very good. You might be a Blue," he said, the heat around him spiking with approval, "but you should have been born a Red."
While the men talked of strategy and mountains, Zeyzey was a statue in the background. But her eyes were alive, recording.
Movement: Ignatius favored his left side when standing still. A subtle weight shift. An old injury to his right leg?
Attention: His focus was absolute on the map and Koronos. His gaze passed over her and Daggeroth without a flicker of assessment. A blind spot. Men always underestimate women. It was why the Purifiers' finest spies had been women. And Daggeroth is still an adolescent, no more than 16 or 17 years of age; no threat either, not to a powerful man.
Security: The guards were at the distant doors, not at his side. The room's oppressive heat was his defense. He believed himself untouchable here.
The Weakness: His pride. He stood close to Koronos, within arm's reach, to emphasize his dominance. He did not fear a physical threat.
She felt the coral-hilted dagger, a cold tooth against her skin beneath her robes.
He is not a man. He is a target. A strategic piece to be removed. An obstacle.
Her mission crystallized. She wasn't learning about an emperor; she was memorizing the patterns and behaviors of her mark. She could kill him now, perhaps. But she did not yet know where he kept the Nexus Key.
They were led out. The blistering heat of the throne room faded behind them, replaced by the dry, biting chill of the desert night.
Koronos walked ahead, his mind already on glaciers and siege ladders, on the cohort of killers he would have to turn into an army. The deal is made.
Beside him, Zeyzey walked in silence, her mind replaying the audience like a scout's diagram: approach vectors, guard sight lines, the exact distance from the throne-room entrance to where Ignatius had stood, confident and unguarded. The target is acquired. The sweet spot, just left of the spine, to pierce the heart.
Two paths now stretched ahead: one to a frost-bound fortress, the other to a bloodstained throne.