Once again, the time has come to murder a child.
Darius stalks through the shadows of House Azure. He hates how ordinary it all feels—hates the way his fellow eunuchs greet him with smiles and nods. It should not be this way. Killing should not come so easily. Not after what it cost him all those years ago.
The hidden knullknife burns at his side.
His steps do not falter. He keeps to the edges of the corridors, silent and deliberate. The faint rustle of silk drifts from unseen spires above, the sound merging with the soft hum of glowglobes stationed at even intervals along the hall. Their azure light pools on the pale stone, casting faint, rippling shadows that seem to move in time with his thoughts.
Ahead lies the quarters of Janus Ragnos, his target. The boy he must kill. A simple enough task: enter silently, kill quickly, and leave no trace.
And yet, tension tightens Darius's throat.
Perhaps it is the thread of memory tugging at him—the smell of ash and blood from so long ago.
He remembers the pit at the Crucible, the cold steel of the blade pressed into his hand, the shouts of the overseers above. Boys his age, boys he knew, forced to fight for survival. The weak would fall, and the strong would ascend. That was the way of things.
He should have been strong.
Instead, he faltered.
The first boy lunged, his blade catching Darius's cheek, and in that moment, something in him broke. His own blade refused to move. The overseers had dragged him from the pit, bleeding but alive. Alive, and unworthy. The Exarchs had spared his life, though they stripped him of everything else—his bloodline, his future, his manhood.
Now, all that remains is duty. And this knife.
The door to Janus's quarters looms ahead, its polished surface gleaming faintly. Darius slows his steps, drawing in a slow breath. He has killed boys before. This should be no different.
I have no choice.
Yet, deep down, something in him protests.
It's this or death.
Darius pauses in a small alcove nearby. The knullknife comes free from its hidden sheath with a faint whisper, its dark blade swallowing the light. He presses the blade's flat edge against his forehead, closing his eyes as he recites the words he has spoken countless times before:
"For the purity of Malkiel. For the will of the Autarch. For the One Path."
The blade is cold against his skin, grounding him. He pulls it away, glancing at his reflection in its flawless surface. The Mark of Nullification on his neck feels heavy tonight.
Malkiel had demanded his sacrifice, and he had failed her tests.
Yet the echoes of the pit never leave him.
The room is dark when he steps inside, the door creaking faintly as it closes behind him. Darius moves with practiced silence, his footsteps lighter than a whisper on the smooth stone floor.
The air here is heavy, unnaturally so. The faint glow of a glowglobe resting on the bedside table pulses in rhythm with his heartbeat. Darius's breath catches for a moment, his grip on the knife tightening.
The boy's bed is empty.
Something is wrong.
The room seems to shift around him, the walls bending in ways they should not. He steps back instinctively, his eyes scanning for movement, for any sign of Janus.
A ripple in the corner of the room stops him cold.
The air twists, reality bending like glass caught in flame. A figure materializes—no, unfolds—from the darkness. The distortion wraps around her like a living shroud, her outline bleeding at the edges as if she exists in multiple places at once.
Kaelenya. High-Chatelaine Kaelenya.
Darius's breath catches. The stories never capture her true beauty—the way her presence fills the room like smoke, how her double-pupiled eyes pierce through him with otherworldly clarity. Her dark hair shifts and blurs, refusing to settle like a living waterfall.
The knife grows heavy in his hand.
"High-Chatelaine, I…" he begins, only for his voice to fail him.
His knees hit the stone floor. His throat constricts.
She watches him without moving, without speaking. Those eyes—violet depths within depths. Death. He sees death in her gaze.
"I can explain," he says, his voice cracking. The Mark of Nullification burns against his skin, a reminder of his own failures, his own sacrifices. Yet before her gaze, even that seems to fade into insignificance.
Kaelenya's lips lift into the faintest of smiles. "Explain? What's there to explain, Darius? You brought my son a gift."
The knullknife clatters to the ground.
Darius shudders on the cold stone, his breath ragged, his hands trembling. The Mark of Nullification seems to sear his soul, a cruel reminder.
Her throat bears no torq, no sigil of power—she needs none.
Doomed. I'm doomed.
Her voice is weapon enough.
Darius flees the room, the echoes of her voice following him like a shadow. The corridor swallows him, the glowglobes casting pale light on his retreating form.
He has failed. Again.
And for the first time in years, he wonders if the strength he lost in the Crucible was not weakness at all—but the last piece of himself worth saving.