prologue.

She'd grown accustomed to the distant wails of agony, the acrid smell of hellfire, and the heavy clouds of despair hanging from the inky stalactites hanging from the sky like rotting bodies in the gallows. Growls and roars from the hundreds of savage creatures lurking in the shadows filled her ears, keeping her up throughout the endless night. The dark sand under her feet, the thick, oppressive air against her pale skin­—none of it was new.

Nordor was home now.

Her hand tightened around her vayrir—an obsidian spear, weathered and aged from battle and time—as she gazed upon the black fortress in the distance. Purple fire burned in fixtures along the battlements. Sinister iron-wrought gates and portcullises guarded the entryways, accompanied by hulking demons with their eyes glowing red with rage and bloodlust. Gargoyles and black gryphons circled the towers reaching for the lofted ceilings like fingers from the damned souls trapped in the bottomless pits littering the underworld. Their king resided inside, hiding and biding his time as he prepared his attack on the world above them.

She readjusted the scarf holding back her black hair. It also served as protection for the lower portion of her face; she was careful to keep the toxins in the air from infiltrating her lungs. A decade of surviving in the underworld allowed her to develop some sense of immunity to the harsh conditions, but even she couldn't withstand Nordor's corrupting atmosphere for too long. Squinting through the darkness, she continued to examine the fortress.

For the past few weeks, she'd been monitoring the area. The fortress hadn't been here before that. She'd watched as it formed itself out of shadows, crafted by the god of this realm himself.

Mauvorin.

The chaos deity had finally succeeded. All those years ago, he planted his seed in a man so misguided in his quest for freedom that he was willing to sacrifice his wife in exchange for unlimited power. That seed had finally bloomed, forming into the ill-fated Black Lotus. Her jaw clenched at the thought of the man she once knew.

That quiet, stoic man with sad eyes and the weight of his entire civilization pressing against his narrow shoulders had vanished, replaced by a cruel, paranoid tyrant. She'd seen the shift in real-time. Their conversations grew short. He no longer could meet her eye, almost as if he knew what he'd been planning to do to her. Tears welled in her eyes. She angrily wiped them away before whispering a quiet prayer into the void around her. While he might've turned his back on her, she never turned her back on him—even after that wretched prophecy consumed his mind.

Her Thorian was gone.

He was now the king of this hellish place.

But kings can't live forever.


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