Page 13 of Lich's Bride

And with that, he is gone, leaving me trembling and overwrought in the darkness, his words etching themselves into the fabric of my being like a talisman... or a curse.

10

MALACHAR

Istand in the shadows of the Great Hall, watching as Kira moves through her daily rituals. She has adapted to life in Blanchmire with a swiftness that borders on uncanny, her initial fears and hesitations sloughing away like an ill-fitting skin.

Now she navigates the twisted corridors and eldritch chambers as if born to them. And yet, for all her growing ease in my domain, she remains utterly, fascinatingly alien. A creature of warmth and light, of pulsing blood and writhing emotion, trapped in the still cold heart of my necromantic sanctum.

I find myself endlessly intrigued by the small, mundane quirks of her existence, the little rituals and routines she clings to like talismans against the dark.

Take now, for instance. She sits at the great oaken table, a steaming mug cradled in her hands, savoring the aromatic brew with eyes half-lidded in pleasure. Such a simple thing, to derive enjoyment from flavored water steeped with crushed leaves.

And yet, watching her, I feel a strange twinge behind my breastbone, a fleeting pang of... something. Envy, perhaps? Curiosity? I can no longer recall the taste of tea, the satisfaction of thirst slaked. Such mortal pleasures have long since been a mystery to me.

She drains the mug and rises, carrying it to the great stone sink to rinse it with fastidious care. Another oddity, this preoccupation with cleanliness, with order. In the chaos-haunted realms beyond the manor’s walls, such concerns are laughable.

The inhabitants of the greatwild revel in filth, in the fecund riot of decay and disorder. The wildfolk are little better, creatures of instinct and appetite, unburdened by higher thought. But Kira clings to her routines of tidiness and hygiene like a talisman, an invocation of the human world she left behind.

And yet, for all the alienness of her ways, I find myself increasingly drawn to her. She is a puzzle, a contradiction, a knot of complexities that begs to be unraveled. One moment she is all brave defiance, her chin set and her eyes flashing as she masters some new facet of the Art. The next, she is soft and vulnerable, her aura shimmering with a poignant mix of homesickness and yearning.

I watch her now as she tidies away the detritus of her breakfast, humming softly under her breath. A useless expenditure of energy, to make music for no ears but her own.

And yet, the sound tugs at something within me, a cobwebbed corner of my psyche long resigned to silence.

Abruptly, unwilling to continue this line of thought, I step from the shadows, announcing my presence with a soft clearing of my throat. Kira starts, the mug slipping from her fingers to shatter on the flagstones.

For a fleeting instant, her aura flares with raw panic, the primal terror of prey before predator. But then she masters herself, schooling her features into a mask of composure.

"Malachar," she greets me, dipping into a quick curtsy. "Forgive me, I didn't see you there."

"Evidently," I drawl, gesturing to the shards of crockery littering the floor. "I trust you have recovered from yesterday's exertions?"

She flushes, a tide of blood staining her cheeks. The failure of the familiar summoning clearly still rankles. "I... yes. I am ready to continue my studies."

"Good." I turn, beckoning for her to follow. "We have much to cover, and time grows short. The aetheric tides will soon be at their peak, and we must be ready to harness their power."

I lead her through the labyrinthine halls out into the Feywild to find her familiar, feeling her presence at my back like a living flame, warm and bright against the chill of my aura. We have fallen into a strange sort of rhythm, the black magician and his apprentice, the undead lord and his mortal ward. A part of me, the part that calcified over long centuries of solitude, resents this disruption to my austere existence.

But another part, a part I thought long atrophied, relishes her company, the novelty and challenge she represents.

As we walk, my thoughts drift unbidden to the previous night, to the scene in Kira's bed chamber. The memory of her huddled beneath the sheets, wracked with sobs of despair, sends a strange frisson through my desiccated form.

At that moment, watching her wrestle with her perceived inadequacies, I felt an unfamiliar stirring in the dusty catacomb of my heart. An urge to comfort, to console. To gather her trembling form into my arms and anchor her against the undertow of her own doubts.

Ridiculous. I am Lord of Blanchmire, an avatar of death and shadow.

I do not coddle mewling maidens or salve wounded egos.

And yet… the impulse remains, an itch beneath the husk of my skin.

We reach the lesser summoning circle, a circular clearing in the wood ringed with twisting columns carved to resemble coiling serpents. I gesture for Kira to take her place in the central sigil, a weaving of arcane geometry limned in silver fire. She does so, her movements graceful and precise, a far cry from the stumbling neophyte of a few short weeks ago.

"Begin your intonations," I instruct, moving to the edge of the circle. "Focus your will, your very essence, into the words. Offer up your secret self to the etheric currents and beseech them for an answer."

She nods, her eyes already sliding half-closed in concentration. She begins to chant, her voice low and melodic, the elder syllables rolling off her tongue with growing confidence.

I watch, silent and immobile as the statue I resemble, as the power builds around her, a swirling miasma of indigo light. Her aura flares and pulses, a coruscating corona of sorcerous energy. She is magnificent, a dark star ascending, and I feel a fierce swell of pride and possessiveness at the sight.

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