The Thrall and the Emperor

The corridor outside the chamber was colder than it should have been.

Stone sweat clung to the walls. The echo of light lingered behind Alberto's eyes like retinal scars. His boots scraped the floor with every step, the iron click too sharp, too human after what he'd just seen. The Divine Thrall skulked behind him, silent, its limbs folded like broken steel, head bowed, mouth sewn shut with invisible strings.

The officers gave it a wide berth—no one wanted to breathe the same air. One dropped to a knee mid-step, crossing himself in some regional dialect. Another turned his back and muttered prayers under his breath.

Alberto ignored all of it.

"That thing…" one officer whispered, his voice hoarse, breath catching as if he'd swallowed sandpaper. " I don't know why—but my mind keeps telling me to shoot it."

"Shut up," the scarred one hissed. "It's bonded now. If you make it mad—"

"—You think it can't still kill us?"