Chapter 9 – The Tyrant’s Grasp

The Black Keep – Blackreach

The throne room of Blackreach's Black Keep was built to intimidate. Towering black stone walls, a vaulted ceiling lost to the shadows, and rows of iron braziers burning low against the cold.

At the centre, upon the great obsidian throne, sat King Galborn.

And he was not pleased.

His fingers drummed lazily against the throne's armrest, the slow rhythm the only sound in the vast chamber. A habit of impatience. A warning.

The two men kneeling before him knew better than to speak.

Galborn leaned forward, studying them—Black Hounds captains, men who had sworn their lives to him. And yet, here they were, kneeling in failure.

"You lost her," Galborn finally said, his voice smooth, deliberate.

The captain on the left swallowed hard. "We had her, Your Majesty. The execution was prepared, the city secured. But—"

"But?"

The man hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. "Someone interfered. A mercenary. We believe it was an elf."

Galborn's gaze sharpened, but he said nothing.

The captain on the right shifted uncomfortably. "She fled into the wildlands, but we have search parties tracking her now. She won't get far."

A long silence.

Then, slowly, Galborn smiled.

"Won't she?"

The captains exchanged a glance, uneasy.

Galborn sighed, sitting back against his throne. "Tell me," he said, voice almost bored. "How many attempts have been made on my life?"

The first captain hesitated. "At least a dozen, Your Majesty."

Galborn nodded. "And how many assassins have walked away from it?"

"None, Your Majesty."

Galborn tilted his head. "And yet Delwyn Aldsund does."

The captains said nothing.

Galborn smiled again—cold and sharp.

"Delwyn was trained by my own hands," he murmured. "She knows our tactics. She knows my soldiers. She knows how we hunt."

His fingers curled over the hilt of the dagger at his belt. A beautifully crafted thing—curved steel, engraved in ancient runes. A blade that had tasted blood more times than most would believe.

"She's not running," Galborn mused. "She's regrouping."

The captains stiffened.

Galborn's gaze flicked toward them again, his cold amusement fading. "Commander Vale has already begun his march south?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Good."

Galborn leaned forward again, resting his chin against his knuckles. "Double the men. I want Delwyn found before she reaches them."

A pause. Then—

"And when you do?"

His smile returned.

"Don't bring her back alive."

The captains nodded. "Yes, my King." Galborn sat motionless upon his throne, watching as the two Black Hounds captains hurried from the chamber, their boots clicking sharply against the black stone floor.

He exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the cold obsidian.

Delwyn Aldsund was alive.

For all his preparations, all his calculations, the traitor still breathed.

Annoying.

But not unexpected.

She had always been difficult to kill. That was why he had chosen her all those years ago. Why he had trusted her at his side.

For a moment—just a brief, fleeting moment—Galborn almost smiled.

But the moment passed.

His eyes flickered to the shadows near the throne room's eastern wall. "You've been quiet."

A figure stepped from the darkness, silent as death.

Elandros.

His spymaster. His whisper in the dark.

The elf bowed his head slightly. "Your captains are incompetent."

Galborn chuckled. "Tell me something I don't know."

Elandros didn't return the amusement. "This is dangerous. She knows. Or at least, she's seen enough to begin asking questions."

Galborn's fingers curled around the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

She had seen the dungeons.

The altar carved from black stone. The sigils that pulsed with something unnatural.

She had seen what lay beneath the keep.

And that was why she could not be allowed to live.

Galborn let out a slow breath, then rose from his throne. His heavy fur-lined cloak whispered against the stone as he descended the steps, passing Elandros without a glance.

The spymaster followed.

Neither spoke as they left the grand hall, winding through the fortress's narrow corridors.

They walked deep beneath the keep, passing rows of torches burning with a sickly green fire. The deeper they went, the heavier the air became—thick, unnatural, humming with something ancient.

The Black Keep was old—older than the kingdom, older than the kings who had ruled before him.

And Galborn had discovered its secrets.

They reached the lowest level, where the air was damp with the scent of stone and blood.

A massive iron door loomed ahead, carved with intricate, writhing runes. Runes that shifted when you looked at them too long.

Galborn pressed his palm against the cold metal. The door trembled, then groaned open.

The chamber beyond was vast.

Pillars of black stone stretched toward a ceiling lost to shadow. Strange, flickering symbols glowed along the floor, pulsing with slow, rhythmic light—like breathing.

And at the centre…

The rift.

A jagged tear in the world, floating above the altar, its edges rippling like oil over water.

Galborn stepped forward, feeling the energy curl around him, a whisper against his skin.

Something stirred beyond the veil.

Something ancient.

Something hungry.

Elandros hesitated at the threshold. "This is dangerous."

Galborn smirked. "You're repeating yourself."

The elf's gaze darkened. "Magic like this always comes with a cost, Galborn."

Galborn let his fingers drift toward the rift, feeling the pull of it—the power waiting beyond.

"Everything worth having does."

And soon the whole world would learn that lesson.