The dark droplet of her blood, stark against the pale fabric, shimmered with an unnatural light. Vayhan’s obsidian eyes narrowed. His hands, still gentle from their near embrace, shot toward her collar, not to harm, but to investigate. His thumb brushed the invisible wound, his brow furrowing as if he could perceive the burning brand she felt. “What is this?” His voice dropped low, vibrating with a fury that made the cavern air hum. “What *did* that to you?” He tilted her chin, inspecting the smear on her mouth. “Speak, Nivara. What torment leaves an invisible mark and blood on your lips?” She tried to speak, but her windpipe felt swollen and raw. A raspy wheeze escaped instead. The golden filaments had bitten deep, their warning—*[Intimate deviation. Unmandated affection. Core programming breach. Punishment protocol initiated.]*—still ringing in her skull like a cracked gong. How could she explain an entity that tore at her soul for showing love? He watched her struggle, his own terror mounting. The possessive edge in his gaze sharpened into an icy glare. “Tell me,” he insisted. “Or I will scour this entire realm until I find what dares to harm you, and I will tear it apart stone by stone.” His fingers shifted, bracing her lower jaw. She shook her head, tears pricking her eyes from the pain and the sheer hopelessness of explaining. With unsteady fingers, she reached into the inner pocket of her tunic. Her movement was cautious, hoping the threads coiled on her skin would not sear her anew. She pulled out the folded, brittle parchment inscribed with her predecessor's cramped handwriting. “This…” she rasped, thrusting the parchment into his grasp. “Read this.” Vayhan’s gaze dropped to the ink. His eyes tracked the hurried script describing the soul-shredding mandate, the fatal countdown, and the search for a cure to preserve his fracturing mind. His body visibly stiffened. The blood drained from his face, leaving his skin a stark white beneath the cavern’s dim light. His fingers, which had pinned the page with iron firmness, began to shake. A jagged exhalation tore past his teeth. He looked up at her, his eyes, still black, now filled with an agony that mirrored her own. “You… you left to save me?” His voice was hoarse, barely audible. “Not because you hated me. Not because you sought to escape my love, but because this… this parasitic entity… demanded it?” He crushed the letter in his fist, the delicate parchment tearing. “It *forced* you?” Nivara could only nod as tears stung her lashes. His posture buckled, the rigid arrogance vanishing into a blank, hollow stare. “The Sunbird’s Heart,” she managed, nodding toward the fossilized relic on the stone shelf. “It’s the cure. But we must awaken it before…” She tapped her collarbone, where the burning imprint still lingered. A sharp crack echoed through the cavern, followed by iron clinking against granite. A figure emerged from the tunnel shadows, uniform caked in red clay and dark grease. It was Kiran, chest heaving. “Your Majesty!” Kiran’s voice was strained, thick with barely contained panic. “The capital… the Lords of Ashara and Kuldath have declared open rebellion, using your prolonged absence as pretext. And worse… a faction of Nightfang mercenaries has infiltrated Okhali. They’re here, in the village!” Vayhan’s head snapped up, the grief smoothing into an icy, unreadable mask. He drew his short sword an inch from its sheath. “How many? And where?” “At least a dozen killers,” Kiran reported, glancing between the Emperor and Nivara. “They bypassed my sentries under cover of the deluge. They came hunting you, my lord, but they are rounding up the huts.” Rebels and cutthroats in Okhali. Nivara gathered her skirts, following the men as they scrambled through the damp crawlway. Outside, the smell of churned wet earth and pine pitch hit them in a cold blast. The world above was a tableau of absolute pandemonium. Torches flickered wildly in the driving rain, casting erratic shadows across the mud-slicked ground of the central square. Villagers huddled near the communal granary under the relentless downpour. In the center stood an intruder in dark, oiled leather, holding a curved blade tight against Elder Ojas's neck. The headman stood rigidly in the mud, jaw locked in defiance. “Emperor of Shikara!” the raider shouted over the squall. “Yield your sword, or the elder dies first.”

The Interrogation