*COMPLETE* Allayria promised to do what it takes to stop the Jarles, to make the ugly decision. She thinks, at last, she understands what the dynast meant. The lesson earned from the top of that lonely cliff and given the dark murky water below.
It...
Up, above the Plinth, at the summit of a set of jaggedly-hewn steps, the tall, cold doors of the Throne Room lie open. While clashing, fermenting chaos reigns down below, up here is mute, dead. Not even wind stirs between the doors, dust refusing to pass its barrier, pass over the quiet, still bodies lying on the floor.
There's movement in the city, movement rushing up toward here, and as it rustles, as it grows, the doors slide open a little more, like arms outstretched, waiting. But at its center is no beating heart, no pulsing veins, no stirring limbs or blinking eyes. Only emptiness echoes out of the heart of the Throne Room, flat and blank.
And even as the first one, the long forgotten son, darkens its door, fear thundering in his heart, all is silent.
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It's all darkness here, all darkness. And it sits on Lei Chaudri's heart, heavily, even as it thrums, twitches frantically against his ribs. He hasn't heard anything, seen anything since Isati fled but he's afraid. So very afraid.
[You are such a child.]
These doors, doors Abadi Chaudri has always held jealously closed, hang open, frame around him like a window, but Lei doesn't want to peer inside. There's a small, narrow beam of light running down the floor, stopped just a few paces in. Cut short, he senses, just before... something.
Who should he call to? Should he call at all? He thinks not... just in case, just because there's something about this place that makes his voice die in the back of his throat. He knows this hall.
[Get out of my sight! Get out! Get out!]
It shivers along his spine. Lei pushes forward, and as he does, the doors beside him open wider.
The light grows longer.
The gasp expels itself from his lungs, which seize and contract, because the light has crept in, the light has fallen upon...
Lei's knees hit the cold floor even as he leans over, as his hands—shaking so hard now—pass over the ugly metal helmet, pawing fruitlessly at it as his breathing hitches and spasms. It's all blind panic now, all pounding blood and cold sweat as it repeats in his head:
Get it off get it off, have to get it off—
And then he sees the blood.
No. No, he tells himself, but his hand still shakes as he pulls it down to the small, exposed neck. No.
He presses two fingers at the jugular for a moment and waits.
No. This denial comes with tears this time, hot, burning like simmering embers, like melted steel. No... please.
He drops his hand, his head bowed down, a pantomime of prayer.
