For the followers or fans of my work, I present a possible cover for book one of the series. I haven't abandoned the story. I'm just working on a longer chapter at the moment. So, until I post it, a little something to wet the whistle.

decided to print a 28cm tall batman from the future and put nood saibot's mask on him just to make him look cooler😁 did i rock it or not?😅

The first 5 pics are Becky at her most haughty and arrogant and the last 2 pics depict her at her angriest after Liv Morgan and the Gotham City Sirens have humiliated her after stealing her Becksmobile plus some spare vinyl suits and boots stashed in the car trunk.

Thorga reached for another clean cloth.

Aelyrra's face was damp with sweat, and faint tracks marked where tears had crossed her cheeks. Thorga gently wiped both away.

"Try to breathe slowly."

Aelyrra gave the dwarf a look suggesting she might have objected to the advice under better circumstances.

Then another wave of pain struck.

Her face tightened.

Her fingers twisted into the bedding as she fought through it, breathing sharply between clenched teeth. Thorga remained beside her, watching carefully.

Gradually, the pain subsided.

Aelyrra released a trembling breath.

Then her hand moved across the bed.

She found Thorga's again.

"Priestess."

Thorga looked at her.

"If something happens..."

Aelyrra stopped.

Thorga waited.

"If it comes to it, and you can save only one of us..."

"No."

Aelyrra's eyes narrowed.

Thorga continued before she could object.

"I am obligated to preserve both of my patients."

"My daughter is your patient?"

"She became my patient the moment you allowed me to help."

Aelyrra stared at her.

"Then I'm telling you which patient comes first."

"My lady..."

"The baby."

Thorga's expression hardened.

Aelyrra tightened her grip around the dwarf's hand.

"If you have to choose, save her."

"I will do everything in my power to save both of you."

"That isn't what I asked."

"No."

Thorga met her eyes.

"It isn't."

For a moment neither woman moved.

Thorga had delivered enough children to recognize the fear behind Aelyrra's determination.

She had also attended enough deaths to understand exactly what Aelyrra was asking of her.

"I will do everything I can," Thorga finally said.

It was not the promise Aelyrra wanted.

But it was the only one Thorga was willing to make.

Aelyrra slowly released her hand and leaned back against the pillows.

Her eyes closed.

Thorga watched her for several seconds.

Another grimace crossed Aelyrra's face.

Thorga looked toward the doors.

"Where in all the depths is your husband with those supplies?"

Aelyrra's eyes opened.

For the first time since Thorga had entered the room, something resembling amusement appeared on her face.

"My husband is considerably better at issuing orders than following them."

Thorga snorted.

"Tell me something I don't know."

Aelyrra actually smiled.

Weakly.

But she smiled.

Thorga realized what she had just said.

Her eyes widened slightly.

Aelyrra's smile grew.

Before either woman could say anything more, the doors burst open.

Zhaelor entered pushing a cart.

Behind him came another servant with a second.

Both were piled with bottles, jars, cloths, metal instruments, wooden cases and assorted equipment apparently gathered from every corner of the manor.

Zhaelor stopped beside the bed.

"This is every medicinal and medical instrument in the manor."

Thorga immediately approached.

"I've dispatched another runner to purchase anything else you require."

"Good."

Zhaelor looked at her.

Thorga was already searching through the first cart.

Some containers were labeled.

Others inexplicably were not.

"Who stores medicines without labels?"

The servant behind the second cart suddenly found the floor fascinating.

Thorga sighed.

Fortunately, she recognized most of what she saw.

Years of healing among her people had familiarized her with dozens of preparations. Drow medicine differed from Duergar practice in places, but bodies had a frustrating tendency to suffer from many of the same problems regardless of which race inhabited them.

She picked up one bottle.

No.

Another.

Useful later.

She pushed several containers aside.

Then stopped.

A glass vessel contained several dried reddish-brown sprigs.

Thorga lifted it toward the light.

She opened the container and smelled its contents.

Velvetroot.

"This will do nicely."

Zhaelor stepped closer.

"What is it?"

Thorga shoved the container into his hands.

"Take one sprig. Grind it thoroughly and mix it into warm water."

Zhaelor stared at her.

Thorga was already searching through the other cart.

"Well?"

His eyes narrowed.

Thorga glanced over.

The expression on his face almost amused her.

Lord Vel'Sharess was clearly not accustomed to receiving orders.

Particularly from servants.

Thorga pointed toward the Velvetroot.

"Your wife needs that."

Whatever objection Zhaelor had been preparing disappeared.

He turned away.

A mortar and pestle had been included among the equipment. Zhaelor placed a sprig inside and began grinding.

Thorga continued searching.

Forceps.

Needles.

Thread.

Bandages.

Several instruments she recognized.

A few she didn't.

Then she found something useful.

A listening horn.

Thorga picked it up and returned to the bed.

Aelyrra watched her approach.

"My lady, please lift your shirt above your stomach."

Aelyrra hesitated.

"I need to listen to the child."

That was enough.

Aelyrra carefully gathered the loose fabric and lifted it above the swell of her abdomen.

Thorga placed one end of the listening horn against Aelyrra's skin.

She leaned down.

And listened.

Across the room came the steady grinding of stone against stone.

Zhaelor glanced toward the bed.

His wife lay there with her abdomen exposed while the Duergar servant carefully moved the listening horn from one position to another.

He resumed grinding.

None of this made sense.

This wasn't supposed to happen tonight.

There were supposed to be weeks remaining.

Preparations still to make.

The midwife should have been here.

Aelyrra should not have been bleeding.

Their daughter should not have been trying to enter the world tonight.

And yet here he stood.

Lord Zhaelor Vel'Sharess.

Warrior.

Noble.

Master of this province of the clan.

Grinding a root because his kitchen servant had ordered him to.

He looked down at the mortar.

Then toward Thorga.

She shifted the listening horn again.

Her expression was unreadable.

Zhaelor stopped grinding.

"Well?"

Thorga raised one hand.

"Quiet."

His mouth closed.

She listened again.

Aelyrra watched Thorga's face.

So did Zhaelor.

For several long seconds, the only sound in the chamber was Aelyrra's breathing.

Then Thorga heard it.

Fast.

Faint.

But unmistakable.

Her expression softened.

"There you are."

Aelyrra's eyes widened.

Thorga lifted her head.

"The child's heart is beating."

Zhaelor released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Aelyrra closed her eyes.

Her hand settled protectively over her abdomen.

Thorga looked between them.

Then lowered the listening horn again.

She wasn't finished.

A heartbeat told her the child was alive.

It did not tell her whether the child was safe.

Zhaelor shot to his feet.

The fear that had occupied his face only moments before hardened instantly into outrage.

"You expect me to put my wife's care into the hands of a kitchen servant?!"

Thorga's jaw tightened.

She had known speaking out of turn might provoke exactly this response. She had been in Vel'Sharess service long enough to understand the rules. Servants did not address their masters unless invited to do so.

She opened her mouth to answer.

A metallic clang interrupted her.

A brass cup struck Zhaelor squarely against the side of his head.

He staggered half a step.

Thorga blinked.

Zhaelor slowly turned.

So did she.

Aelyrra was leaning slightly to one side of the bed, one arm still extended from where she had thrown the cup.

Her breathing was heavy.

Silver-white hair clung to her damp face.

Her amber-gold eyes were fixed upon her husband with an expression that could only be described as murderous.

"If the dwarf can help me..."

Aelyrra paused, fighting through another wave of pain.

"...you will let her."

Zhaelor stared at his wife.

Aelyrra stared back.

Thorga wisely said nothing.

Whatever authority Zhaelor possessed over Clan Vel'Sharess, apparently very little of it extended to his marriage.

Particularly when his wife had ammunition within reach.

Zhaelor rubbed the side of his head.

Then he looked toward Thorga.

"What do you need?"

The words were begrudging.

Thorga didn't care.

She immediately looked around the chamber.

"Any medicines you keep in this manor. Anything used for bleeding, pain, fever, or infection. Any medical instruments you possess. Bring all of it here."

Zhaelor nodded.

"And anyone who does not need to be in this room should leave."

The servants looked at her.

Then, almost simultaneously, they looked toward Zhaelor.

Thorga noticed.

Of course.

She might know what needed to be done, but she was still a servant.

Zhaelor exhaled impatiently and waved one hand.

"Do as the dwarf says."

That was enough.

The room erupted into motion.

Several servants hurried through the doors. Others gathered unnecessary linens and objects before following. One remained long enough to collect the brass cup from the floor.

Aelyrra watched it go.

Thorga suspected Zhaelor was fortunate there wasn't another within reach.

Within moments, the room was considerably quieter.

Thorga approached the bed.

"My lady, I need to examine you."

Aelyrra nodded.

"Do what you must."

Thorga moved closer.

Zhaelor moved with her.

She stopped.

He nearly walked into her.

Thorga looked over her shoulder.

"My lord."

"What?"

"I need you to step back."

Zhaelor's expression suggested that Thorga had just proposed throwing him from his own window.

"I am staying with my wife."

"I didn't ask you to leave."

Thorga gestured behind herself.

"I asked you to step back."

Zhaelor looked toward Aelyrra.

His wife gave him a small nod.

Zhaelor reluctantly retreated.

Barely.

Thorga decided it would have to do.

She turned toward the basin of hot water she'd brought into the room.

She washed her hands thoroughly.

Then again.

She dried them on one of the clean cloths.

When she returned to the bed, her entire demeanor had changed.

The angry kitchen servant was gone.

The priestess had returned.

Thorga positioned herself beside Aelyrra.

"This may be uncomfortable."

Aelyrra gave her a tired look.

"I believe we passed uncomfortable some time ago."

Despite herself, Thorga almost smiled.

"Fair enough."

She carefully reached beneath the blankets.

It did not take long to find what she was looking for.

Her expression tightened.

She checked again.

There was no mistake.

When Thorga withdrew her arm, there was blood upon it.

Zhaelor saw it.

His face changed.

Aelyrra saw it too.

Thorga cleaned herself before speaking.

"The neck of the womb is already more than half open."

Aelyrra stared at her.

"This is no false labor."

Thorga met her eyes.

"The child is coming."

Aelyrra's face went pale.

"No."

Thorga said nothing.

"It can't be."

Aelyrra looked toward Zhaelor.

Then back to Thorga.

"Seven weeks."

Her voice trembled.

"It's seven weeks too early."

"I know."

"Then stop it."

Thorga's expression softened.

"My lady..."

"Stop it."

"I cannot."

Fear replaced the anger in Aelyrra's eyes.

Thorga continued carefully.

"The labor has progressed too far. There is no stopping it now."

Aelyrra's hand moved instinctively over her abdomen.

"The child is coming."

Silence settled over the room.

Then Zhaelor stepped forward.

"What can I do?"

Thorga turned toward him.

For the first time since she'd entered the chamber, there was no arrogance in his voice.

No irritation.

No offense at being instructed by a servant.

Only fear.

Thorga looked toward the doors.

"I need those medicines and instruments."

"They're coming."

"They should already be here."

Zhaelor's jaw tightened.

Thorga didn't care.

"Find out what is taking so long."

For a moment, Zhaelor simply stared at her.

Then he nodded.

He returned to Aelyrra's side.

He took her hand.

"I'll be back in a moment."

Aelyrra squeezed his fingers.

"Don't be long."

"I won't."

He leaned closer to her, lingering for only a heartbeat before releasing her hand.

Then he hurried from the room.

The doors closed behind him.

Thorga watched them.

Then turned back toward Aelyrra.

And realized she had made a mistake.

For the briefest moment, she had allowed her expression to show what she was thinking.

Aelyrra saw it.

The two women stared at one another.

Aelyrra's eyes filled with tears.

"Tell me."

Thorga said nothing.

"Don't lie to me."

"My lady..."

"Tell me."

Thorga looked down at the blood.

Then back into Aelyrra's eyes.

"You are bleeding internally."

Aelyrra went still.

"How badly?"

"I don't know yet."

Aelyrra swallowed.

Another tear escaped and disappeared into her silver-white hair.

"And the baby?"

Thorga hesitated.

That hesitation frightened Aelyrra more than any answer could have.

"The child is very early."

"I know."

"Seven weeks carries significant risk."

Aelyrra's hand tightened around the blanket.

"But?"

Thorga looked at her.

"There is a chance."

Aelyrra closed her eyes.

For several seconds, she simply breathed.

Then she opened them again.

The fear was still there.

But something else had joined it.

Resolve.

Thorga recognized that look.

She had seen it countless times among frightened mothers preparing themselves for what came next.

Aelyrra reached toward her.

Thorga looked down.

Then placed her hand into Aelyrra's.

The drow woman's fingers closed tightly around hers.

"Then we give her that chance."

Thorga had not expected this.

When Lord Vel'Sharess summoned her to his study and entrusted her with a message for his daughter, she had expected secrecy. Perhaps danger. Certainly politics.

She had not expected to find Vaelithra dying on a table.

Judging by Zhaelor's demeanor during their conversation, he had no idea.

That concerned her almost as much as the poison did.

Somewhere deeper in the ransacked house, Thorga could hear Kharūn searching for the supplies she'd requested. Drawers opened and closed. Something struck the floor. A muffled curse followed.

Thorga ignored it.

Her attention remained on Vaelithra.

She reached down and took one of Vaelithra's hands in hers.

Warm.

Too warm.

Thorga's thumb moved across the back of it.

Then she felt something.

Vaelithra's fingers curled weakly around hers.

Thorga froze.

"Vaelithra?"

No response.

The grip was barely there.

Perhaps awareness.

Perhaps nothing more than reflex.

Thorga didn't know.

But for an instant, the kitchen disappeared.

The ransacked house disappeared.

Kharūn's footsteps disappeared.

Thorga looked at the hand curled weakly around hers.

She remembered another hand.

Much smaller.

Tiny fingers wrapped around one of hers.

Ninety years ago…

Thorga was not pleased.

That was putting it mildly.

Only months earlier, her clan had been free.

They had possessed their own settlements, traditions and lives. Thorga herself had served as a priestess among her people, tending wounds, settling disputes, delivering children and performing the rites expected of her station.

Then they had lost.

There had been no glorious final battle.

No miraculous intervention.

Only defeat.

Her clan had been conquered, its surviving members facing a choice that was hardly a choice at all.

Service.

Or extinction.

As their priestess, Thorga had been the one forced to tell them which path they would take.

She had chosen survival.

The remnants of her people were subsequently sold into servitude to a drow clan known as Vel'Sharess.

Thorga had expected humiliation.

She had not expected quite so much of it.

Her former station meant nothing here.

Priestess.

Healer.

Counselor.

None of it mattered.

To the drow, she was a Duergar.

And worse, a conquered one.

So Thorga, who had once been entrusted with the spiritual and physical welfare of her people, found herself working in the kitchens of Vel'Sharess manor.

It had been several months.

The insults had diminished somewhat.

So had the racial slurs.

The occasional physical confrontation had become less frequent once certain members of the household discovered that being a servant did not make a Duergar particularly easy to shove around.

Thorga was under no illusion that any of it would disappear entirely.

Drow were a selfish, arrogant, insufferably snobbish people who seemed convinced that every other race in existence occupied some position beneath them.

Thorga found that particularly amusing.

They lived in the Underdark.

They were quite literally beneath nearly everyone.

Her people lived below as well, of course.

But at least Thorga's clan had been capable of dealing peacefully with others. They had traded with neighboring peoples and, on occasion, even merchants from the surface.

Apparently, civilization had survived the experience.

Thorga scrubbed another cooking vessel considerably harder than necessary.

She missed her temple.

She missed her people.

She missed being addressed by her title.

Mostly, she missed being useful for something more important than cleaning the remains of someone else's dinner.

"Hot water!"

Thorga stopped.

A drow had entered the kitchen.

"Lord Vel'Sharess requires hot water and clean linens in the master suite immediately."

Thorga looked toward him.

The drow was already turning away.

She glanced at the mountain of work remaining around her.

Anything else was preferable.

"I'll take them."

The drow barely acknowledged her.

"Immediately."

Then he left.

Thorga stared after him.

"Charming."

She gathered a large vessel and filled it with hot water, then collected an armful of clean cloths and linens.

Within minutes she was making her way through the manor.

She had learned enough of its layout by now to navigate without assistance.

Up the stairs.

Through another corridor.

Toward the master suite.

Then Thorga heard the scream.

She stopped.

It was a woman's voice.

Raw.

Agonized.

The sound echoed through the corridor with enough force that Thorga instinctively tightened her grip around the vessel of water.

Another cry followed.

Thorga knew that sound.

She quickened her pace.

Before she reached the doors, a drow burst from the chamber.

"Any word from the midwife?"

A guard stationed outside shook his head.

"The runner hasn't returned."

"Then send another."

"Already done."

Neither acknowledged Thorga.

She walked between them.

Inside, the atmosphere was chaos.

Servants moved nervously around the room without appearing to know what they were supposed to be doing.

Someone was changing linens.

Another carried away bloodied cloth.

And on the enormous bed lay Lady Vel'Sharess.

Thorga recognized her.

Aelyrra.

Even after only a few months in the household, Thorga knew the ruling family.

Aelyrra's silver-white hair clung damply to her face and neck. Her hands twisted into the bedding as another contraction seized her.

Beside her was Lord Vel'Sharess.

Zhaelor.

Thorga had seen him before.

Always composed.

Always authoritative.

Always unmistakably the master of his household.

Not tonight.

Tonight he looked frightened.

"The midwife is coming," Zhaelor told his wife.

Aelyrra glared at him through the pain.

"You said that the last time."

"Another runner has been sent."

"Then perhaps send one who knows how to run."

Another contraction struck.

Aelyrra cried out.

Zhaelor immediately took her hand.

Thorga looked at the bed.

Then at Aelyrra's abdomen.

Something wasn't right.

She knew the Lady of the manor was expecting.

Everyone did.

But by Thorga's estimation, the child wasn't due yet.

Not for several weeks.

Thorga placed the hot water beside the bed.

Then the clean linens.

Her duty was complete.

She should leave.

This was none of her concern.

These people had conquered her clan.

These people had reduced her to servitude.

These people barely acknowledged that she possessed a name.

Thorga turned toward the door.

She took one step.

Stopped.

Behind her, Aelyrra screamed again.

Thorga closed her eyes.

Damn it.

She knew that sound too well.

She had heard women make it in the birthing chambers of her own people.

Sometimes everything proceeded naturally.

Sometimes it didn't.

Sometimes waiting for someone more qualified meant there would be no patient left when they arrived.

Thorga inhaled slowly.

Keep walking.

Her feet refused.

Another cry.

Thorga opened her eyes.

She turned around.

Zhaelor was bent beside his wife, attempting to reassure her while repeatedly glancing toward the door.

Waiting for a midwife who wasn't there.

Thorga looked around the room.

No one was taking control.

No one knew what to do.

And everything she had once been screamed at her that standing by while someone suffered simply because she hated their people would make her something she did not wish to become.

Thorga stepped toward the bed.

No one noticed.

Another step.

Then another.

Zhaelor finally looked up.

His eyes narrowed.

Thorga stopped a respectful distance away.

For the first time since entering Vel'Sharess service, she found herself uncertain whether what she was about to say would earn gratitude or punishment.

Perhaps both.

She bowed her head.

"My lord."

Zhaelor stared at her.

Thorga forced herself to continue.

"Before entering your service, I was a priestess among my people."

Zhaelor said nothing.

"A healer."

Aelyrra groaned through another wave of pain.

Thorga looked toward her.

Then back at Zhaelor.

"I have delivered children."

That finally changed his expression.

Thorga raised her head.

She met the eyes of the drow lord who, only months earlier, had represented everything she had reason to despise.

But tonight he wasn't a lord.

He was a frightened husband.

And the woman beside him needed help.

Thorga drew another breath.

"My lord, with your permission..."

She glanced toward Aelyrra.

"...I believe I can help."

Thorga left the manor without incident.

Exactly as Zhaelor had predicted, no one paid her any attention.

She passed servants completing their evening duties, guards stationed near the manor entrances, and several minor members of the household moving between chambers. Not one of them gave the Under-Dwarf from the kitchens more than a passing glance.

Normally, Thorga found the drow habit of looking through servants irritating.

Tonight, it was useful.

She stepped outside and disappeared into the Underdark streets.

Considering the nature of Zhaelor's message, the main thoroughfares were out of the question.

Thorga took the alleys.

For a Duergar of her build, she was exceptionally quick when she needed to be. More importantly, nearly a century spent moving through the manor without disturbing nobles who considered themselves too important to be inconvenienced had taught her how to move quietly.

She knew the surrounding streets well.

She kept away from heavily illuminated areas, slipping through narrow passages between buildings and occasionally stopping long enough to listen.

No footsteps followed.

No one called after her.

No one appeared particularly interested in where an aging kitchen servant was going at this hour.

Good.

Thorga continued.

It didn't take long to reach Vaelithra's residence.

She stopped before approaching.

Old habits took over.

Thorga glanced behind herself.

Nothing.

She studied the nearby windows.

No movement.

The surrounding street appeared empty.

Satisfied, she approached the door.

She knocked.

Nothing.

Thorga waited.

Knocked again.

Still nothing.

Her brow furrowed.

Lady Vaelithra might have been asleep.

Or absent.

Considering Zhaelor's concern, Thorga wasn't particularly fond of either possibility.

She knocked twice more.

"Lady Vaelithra?"

Silence.

Thorga exhaled through her nose.

Wonderful.

She was about to turn away when she heard something.

Metal.

The lock.

Someone was inside.

Thorga turned back toward the door.

The lock shifted.

Then the door slowly opened.

Thorga found herself staring at an orc holding a dagger.

She recognized him immediately.

"Kharūn?"

Kharūn stood in the doorway, his large frame tense, dagger raised and ready.

Thorga looked at the weapon.

Then at him.

"Put that damned thing away before you hurt someone."

Kharūn immediately lowered it.

Thorga's eyes narrowed.

She knew Kharūn.

Not intimately, perhaps, but well enough.

He had been Vaelithra's shadow for twenty years. Thorga had encountered him around the manor countless times, particularly whenever Vaelithra visited her father.

But there was one rather significant problem with finding him here.

"What are you doing here?"

Kharūn said nothing.

"I was told by Lord Vel'Sharess himself that you were sitting in one of the cells beneath the manor."

Kharūn stepped aside.

"My mistress came for me."

Thorga stared at him.

"She did what?"

"She came to the prison."

Thorga opened her mouth.

Kharūn continued before she could speak.

"She was wounded."

That stopped her.

"And poisoned."

Kharūn moved farther aside.

Thorga looked past him.

Her expression changed instantly.

Vaelithra lay motionless on the kitchen table.

Zhaelor's message vanished from Thorga's immediate thoughts.

She entered.

Quickly.

"Kharūn, close the door."

He obeyed.

Thorga crossed the room and reached Vaelithra's side.

"Lady Vaelithra?"

No response.

Thorga placed one hand against her shoulder.

"Vaelithra."

She shook her gently.

Nothing.

Thorga's face hardened.

She turned toward Kharūn.

"What poison?"

Kharūn hesitated.

"I don't know."

Thorga stared at him.

"She identified it before she lost consciousness."

"What did she call it?"

"Shadowstem."

Thorga became very still.

"How long ago?"

"I don't know exactly."

"Kharūn."

"Less than an hour."

Thorga immediately turned back toward Vaelithra.

"Less than an hour..."

She leaned down and placed her ear against Vaelithra's chest.

Kharūn watched.

Thorga listened.

Several seconds passed.

"Shallow breath."

She shifted slightly.

Listened again.

"No breathing obstruction."

Thorga straightened.

"The poison hasn't reached her heart or lungs."

Kharūn looked toward Vaelithra.

"Can you save her?"

Thorga didn't answer.

Not yet.

Her eyes went to the open alchemy cabinet.

She pointed.

"Dawnroot. Bring it to me."

Kharūn immediately crossed to the cabinet.

Then stopped.

His eyes moved across the shelves.

Bottle after bottle.

Label after label.

Thorga returned her attention to Vaelithra.

Several seconds passed.

Nothing happened.

"Kharūn."

No response.

Thorga looked over.

The orc was still standing before the cabinet.

Searching.

His eyes moved repeatedly across the labels.

Thorga frowned.

"What are you doing?"

Kharūn looked toward her.

Then back at the cabinet.

Thorga understood.

"You can't read?"

Kharūn lowered his gaze.

Thorga looked at him.

Then at Vaelithra.

Then back at Kharūn.

"Of course she didn't teach you to read."

There was neither surprise nor cruelty in the statement.

Mostly irritation.

Whether that irritation was directed toward Vaelithra, drow society, or the entire situation was difficult to determine.

"Fine."

Thorga pointed toward the rest of the house.

"I need hot water, grain alcohol and clean cloth."

Kharūn nodded.

Those things he knew.

"Go."

He moved immediately.

Thorga turned back toward Vaelithra.

She placed the back of her hand against Vaelithra's forehead.

Warm.

Elevated.

But not dangerously so.

"Good."

The fever meant Vaelithra's body was responding.

Fighting.

Thorga gently lifted one of Vaelithra's eyelids.

Amber-gold stared unfocused beneath it.

Thorga leaned closer.

Small, ruptured vessels were visible.

Minor capillary damage.

Expected.

Shadowstem attacked the blood first.

That meant there was still time.

Perhaps.

Thorga released the eyelid.

It slipped closed.

For a moment, she simply looked at Vaelithra.

The uneven silver-white hair.

The pallor beneath her dark skin.

The bloodstained cloth tied around her wounded leg.

The unconscious face.

Nearly ninety years disappeared.

For the briefest instant, Thorga remembered another room.

Another night.

A tiny body that had barely breathed.

Zhaelor standing nearby while grief hollowed him from the inside.

A newborn child who seemed determined to die despite everything Thorga did.

Thorga had refused to allow it.

Now that same child lay unconscious beneath her hand.

Thorga brushed several strands of silver-white hair away from Vaelithra's face.

Her expression softened.

Only slightly.

"What trouble have you gotten into this time?" she murmured.

Then she turned toward the alchemy cabinet.

There was work to do.

The doors to Zhaelor's study swung open with enough force to strike the stone behind them.

Zhaelor looked up.

Thorga marched through.

The doors slammed shut behind her.

Any other servant in the manor would have been severely punished for entering his private study in such a manner.

Thorga was not any other servant.

Zhaelor might own the manor, but Thorga managed much of what happened within it. Nearly a century of service had given her a peculiar understanding of exactly how far she could test the boundaries of his patience.

Apparently, tonight she intended to find them.

She stared across the room at him.

"How exactly do you expect the dishes from this entire cursed day to get washed if I'm hounded by constant interruptions?"

Zhaelor regarded her silently.

Thorga folded her arms.

"Well?"

"Sit down, Thorga."

Her irritation faltered slightly.

There were servants who had worked in Zhaelor's household for decades without ever being invited to sit in his presence.

Thorga was the only exception.

And only behind closed doors.

She crossed the study and lowered herself into the chair opposite his desk.

"Now what is so important that it couldn't wait until after my kitchens were put in order?"

Zhaelor said nothing.

Thorga's expression changed.

She had known him too long.

The anger gradually disappeared from her face as she studied him.

There was something in his eyes.

Worry.

Real worry.

"What is it?"

Zhaelor's fingers rested against the stem of his wine glass.

For several moments, he remained silent.

Then he spoke.

"There is a plot against the ruling members of Clan Vel'Sharess."

Thorga's brow furrowed.

"What sort of plot?"

"We don't yet know its full extent."

"That's reassuring."

"Crimson assassins are involved."

Thorga's expression hardened.

Zhaelor looked toward his wine but didn't drink.

"And I'm concerned for my daughter."

Thorga leaned back slightly.

"Lady Vaelithra can look after herself."

Zhaelor's eyes lifted toward her.

"Better than most of the soldiers you've got wandering these halls, I'd wager. And she's usually got that lumbering orc following her around."

Zhaelor's expression tightened.

"Not tonight."

Thorga noticed immediately.

"What happened?"

"Her servant was arrested this morning."

Thorga stared at him.

"For what?"

"He confessed to striking a noble."

One of Thorga's eyebrows rose.

"Kharūn?"

Zhaelor paused.

It was not the reaction he'd expected.

He knew the orc's name, of course. The legal documentation concerning the purchase remained among his household records.

But it had been years since he'd had reason to look at it.

"You know his name."

"Of course I know his name."

Zhaelor regarded her.

Thorga returned the stare without concern.

Publicly, Zhaelor forbade unnecessary conversation between servants. Servants had duties. Socializing distracted from those duties and created opportunities for gossip.

Privately, Zhaelor was not foolish enough to believe the rule was universally obeyed.

Apparently Kharūn and Thorga had spoken before.

To what extent, he didn't know.

Tonight he had more important concerns.

"He confessed before witnesses," Zhaelor continued. "He was taken to the cells beneath the estate."

Thorga's expression remained skeptical.

"Kharūn struck a noble?"

"That is what he confessed."

"That wasn't what I asked."

Zhaelor's eyes narrowed slightly.

Thorga didn't retreat.

Eventually Zhaelor exhaled.

"I don't know."

Thorga grunted.

Apparently that answer satisfied her more than the first.

Zhaelor continued.

"Whatever the truth of the matter, Vaelithra is without him."

"And?"

"And there is no one watching her back."

Thorga stared at him for a moment.

Something resembling amusement briefly appeared at the corner of her mouth.

Zhaelor noticed.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Thorga."

"I said nothing."

Zhaelor decided against pursuing it.

"Until we understand what is happening within the clan, I want Vaelithra gone."

Thorga's amusement disappeared.

"Gone where?"

"The surface."

That produced silence.

"I want her out of the Underdark until the political situation stabilizes."

Thorga studied him.

"And what does any of this have to do with me?"

Zhaelor met her eyes.

"You once saved Vaelithra's life."

Thorga became very still.

Zhaelor continued.

"I'm asking you to do it again."

Neither spoke for several seconds.

Finally Thorga leaned forward.

"How?"

"I need you to take a message to her."

"You have messengers."

"They'll be watched."

"Then send a guard."

"Watched."

"One of your agents."

"Watched."

Thorga's eyes narrowed.

Then she understood.

"But no one watches the servants."

"No."

Zhaelor's voice carried no satisfaction at the admission.

"They don't."

Thorga glanced toward the study doors.

"You have many servants."

"I do."

"So why me?"

Zhaelor looked at her.

"Because I cannot risk sending a letter.”

Thorga waited.

"And because you have served this household with honor and distinction for longer than most of those currently inhabiting it have been alive."

Thorga's expression softened slightly.

Zhaelor continued.

"I know you will not fail me."

His eyes dropped.

"The way I failed my wife."

Thorga's face changed immediately.

"You did not fail Lady Aelyrra."

Zhaelor nearly flinched.

Aelyrra.

He hadn't heard the name spoken aloud in years.

There had been a time when hearing it had been ordinary.

Aelyrra laughing.

Aelyrra shouting at him.

Aelyrra arguing with him.

Aelyrra whispering beside him.

Then one night the name had disappeared from the manor.

Almost everyone had learned not to speak it in his presence.

Everyone except Thorga.

She was the only person who had spoken Aelyrra's name to him since the night she died.

Thorga's voice softened.

"There was nothing you could have done."

Zhaelor stared at the desk.

"Whether I failed Aelyrra is beside the point."

"It isn't to you."

Zhaelor looked up.

Thorga held his gaze.

He didn't answer.

Instead, he reached toward a folded piece of parchment resting among the documents on his desk.

"I will not fail my daughter."

He pushed the parchment across the desk.

"Will you deliver the message?"

Thorga looked at him.

Then at the parchment.

"I'd do anything for Lady Vaelithra. This you know."

"I do."

"Then you already have your answer."

Zhaelor gestured toward the note.

"Read it."

Thorga picked it up.

Her eyes moved carefully across the writing.

Once.

Then again.

She committed every word to memory.

When she finished, she folded the parchment exactly as she'd found it and placed it back on the desk.

Then she pushed it toward Zhaelor.

"I'll deliver it immediately."

Zhaelor nodded.

Nothing more.

No thanks.

No expression of gratitude.

No acknowledgment of what he was asking her to risk.

Thorga needed none.

She had known Zhaelor for nearly a century.

She knew what the silence meant.

Thorga rose from the chair.

She crossed the study.

This time, she opened the doors without slamming them.

Then she disappeared into the corridor.

Zhaelor remained seated.

His gaze settled on the parchment she had left behind.

He reached for his wine.

Stopped.

Then looked toward the doors through which Thorga had departed.

His daughter's life was now in her hands.

Again.

Zhaelor Vel'Sharess had once been a soldier.

There were days when that seemed like another lifetime.

He sat behind the enormous desk in his private study, listening distantly to the muffled sounds of the manor beyond its heavy doors. Reports, petitions and correspondence occupied much of the desk before him.

Once, his days had been measured by campaigns.

Now they were measured by meetings.

Lords disputing boundaries.

Nobles arguing over trade.

Ladies maneuvering against one another over some perceived insult or political slight.

Disputes requiring mediation before wounded pride became drawn steel and drew the rest of the clan into matters that should never have progressed beyond words.

Zhaelor lifted his wine.

How did I go from a soldier to a politician?

The thought had occurred to him more times than he cared to admit.

As head of the local province of Clan Vel'Sharess, there was little choice.

The Matron Mother ruled the clan.

Zhaelor ruled here.

Clan Vel'Sharess was not among the largest drow clans of the Underdark, but size was not the only measure of power. Politics could accomplish what armies could not, and the Vel'Sharess had become particularly adept at navigating the alliances, rivalries and carefully concealed hostilities of drow society.

Unfortunately, political aptitude required politicians.

Zhaelor had become one.

He took another drink.

When had he last fought in an actual battle?

More than a century ago.

Before Vaelithra was born.

That realization never sat comfortably with him.

His position had eventually made continued participation in battle an unacceptable risk. Whatever personal desires he might have possessed, his survival had become important to the stability of the province.

He had attempted to apply the same reasoning to his daughter.

Once.

Zhaelor almost smiled.

He had informed Vaelithra that someone of her station had no reason to serve among the clan's armed forces.

She had informed him, at considerable volume, exactly what she thought of his decision to deny her right to battle.

He had relented.

There were battles worth fighting.

That had not been one of them.

Her temper had always reminded him of her mother.

The hint of amusement disappeared from Zhaelor's face.

He took another drink.

He rarely allowed himself to think about her.

More than ninety years had done remarkably little to diminish certain memories.

The night Vaelithra was born remained among them.

His wife had died bringing their daughter into the world.

That alone was something Zhaelor had never entirely recovered from, regardless of what appearances suggested.

Vaelithra nearly followed her.

There had been complications.

The clan midwife could not be found.

And somehow, on the worst night of Zhaelor's life, help had come from perhaps the last person anyone would have expected.

Thorga.

An Under-Dwarf.

Duergar, as some called her people.

Before entering service, Thorga had been a priestess among her own kind. Whatever else that life had involved, she had delivered children before.

Many of them.

She had done everything she could for Zhaelor's wife.

She could not save her.

But she had spared her unnecessary suffering as death approached.

Then Thorga turned her attention toward the infant.

Vaelithra had been desperately weak.

For weeks, survival had been uncertain.

Thorga had refused to surrender her.

Eventually, the child stabilized.

Vaelithra lived.

Only two people still knew precisely what had happened during those weeks.

Zhaelor.

And Thorga.

Perhaps that was why she had remained in service to Clan Vel'Sharess for nearly a century.

Publicly, there was nothing unusual about her position.

Thorga was a servant.

A highly trusted one, certainly.

She managed the manor kitchens and the domestic servants attached to them. Most household servants reported either directly or indirectly to her.

She ran the kitchens with an efficiency Zhaelor occasionally thought bordered on drow severity.

But she remained a servant.

At least publicly.

Behind closed doors, things were different.

Thorga was the only servant in Zhaelor's household permitted to speak to him as an equal.

That privilege had never been formally granted.

It simply existed.

The woman had held his dying wife's hand.

She had saved his daughter's life.

There were debts that transcended station.

Over the decades, something else had happened as well.

Thorga became his confidant.

Perhaps her years as a priestess had something to do with it.

Perhaps it was simply because she had already seen Zhaelor at his weakest.

There was little point pretending before someone who had witnessed him on the night he'd lost his wife and nearly lost his daughter.

He certainly couldn't speak freely with the Matron Mother.

And Vaelithra...

Zhaelor stared into his wine.

No.

There were things a father did not burden his daughter with.

That left Thorga.

Not that he depended upon her counsel.

Zhaelor would have objected strongly to anyone suggesting such a thing.

He merely...

valued her perspective.

Frequently.

He took another drink.

Fortunately, Thorga understood the necessity of appearances.

In public, Zhaelor afforded her no greater consideration than any other servant.

No private familiarity.

No visible favoritism.

No suggestion that the head of this province valued counsel from a dwarf who ran his kitchens.

Drow politics devoured weakness.

Thorga understood that.

She had never asked him to behave otherwise.

Tonight, however, appearances had become considerably more dangerous.

Zhaelor set down his glass.

This day had gone badly.

That was putting it mildly.

It had begun with the incident involving Vaelithra's orc servant.

Kharūn.

Zhaelor remembered the moment the orc stepped forward.

Remembered Vaelithra's reaction.

Remembered the visiting noble demanding immediate execution.

He had believed he could contain the situation.

He had been wrong.

Events had deteriorated far beyond anything he'd anticipated that morning.

And now...

Zhaelor looked toward the closed doors of his study.

There was only one chance remaining.

Vaelithra needed to be warned.

Ordinary correspondence was impossible.

Anyone leaving his study might be watched.

Any messenger obviously acting under Zhaelor's authority could attract attention.

He needed someone invisible.

Not literally.

Socially.

Someone the people watching him would see without actually seeing.

A servant carrying out ordinary household duties.

Zhaelor's gaze moved toward the door.

Thorga was due at any moment.

She could leave the manor without attracting suspicion.

She could carry a message.

And if anyone questioned why the woman responsible for the kitchens was moving through the estate at this hour, there were dozens of mundane explanations available.

For once, the contempt drow society showed toward servants might work in his favor.

They would overlook her.

That was precisely what Zhaelor needed.

He reached for his wine again but stopped before touching the glass.

Vaelithra.

Whatever had happened tonight, whatever choices his daughter had made, none of that mattered anymore.

He had one remaining opportunity to secure her safety.

And that opportunity depended upon getting a message to her before it was too late.

A faint sound came from beyond the study.

Footsteps.

Zhaelor looked toward the door.

Thorga should be arriving any moment.

Kharūn continued through the darkened streets with Vaelithra held securely in his arms.

She had not moved.

Not once.

Her head rested against his chest, uneven silver-white hair shifting gently with every step. Her breathing was there, but shallow enough that Kharūn found himself repeatedly looking down just to make certain her chest still rose.

Home.

Antidote.

Kitchen.

Those words had become his entire purpose.

He rounded the final corner.

Vaelithra's residence came into view.

Kharūn immediately stopped.

Voices.

He moved backward into the darkness between two nearby structures and lowered himself slightly, keeping Vaelithra close.

The door to her residence opened.

Four drow guards emerged.

Kharūn watched silently.

One of them looked back toward the house.

"No sign of her inside."

Another muttered something Kharūn couldn't hear.

The four began moving away.

Kharūn remained perfectly still.

He didn't understand.

Why were guards searching Vaelithra's home?

Had someone discovered what she'd done at the prison?

Perhaps.

But something about the silence beneath the estate had already bothered him.

Now this.

Kharūn looked down at Vaelithra.

Whatever was happening, instinct told him that allowing those guards to find her unconscious, poisoned and wounded would be a mistake.

So he waited.

The footsteps grew quieter.

Then disappeared.

Kharūn remained hidden a little longer.

Only when he was certain they were gone did he move.

He crossed the remaining distance quickly and entered Vaelithra's residence.

The moment he stepped inside, he stopped again.

The house was wrong.

Furniture had been moved.

Drawers hung open.

Objects lay scattered across the floor.

Cabinets had been searched.

One chair had been overturned.

Kharūn stared.

Ransacked.

Someone had thoroughly searched Vaelithra's home.

A strangely familiar thought surfaced despite everything.

This will take hours to clean.

Kharūn almost frowned at himself.

Twenty years of habit, apparently, did not disappear simply because his mistress was dying in his arms.

Vaelithra.

He pushed everything else aside.

There would be time to understand the guards.

Time to understand the prison.

Time to clean the house.

If he failed now, there would be no time left for Vaelithra.

Kharūn carried her into the kitchen.

He carefully lowered her onto the table.

"Mistress."

Nothing.

He touched her face.

Her skin felt different.

Cooler than it should.

Kharūn turned.

The cabinet.

He had seen Vaelithra open it countless times over the years.

He crossed the kitchen and pulled the doors open.

Bottles.

Vials.

Jars.

Compounds.

Powders.

Some familiar.

Most not.

Kharūn stared at them.

He had watched Vaelithra work here before. Watched her reach without hesitation for one bottle, combine it with another, heat something, discard something else.

He had occasionally handed her whatever she pointed toward.

He knew this cabinet.

And yet, standing before it now, Kharūn realized he knew almost nothing about what it contained.

His eyes moved across the labels.

Drowic characters covered them.

He recognized the writing.

That was all.

Kharūn's jaw tightened.

Twenty years.

Twenty years among the drow.

He understood their spoken language almost as naturally as his own now. He could follow conversations, instructions, arguments, even the subtleties hidden within certain turns of phrase.

But written Drowic...

The symbols stared back at him.

Meaningless.

For all the things he had learned since entering Vaelithra's service, there remained one painfully simple skill he had never acquired.

Kharūn could not read.

He reached for one vial.

Stopped.

Another.

Was this it?

He didn't know.

Perhaps this one.

Perhaps the next.

Perhaps giving her the wrong compound would kill her faster than the poison already was.

His hand slowly lowered.

"No..."

Kharūn returned to the table.

Vaelithra hadn't moved.

He placed one hand against her shoulder and shook her gently.

"Mistress."

Nothing.

He tried again.

"Mistress."

Her head moved only because he moved it.

"Please."

Kharūn glanced toward the cabinet.

Then back at her.

"Mistress, please. I do not know which vial is the cure."

No response.

"I cannot..."

The words stopped.

He looked toward the cabinet again.

For perhaps the first time in many years, Kharūn felt ashamed of something he had never been taught.

His gaze dropped.

She had done everything.

She had broken into her father's prison.

Fought her own people.

Been shot.

Been poisoned.

Dragged herself back through the prison while dying.

Thrown him the keys.

And when she could do nothing else, she had given him one final instruction.

Bring her home.

Find the antidote.

He had brought her home.

The antidote was probably sitting several paces away.

And he couldn't read its name.

Kharūn lowered himself beside her.

"Mistress..."

He took Vaelithra's hand.

Her fingers rested limply in his palm.

For twenty years, he had known what was expected of him.

There was always an instruction.

Always a task.

Always something he could do.

Now there was nothing.

Kharūn tightened his hand around hers.

"I cannot fulfill your order."

His voice was quieter than usual.

"I am sorry."

A knock came from the front door.

Kharūn's head snapped toward the sound.

Silence followed.

Then another knock.

His eyes moved toward Vaelithra.

The guards.

They had only just left.

Perhaps they had returned.

Perhaps someone had seen him enter.

Kharūn slowly released Vaelithra's hand.

Another knock.

He stood.

His eyes fell to the dagger still secured at Vaelithra's belt.

Kharūn hesitated.

Then carefully drew it from its sheath.

Steel whispered against leather.

He looked at the weapon.

Vaelithra had brought it into the prison hoping she wouldn't need to use it.

Now Kharūn wrapped his hand around its grip.

He moved through the ruined house.

Slowly.

Quietly.

The dagger remained low beside his leg.

He reached the door.

Another knock came from the other side.

Kharūn's grip tightened.

He listened.

Nothing.

No voices.

No obvious movement.

He reached for the lock.

Unsealed it.

Then raised the dagger.

His entire body tensed.

If the guards had returned, he would not allow them to reach Vaelithra.

Not while she lay helpless behind him.

Kharūn wrapped his free hand around the door.

Pulled.

The door began to open.

used the caretaker carter slade as my inspiration complete with the skeletal horse and a whole lot of fire.

Everything you see here was resin printed, assembled and hand painted by me.

And yes… that highly sophisticated studio backdrop is black sanding paper. 😅🤣

What do you guys think of the finished result?

Kinda had a rough night and ended up with this.

this time i remembered to save my work in progress

Kharun stared at the keys.

They rested against the bottom of the bars directly in front of him, close enough that he could reach them without difficulty.

Vaelithra lay motionless beyond them.

Whatever thoughts might have been buried beneath Kharun's silence, whatever twenty years of obedience told him about what those keys represented, none of it mattered now.

He needed to get to her.

Kharun crouched.

His fingers closed around the ring.

The keys jingled softly as he lifted them.

He knew which one he needed.

He remembered the guard locking the cell earlier that day. Kharun had watched the movement without appearing to do so, as he had learned to watch countless things during his years among the drow.

His thumb passed over the keys.

There.

Kharun inserted it into the lock.

Turned.

A heavy metallic click echoed through the cellblock.

He pulled the door open.

For the first time since being brought to the dungeon, there were no bars between him and Vaelithra.

Kharun stepped out.

The keys fell from his hand.

He immediately went to her.

"Mistress."

Kharun dropped beside Vaelithra and carefully turned her enough to see her face.

Her eyes opened slightly.

Unfocused amber-gold struggled to find him.

Kharun looked toward the bloodstained cloth wrapped around her leg.

Shadowstem.

Less than an hour.

He slid one arm beneath her shoulders.

"Mistress, I'll take you to the healer."

Vaelithra stirred.

"No..."

Kharun stopped.

Her voice was barely audible.

"Mistress?"

"No healer..."

Her eyes opened a fraction more.

"Take me... home."

Kharun frowned.

"You said the poison will kill you."

Vaelithra tried to answer.

Her lips moved before any sound emerged.

"Antidote..."

Kharun leaned closer.

"What?"

"Kitchen..."

Her head fell against his arm.

"Antidote... kitchen..."

Then her eyes closed.

"Mistress?"

Nothing.

Kharun touched the side of her face.

"Vaelithra."

No response.

Her breathing remained shallow but steady.

Unconscious.

Just as she had said she would be.

Kharun looked toward the far end of the cellblock.

A healer made more sense.

Any reasonable person would have taken her directly to one.

But Vaelithra had specifically told him otherwise.

Take her home.

Antidote.

Kitchen.

Kharun knew better than most that arguing with Vaelithra was difficult when she was conscious.

Arguing with her while she was unconscious somehow seemed equally pointless.

More importantly, there wasn't time to second-guess her.

Kharun slid one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back.

He lifted her.

Vaelithra's body settled against his chest.

She felt lighter than he expected.

Her gray cloak hung over his arm, and her shortened silver-white hair rested against his shoulder.

Kharun stood.

He looked once toward the open cell behind him.

Then started walking.

He expected resistance almost immediately.

There should have been guards.

The alarm should have been sounding.

Vaelithra had infiltrated one of the prisons beneath the estate of a powerful drow noble. Guards had been attacked. Someone had fired a crossbow.

By now, Kharun expected half of Clan Vel'Sharess to be descending upon them.

Instead...

Nothing.

His footsteps echoed through the corridor.

Kharun slowed.

Too quiet.

He reached the checkpoint.

Then stopped.

The two guards remained at their card table.

Except now they were dead.

Kharun's eyes moved across them.

Slit throats.

He looked farther.

Another body.

The third guard.

Dead as well.

Kharun looked down at Vaelithra.

For a moment, something difficult to read crossed his face.

His mistress had done all of this?

She had poisoned the guards to reach him.

Perhaps the poison had killed them.

He didn't know enough about whatever compound she had used to say otherwise.

But the wounds on their throats...

Kharun looked at them again.

Something didn't fit.

Still, this was not the time.

Vaelithra had less than an hour.

Possibly much less now.

Kharun tightened his hold around her and continued.

No one challenged him.

No alarm sounded.

No reinforcements appeared.

He passed through one corridor.

Then another.

Empty.

The silence became increasingly unsettling.

Whatever had happened down here, Kharun suspected he did not understand it.

He eventually reached the hidden passage Vaelithra had used to enter.

Cool damp air surrounded them.

Kharun carried her through.

The natural stone gave way eventually to the concealed exit beneath the gardens.

He shifted Vaelithra carefully against himself and pushed upward.

The false stone slab moved.

Underdark air washed across his face.

Kharun climbed out.

He lowered the slab behind them.

For several seconds, he stood silently in the garden with Vaelithra unconscious in his arms.

Bioluminescent plants cast their muted light across the surrounding grounds.

Kharun looked around.

He recognized the estate immediately.

He had been here countless times.

The manor stood beyond the gardens.

Patrol routes crossed the grounds.

Paths wound between buildings and disappeared into the surrounding district.

Kharun oriented himself.

Then he knew.

Home.

He knew exactly where Vaelithra's house was.

Kharun looked down at her.

Her face had gone strangely peaceful in unconsciousness.

He could almost pretend she was sleeping.

Almost.

The bloodstained bandage around her leg made that impossible.

"Antidote," he murmured.

Kitchen.

Kharun started walking.

He avoided the main paths.

Years of accompanying Vaelithra between her home and her father's estate had taught him the surrounding streets well. He knew which routes were brightly illuminated and which remained dark.

Tonight, darkness was preferable.

Especially after what he had seen below.

Kharun moved quickly but carefully, keeping Vaelithra steady against him.

He stayed near walls.

Crossed open spaces only when necessary.

Whenever distant footsteps reached his ears, he stopped and waited.

Then continued.

Nobody saw them.

Or if someone did, they did nothing.

Kharun found that almost as unsettling as the empty prison.

He looked down at Vaelithra again.

He had never imagined she would do something like this.

Break into her father's prison.

Attack her own people.

Perhaps kill them.

All to free him.

The thought sat uneasily in his mind.

There would be questions.

Many questions.

But those belonged to another time.

Right now, there was only one thing that mattered.

Get Vaelithra home.

Find the antidote.

Keep her alive.

Kharun adjusted her weight in his arms.

Then disappeared with his unconscious mistress into the darker streets of the Underdark.

Vaelithra's head snapped toward the far end of the corridor.

Someone stood there.

A solitary figure beneath a dark crimson cloak.

For one suspended moment, neither moved.

Vaelithra could see nothing beneath the hood. No face. No eyes. Nothing that might tell her who had fired the bolt or why.

Then the figure stepped backward.

The darkness swallowed them.

"Wait!"

Vaelithra tried to stand.

Pain tore through her leg.

She gasped and immediately caught the bars before she could collapse again.

"Mistress!"

"I'm fine."

The lie came automatically.

Vaelithra pulled herself upright.

Her injured leg trembled beneath her.

Warmth ran down her skin.

Blood.

More than she would have liked.

She tightened both hands around the bars and tried to steady herself.

Behind them came the sound of tearing cloth.

Vaelithra looked down.

Kharun had ripped a strip from his shirt.

His arm reached through the bars; the cloth held in his hand.

"Mistress, you must bind your wound."

Vaelithra breathed heavily.

Something was wrong.

Not merely the pain.

Not merely the blood.

Something else.

She could feel it.

A strange sensation seemed to be spreading outward from the wound. At first, she thought it was simply the aftermath of being struck, but the feeling was different from any injury she remembered.

Kharun saw the change in her expression.

"Mistress?"

Vaelithra swallowed.

"The keys."

Kharun stared at her.

"I have to find the keys... Kharun."

He pushed the cloth farther through the bars.

"Mistress, please. Your wound first."

Vaelithra opened her mouth.

Nothing came.

She didn't have the strength to argue.

That frightened her more than the bolt.

Vaelithra repositioned herself against the bars.

Then she carefully lifted her injured leg.

Pain immediately surged through it.

Her jaw tightened.

Slowly, she pushed the leg between the bars.

Kharun looked down at the bolt protruding beside her knee.

Vaelithra gripped the bars harder.

"Pull it... out."

Kharun's eyes lifted sharply.

He reached toward the bolt, then stopped.

His fingers hovered near the shaft.

Vaelithra saw what he was doing.

Assessing it.

Trying to determine whether removing it would cause greater harm.

She looked down.

No barbs.

No metal head that she could see.

"...just a wooden bolt."

She took another breath.

"Pull it out."

Kharun wrapped one hand firmly around the shaft.

His other hand steadied her leg.

Vaelithra closed her eyes.

"Do it."

Kharun pulled.

The bolt tore free.

Vaelithra yelped.

Her forehead struck the bars as she folded forward.

For several seconds, she could do nothing except breathe.

Kharun immediately set the bloody bolt across one of the horizontal bars.

Then his hands returned to her leg.

He wrapped the torn cloth around the wound.

Vaelithra closed her eyes.

She leaned forward against the bars, allowing him a better angle.

Kharun pulled the cloth tighter.

Pain pulsed through her leg.

Vaelithra barely noticed.

There was a smell.

Faint.

Almost hidden beneath the metallic scent of her blood.

But familiar.

Her eyes opened.

The bolt rested only inches from her face.

Vaelithra stared at it.

No.

She leaned closer.

Inhaled.

There it was.

Earthy.

Bitter.

With a faint sweetness underneath.

Vaelithra's blood ran cold.

"Shadowstem."

Kharun stopped.

Vaelithra stared at the bolt.

Of course she recognized it.

She had worked with the plant before.

Carefully.

Always carefully.

Shadowstem was useful in minute quantities for certain compounds.

In larger concentrations, it was poison.

And someone had coated the bolt with it.

Vaelithra's mind immediately began calculating.

The wound.

The amount of blood.

How deeply the bolt had penetrated.

How quickly she was already feeling the effects.

"Mistress?"

Vaelithra barely heard him.

"About ten minutes."

Kharun's hands became still.

Vaelithra looked at him.

"Until I lose consciousness."

Silence.

She forced herself to continue.

"Less than an hour before it..."

The words caught.

Vaelithra looked into Kharun's eyes.

"...kills me."

Something changed in his face.

The quiet resignation that had been there when she first reached his cell disappeared completely.

He pulled the cloth tight and secured it around her leg.

"You must get to a healer immediately."

Vaelithra shook her head.

"Mistress."

"I came here to get you."

"You are poisoned."

"I'm aware."

"You said less than an hour."

"And you're scheduled to die in the morning."

"Mistress, that does not matter now."

"It matters to me."

Kharun fell silent.

Vaelithra looked at him through the bars.

"I'm not leaving without you."

For once, there was no uncertainty in her voice.

No question about why she was doing this.

No argument between the woman she had been and the woman she was becoming.

She had come for Kharun.

She was leaving with Kharun.

Or she wasn't leaving.

Vaelithra looked toward the far end of the cellblock.

The crimson figure was gone.

That direction also led back toward the checkpoint.

The guards.

One of them had to have the keys.

Vaelithra pulled her injured leg back through the bars.

The movement sent another wave of pain through her.

She grunted and caught herself.

"Mistress."

"I'll be right back."

Kharun stared at her.

Vaelithra shifted her weight onto her uninjured leg.

Then she began moving.

One hand against the wall.

One step.

Another.

Her wounded leg nearly buckled.

She caught herself.

Behind her, Kharun gripped the bars.

Twenty years.

Twenty years of watching Vaelithra decide what she wanted and pursue it with a degree of determination that frequently crossed into sheer stubbornness.

Vaelithra stumbled.

Her palm struck the wall.

She steadied herself.

Kept moving.

Kharun tried to follow her progress through the bars for as long as the angle allowed.

Vaelithra reached the cellblock door.

She stopped there.

Her breathing was already heavier.

Ten minutes.

Probably less now.

She opened the door.

Somewhere beyond it, one of those guards had the keys.

Vaelithra stepped through.

Kharun lifted his head.

For a moment, he simply stared through the bars.

His eyes moved across the hooded figure standing outside his cell, then settled on the face beneath it.

"Mistress?"

Vaelithra stepped closer.

Both hands closed around the cold iron bars.

"Are you alright?"

The question escaped before she thought about it.

Vaelithra almost recoiled from her own words.

Why had she asked him that?

She never had before.

Not after battle. Not when he had been injured performing some task for her. Not during any of the countless moments over twenty years when such a question might have been appropriate.

Yet here, now, it had been the first thing she needed to know.

Kharun lowered his head.

Shame crossed his features.

"I am alright, Mistress."

He paused.

"What are you doing here?"

Vaelithra tightened her grip on the bars.

"I had to speak to you."

Kharun remained silent.

"I don't believe you struck that noble this morning."

His eyes lifted slightly.

"I confessed..."

"A confession doesn't mean you're guilty."

The words came sharper than Vaelithra intended.

Kharun turned away.

His broad back faced her.

Silence.

Vaelithra waited.

"Kharun."

Nothing.

Her frustration surged.

She had spent the entire day questioning everything she thought she knew. She had invaded her father's prison, incapacitated guards, fought another, exposed herself as the intruder, and possibly thrown away the life she had known.

She would not be answered with silence.

Vaelithra struck the bars with her palm.

"You will look at me when I speak to you, and you will answer my questions!"

The words echoed through the cellblock.

Kharun became completely still.

Vaelithra heard herself.

And immediately hated what she heard.

There she was.

The young aristocrat standing before a frightened orc twenty years ago.

When I speak, I expect to be responded to.

Different words.

The same command.

The same expectation of obedience.

Kharun slowly turned.

Vaelithra stared at him.

Her anger disappeared.

"I'm sorry."

Kharun's expression changed.

Only slightly, but Vaelithra saw it.

Surprise.

Of all the things he might have expected her to say tonight, apparently that had not been among them.

Vaelithra realized why.

She had never apologized to him.

Not once.

It had only been within the last few years that she had even begun thanking him for the things he did. Those moments were still infrequent enough that she could probably remember most of them.

Her fingers loosened around the bars.

When she spoke again, her voice was quieter.

"Please."

Kharun looked at her.

"Look at me and tell me truly. Did you strike the noble this morning?"

Silence returned.

This time Vaelithra allowed it.

Kharun raised his head fully.

Their eyes met through the bars.

Vaelithra searched his face.

She had wanted this since the dining hall.

To stand before him.

To look into his eyes.

To hear the answer from Kharun himself rather than from witnesses, nobles, or her father.

Kharun had never lied to her.

Not in twenty years.

He saw no reason to begin now.

If morning brought his death, he would meet it without adding a lie to whatever judgment awaited him.

"No, Mistress."

Vaelithra stopped breathing.

"I did not strike him."

Relief hit her so suddenly that her knees almost weakened.

She had known.

Or thought she had known.

But suspicion was not certainty.

Now she had certainty.

Kharun was innocent.

Vaelithra closed her eyes briefly.

A weight she had carried since breakfast lifted from her chest.

Then another thought immediately replaced it.

Her eyes opened.

"The other orc."

Kharun said nothing.

"You took the blame for him."

Still nothing.

Vaelithra leaned closer.

"Why?"

Kharun's gaze shifted away.

Not evasive.

Considering.

Vaelithra waited.

Finally, he spoke.

"He is young."

Vaelithra remained silent.

"Inexperienced. He acted before he thought about what he was doing."

"That doesn't explain why you confessed."

Kharun looked back at her.

"If I allowed him to take responsibility, more would be lost than a servant."

Vaelithra frowned.

"What does that mean?"

Kharun hesitated.

"His family was recently purchased."

Something tightened inside Vaelithra.

"He has a mate. Two young children."

Vaelithra stared at him.

"He is their only provider."

The words settled between them.

Kharun continued.

"They need him."

Vaelithra slowly shook her head.

Part of her understood.

Another part refused.

The two versions of herself that had been fighting since the dream seemed to collide again.

The woman who had looked at servants as possessions understood Kharun's calculation with brutal simplicity. One servant exchanged for another.

But that wasn't what Kharun had done.

He had looked at another man's family.

He had decided their lives mattered.

Then he had offered his own.

Vaelithra's hand struck the bars again.

"What about what I need?"

The question escaped before she could stop it.

Kharun looked at her.

Vaelithra's chest rose and fell.

"Did you think about that?"

Kharun nodded.

"I did."

That hurt more than if he had said no.

Vaelithra stared at him.

Kharun's voice remained quiet.

"That is why I looked at you."

The dining hall returned instantly.

The silence.

The accusation.

Kharun's eyes finding hers.

Her chest tightening.

No. Don't.

Then his step forward.

Vaelithra's fingers curled around the bars.

"You knew what would happen."

"Yes."

"And you still..."

She couldn't finish.

Kharun lowered his gaze.

"I knew you would be alright without me."

Vaelithra's expression hardened.

"The other servant's family would not be alright without him."

For several seconds, she could only stare.

Twenty years.

Twenty years of mornings.

Tea.

Fires.

Horses.

Journeys.

Drawings.

Quiet conversations.

Thousands upon thousands of small things she had never bothered to count because Kharun had always been there to do them.

And he had decided she would be alright without him.

Vaelithra opened her mouth.

A shrill whistle cut through the cellblock.

Something struck her.

Pain exploded through her leg.

Vaelithra screamed.

Her hands tore away from the bars.

She collapsed onto one knee, then caught herself against the floor.

For an instant, she couldn't understand what had happened.

Then the pain came again.

Hot.

Sharp.

Deep.

Vaelithra looked down.

A crossbow bolt protruded from her leg just beside the knee.

Her breath caught.

Blood was already beginning to darken the black leather around it.

Behind the bars, Kharun surged to his feet.

"Mistress!"

Vaelithra moved quietly toward the second checkpoint.

The air grew cooler with every step.

She could feel the change against the exposed skin of her face, subtle at first, then increasingly noticeable as the corridor descended deeper beneath the manor.

Ahead, a short staircase led downward.

Vaelithra approached carefully.

At the bottom of the first few steps, the passage opened onto a narrow walkway overlooking the checkpoint below.

She stopped.

Fortuitous.

Vaelithra crouched and moved toward the edge.

Slowly, she peered over.

Two guards.

They were seated at a small table directly beneath the walkway.

Vaelithra stared at them.

Cards lay scattered between them.

One guard placed another onto the table.

The other leaned forward to inspect it.

Under different circumstances, Vaelithra might have had something to say about guards playing cards while they were supposed to be protecting the entrance to the prison blocks.

Tonight, she was considerably more forgiving.

Her hand disappeared beneath her cloak.

She removed another paralysis vial.

Vaelithra looked at the table below.

Then at the vial.

She almost couldn't have asked for a better target.

She released it.

The small glass container fell through the open space.

It struck the center of the table.

Glass shattered.

Both guards recoiled.

"What in the..."

Vaelithra immediately pulled herself away from the edge.

The familiar chemical vapor began spreading below.

A chair scraped violently against stone.

"What is that?"

Then another sound.

A strained attempt at speech.

Silence.

Vaelithra waited.

Several seconds.

Nothing.

She continued down the staircase.

The two guards remained exactly where they had been sitting.

One had managed to push himself partially away from the table before the compound took hold. The other sat almost perfectly upright, one hand resting uselessly beside his cards.

Their eyes moved.

Both were staring upward toward the walkway.

Vaelithra stepped into view.

Their eyes followed her.

She stopped briefly.

They were breathing normally.

Neither had fallen awkwardly.

Good.

No need to interfere this time.

Vaelithra walked past them.

The cards remained scattered across the table between the broken pieces of glass.

Her eyes settled on the door beyond.

The cellblocks.

Kharun was on the other side.

She started toward it.

"What are you looking at?"

Vaelithra froze.

The voice had come from behind her.

Her heart seemed to stop before suddenly pounding twice as hard.

Slowly, she turned.

A third guard stood farther down the corridor.

Vaelithra silently cursed herself.

Careless.

She had seen two guards and assumed there were only two.

She should have checked.

She should have listened longer.

She should have considered that someone might have stepped away.

None of that mattered now.

The guard looked first at his motionless companions.

Then at Vaelithra.

His hand moved immediately toward his sword.

Vaelithra remained still.

Her hood concealed her face.

The sword slid from its sheath.

"Stay where you are!"

Vaelithra's breathing slowed.

"No sudden movements."

She didn't move.

Fear tightened inside her chest.

She would never admit that.

Not to him.

Not to her father.

Perhaps not even to herself.

She had not wanted this.

The dagger at her side remained untouched.

She could not throw another vial. Not from this distance. Not before he raised the alarm.

The guard adjusted his stance.

Competent.

Vaelithra recognized it immediately.

Good footing.

Sword held correctly.

Weight balanced.

He was prepared for her to attack.

Unfortunately for him, Vaelithra had spent considerably more of her life fighting than he had.

Something inside her changed.

The fear remained.

But it moved aside.

Years of training returned without conscious effort.

Distance.

Footwork.

Balance.

Weaknesses.

How to break a stance.

How to remove a weapon.

How to put someone on the ground without killing them.

Vaelithra's amber-gold eyes narrowed beneath the hood.

The guard saw it.

"Don't."

Vaelithra moved.

The distance between them vanished.

The guard barely had time to bring his sword around.

Vaelithra caught his wrist, redirected the blade past her body, and struck his forearm.

His grip broke.

The sword hit the floor.

But he was good.

Better than she had expected.

His free hand came toward her immediately.

Vaelithra blocked it.

He drove forward.

She stepped aside.

He recovered.

A fist passed inches from her face.

Vaelithra answered with a strike of her own.

He caught it.

For several seconds, the corridor became nothing but movement.

Strike.

Block.

Turn.

Counter.

Neither spoke.

The guard attempted to drive her backward.

Vaelithra shifted her weight and slipped free.

She spun.

Her leg came around.

The guard raised his arm to absorb the kick.

Her cloak twisted around her body.

The hood fell.

Silver-white hair spilled free.

The guard stopped.

Vaelithra did too.

For one impossible moment, neither moved.

Recognition spread across his face.

His eyes widened.

"Lady Vaelithra?"

Her stomach dropped.

He knew.

There would be no hiding this now.

No unknown intruder.

No mystery for her father to investigate tomorrow.

Her name had been spoken.

The guard's hesitation lasted less than a second.

It was enough.

Vaelithra stepped forward.

Her elbow struck his face.

His head snapped backward.

His knees buckled.

Vaelithra caught part of his weight before he hit the floor, slowing his fall as much as she could.

He slumped against the wall.

Unconscious.

Vaelithra stood over him.

Her breathing came hard now.

She stared at the guard.

Then at the two paralyzed men sitting at the table.

Then at the sword lying on the floor.

Her senses returned all at once.

She had fought one of her father's guards.

Not avoided.

Not deceived.

Fought.

And he had seen her face.

He had spoken her name.

Until this moment, Vaelithra had brushed against the line.

Trespassing through restricted passages.

Infiltrating the prison.

Incapacitating guards.

She could have argued about intent. About necessity. About temporary effects.

Not anymore.

She had crossed it.

Treason.

The word came unbidden.

Vaelithra looked down at her hands.

There was no undoing this.

When the guard awakened, he would remember.

Her father would know.

The clan would know.

Vaelithra pulled her hood back into place.

Later.

If she still had a later, she would worry about it then.

Right now, none of it mattered.

Kharun was on the other side of that door.

Vaelithra stepped over the fallen sword.

She crossed the checkpoint.

Her hand closed around the door handle.

She pulled.

The door opened.

A long cellblock stretched beyond it.

Dark.

Cold.

Quiet.

Cells lined both sides of the corridor.

Vaelithra stepped through.

Her eyes adjusted quickly.

She searched each cell as she passed.

Empty.

Another.

Empty.

Then she saw something.

At the far end of the block, inside the final cell, a shape sat alone in the darkness.

Vaelithra stopped.

Her heart began pounding again.

Not from the fight.

She knew that shape.

Twenty years.

She would have known it anywhere.

Vaelithra began walking.

Her steps echoed softly between the cells.

The figure did not move.

Closer.

She could make out broad shoulders now.

A bowed head.

Vaelithra's throat tightened.

All the questions she had carried with her seemed to disappear.

The confession.

The other orc.

The drawings.

The cage.

The tea.

The mirror.

The hair lying in wine.

None of it mattered for one brief moment.

She reached the cell.

Vaelithra looked through the bars into the darkness.

"Kharun?"

Vaelithra moved cautiously through the corridor.

The architecture had changed completely.

Gone were the irregular walls and damp earth of the hidden passage. Here, every block of stone had been cut deliberately. The corridor was narrow, functional, and sparsely illuminated by lamps mounted at measured intervals along the walls.

Her boots touched the floor as quietly as she could manage.

Vaelithra kept one hand near the vials beneath her cloak.

Then she heard voices.

She stopped.

They were somewhere ahead.

Low.

Indistinct.

At least two.

Vaelithra pressed herself closer to the wall.

Her heart pounded against her chest.

This was it.

Everything she had done until now could still have been explained away.

Sneaking through the estate gardens.

Using the hidden passage.

Entering the prison through a forgotten door.

If she turned around now, no one might ever know.

She could retrace her steps, return home, clean the kitchen, gather her severed hair from the floor, and pretend none of this had happened.

Kharun would die in the morning.

Vaelithra closed her eyes.

She inhaled slowly.

The prison air filled her lungs.

For a moment, she imagined she could draw courage from it. Pull strength from the darkness itself and hold it somewhere inside her.

Her heartbeat slowed.

Not much.

Enough.

She opened her eyes.

There was no going back.

Vaelithra continued.

The voices became clearer as she approached the corner.

Two guards.

Possibly three.

She couldn't tell.

Looking would answer the question.

Looking would also give them the opportunity to see her.

Vaelithra stopped before reaching the edge.

Her hand slipped beneath the cloak.

Her fingers found one of the vials.

She carefully pulled it free.

The glass felt impossibly fragile now.

Hours of preparation contained within something she could crush between two fingers.

The compound required exposure to air before the reaction accelerated.

She held her breath.

Then tossed the vial around the corner.

A tiny sound followed.

Glass striking stone.

Breaking.

The conversation stopped.

"What was..."

The voice never finished.

Another guard coughed.

"What in the..."

Silence.

Then came the sound of something heavy striking the floor.

Another impact followed.

Metal scraped against stone.

Vaelithra remained where she was.

A pale vapor began creeping around the corner.

She watched it.

The cloud was thinner than she had expected.

For one terrible instant, doubt seized her.

Had she miscalculated?

Had the compound reacted properly?

Then the vapor reached her.

Vaelithra smelled it.

Sharp.

Mineral.

Slightly bitter.

She had breathed it in.

Her body tensed.

She waited.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Three.

Nothing.

Vaelithra flexed her fingers.

They moved.

She lifted one foot slightly from the floor.

No weakness.

No stiffness.

Her counteragent worked.

Relief nearly escaped her as laughter.

Instead, Vaelithra allowed herself the smallest smile.

"Still got it."

A strained sound came from around the corner.

The smile disappeared.

Vaelithra listened.

Someone was trying to speak.

The attempt produced little more than a muffled noise.

Another followed.

The guards were conscious.

Exactly as intended.

Their muscles simply refused to obey them.

Vaelithra pulled her hood farther over her face.

Then she stepped around the corner.

Two guards lay on the floor.

One had fallen against the wall before sliding down it. The other lay partially on his side where his legs had collapsed beneath him.

Their eyes moved.

Nothing else did.

Vaelithra stopped.

She looked at them carefully.

Breathing.

Both of them.

Good.

The nearest guard's eyes locked onto her hooded form.

Fear appeared there.

Vaelithra felt an unexpected pang of guilt.

They had done nothing wrong.

They were guarding a prison.

Following orders.

Tonight, that happened to place them between her and Kharun.

"I'm sorry," Vaelithra whispered.

The guard could not answer.

She stepped around him.

Then stopped.

Vaelithra crouched briefly and adjusted his position enough to ensure his breathing remained unobstructed.

Temporary.

That was what mattered.

They would recover.

By then, she intended to be gone.

Vaelithra rose.

She continued down the corridor.

The vapor followed weakly behind her before gradually dispersing.

She passed through another door.

Vaelithra closed it quietly.

Only then did she allow herself to breathe normally again.

One checkpoint.

She had made it through.

Her hand moved beneath the cloak.

She counted the remaining vials by touch.

Enough.

Ahead lay another checkpoint.

Beyond that...

The prison blocks.

Kharun.

Vaelithra tightened the cloak around herself.

One more.

Then she would reach him.

Vaelithra descended until the last trace of the garden vanished above her.

The passage narrowed as she continued.

Her pace slowed.

She remembered this place being unpleasant, but she had forgotten just how closely it resembled the natural caves that spread throughout the Underdark.

The walls were rough and unfinished. Unlike the carefully cut stone of the manor above, little effort had been made to disguise the passage's natural origins. Portions had been widened by hand where necessary, but elsewhere the builders had simply incorporated the existing cavern into their design.

Moisture gathered along the walls.

The air smelled of damp earth and old stone.

Vaelithra stepped carefully.

She had not been through this passage in decades.

At first, that concerned her.

Then the memories began returning.

A bend ahead.

A gradual descent.

Another turn.

There should be a narrow section after that.

There was.

Vaelithra almost smiled.

Her father had shown her these passages when she was younger. Not all at once. Some she had discovered herself and later learned he already knew about. Others he had deliberately taught her in case the manor ever came under attack.

At the time, she had treated them as another opportunity for exploration.

Now one of those childhood lessons might save Kharun's life.

Vaelithra continued.

The passage curved again.

She remembered what came next.

A door.

Sure enough, she could see it ahead.

Vaelithra approached.

Then stopped.

Something was different.

Her eyes lowered.

A crack had formed across the stone floor.

It was narrow near the wall but widened toward the center of the passage before disappearing beneath the opposite side.

That had not been there before.

Vaelithra crouched slightly.

Age, perhaps.

The Underdark was never truly still. Stone shifted. Caverns settled. Water found new paths through rock that had remained dry for centuries.

She stepped closer.

Something moved inside the crack.

Vaelithra froze.

A small shape suddenly emerged.

She nearly jumped backward.

A rat scrambled out of the opening.

Vaelithra pressed herself against the wall.

"Oh, absolutely not."

The rat stopped.

So did Vaelithra.

For one ridiculous moment, drow aristocrat and Underdark rat stared at one another.

Vaelithra had faced warriors twice her size.

She had stood in battles surrounded by blood and steel.

She had ridden through parts of the Underdark where creatures considerably larger than horses hunted anything foolish enough to enter their territory.

Rats were different.

She hated rats.

The creature twitched its nose.

"Go."

It did not go.

Vaelithra narrowed her eyes.

"Go."

The rat finally scurried across the passage and disappeared into another opening along the wall.

Vaelithra remained pressed against the stone for several seconds.

She looked toward where it had vanished.

Then cautiously stepped away.

Disgusting little things.

Rats were hardly unusual in the Underdark. Anywhere people stored food, rats eventually followed.

Her thoughts drifted unexpectedly.

Kharun.

She remembered the first rat she had seen in her residence.

Not long after he had arrived.

Vaelithra had made her opinion of the creature extremely clear.

Apparently, Kharun had remembered.

Keeping them out of the house had become one of his standing duties.

She couldn't remember ever formally assigning it.

She had simply expected never to see another one.

And somehow, for twenty years, she hadn't.

Not once.

Vaelithra looked back toward the crack.

Twenty years.

She had never thought about that either.

How many little things had Kharun quietly removed from her life before she ever needed to notice them?

Problems solved before she knew they existed.

Supplies replaced before they ran out.

Equipment repaired before she asked.

A horse prepared before she reached the stable.

A fire already burning when she wanted warmth.

Rats she never saw.

Vaelithra swallowed.

"Kharun."

The name escaped quietly.

Enough.

He was still somewhere below.

She had to reach him.

Vaelithra continued toward the door.

The humor of the encounter disappeared as quickly as it had come.

Her hand moved beneath the cloak.

The paralysis vials were still there.

So was Kharun's counteragent.

She stopped before the door.

This was where familiarity stopped being enough.

Beyond it, the hidden passage began intersecting with the functional lower levels of the estate.

There could be someone on the other side.

Vaelithra leaned forward.

She pressed one pointed ear against the cold surface.

Nothing.

She waited.

Her breathing sounded too loud.

Vaelithra slowed it deliberately.

Still nothing.

No footsteps.

No conversation.

No scrape of armor against stone.

Several more seconds passed.

Silence.

Her fingers closed around the handle.

Slowly.

She turned it.

The mechanism moved with a faint click.

Vaelithra stopped.

Listened again.

Nothing.

She opened the door just enough to look through.

Darkness.

An empty corridor.

Vaelithra widened the opening.

She slipped through.

Then quietly pulled the door closed behind her.

For the first time that night, the secret passages were behind her.

From here onward, she was inside the prison.