Chapter 1 

Mikana

The silence in Lord Malakor’s vault is a living thing. It has a weight and a texture, pressing in on me from the cold, grey stone walls. It smells of dust, oiled metal, and the faint, cloying sweetness of dried blood that never quite scrubs clean from ancient relics. My fingers, stained with ink at the tips, hover over the vellum ledger. The quill between them is a sliver of bone from some creature I’m better off not identifying.

Before me, resting on a cushion of black velvet, is today’s task.

It’s a heart. Not a real one, of course. Malakor prefers his horrors to be everlasting. This one is carved from a single piece of zanthenite, the deep, ruby-red gemstone catching the sterile, magical light and pulsing with a slow, sickening rhythm. It’s a masterpiece of the Zagfer caste, no doubt. The artisan probably lost his mind carving the intricate web of veins that wrap around its surface, each one thinner than a strand of my own dark hair. The magic thrumming from it is old and layered with pain. A low, constant hum of misery that makes the teeth in my jaw ache.

My job is not to feel. It is to observe, to document, to catalog. I dip the quill into the pot of ink, the scratching sound unnaturally loud in the tomb-like quiet.

Item #734, I write, my script precise and devoid of flourish. Exactly as he taught me. Source: Acquired from the ruins of the Milthian Stronghold following the Pacification of the Southern Isles.

“Pacification.” That’s the word he used. I remember the report from his Miou commander. The words spoke of honor and a necessary culling. The bloodstains on the commander’s armor told a different story.

I lean closer, my breath misting in the frigid air. The zanthenite heart is not the true artifact. The artifact is the cage of silver wires that contains it, a delicate lattice-work that seems to grow out of the velvet cushion. The wires are fused to the gem, digging into it like hungry roots. At the apex of the cage, where the wires twist together, sits a small, black pearl that seems to drink the light from the room.

That’s where the real magic is coming from. The cage isn’t meant to protect the heart. It’s meant to squeeze it.

Description: A zanthenite carving in the shape of a minotaur’s heart, held within a silver-strung containment cage. The cage is affixed with a single black pearl, believed to be the focusing conduit for the object’s enchantment.

My gaze drifts over the other shelves that line the circular vault. Each item sits in its own pool of light, a curated collection of suffering. The Screaming Mask of a purna matriarch, its mouth permanently agape. A set of flutes carved from the femurs of an orc shaman, said to play the melody of a man’s dying breath. My master is not a collector of things. He is a collector of last moments. Of agony captured in crystal and bone.

A deep, resonant tremor shudders through the stone floor beneath my feet.

I don’t flinch. Not outwardly. But my stomach clenches into a tight, cold knot. The ink pot rattles softly against the wood of my small scribe’s desk. The tremor isn’t seismic. It’s alive.

It is followed by a roar.

It’s not a sound of simple anger. It is the sound of pure, bottomless agony, a rage so profound it has been stripped of all thought. It echoes from deep below the estate, from the reinforced cells where Lord Malakor keeps his pet. His hound.

The door to the vault grinds open, and I force my shoulders to relax, my eyes to drop back to the ledger. Two guards, their dark elf faces impassive and cruel, step inside. Their armor is the color of a starless night sky, polished to a mirror sheen. The serpent sigil of House Malakor is emblazoned on their breastplates.

“The master wants the Casket of Whispers,” the first one says, his voice a viscious sneer. He doesn’t look at me. In his eyes, I am no different from the desk I sit at. A piece of furniture. A tool.

“He is preparing for a guest,” the second one adds, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “A special one.”

They move past me, their heavy boots echoing on the stone. I keep my head down, my world shrinking to the pool of light on my desk, the ruby heart, and the scratching of my quill. A guest. The last “special guest” was a merchant from a rival city who thought he could outsmart Lord Malakor in a trade deal. They found pieces of him in the kennels for a week.

The guards stop before a glass case. Inside rests a small, ornate box of blackened wood, inlaid with silver runes that seem to writhe if you stare at them too long. I cataloged it last season. Its function is to capture a person’s secrets, stripping them from their mind one by one until only a hollow, gibbering shell is left.

As they work to disable the magical wards on the case, the first guard glances at the heart on my desk. “Another new toy. What does this one do?”

“It beats in time with the suffering of its previous owner’s bloodline,” I answer, my voice a monotone. I don’t look up. “The enchantment is tied to a binding curse. As long as a single descendant of the minotaur chieftain who wore it lives, the heart will beat. When the last one dies, it will shatter.”

The second guard lets out a low whistle. “The Serpent’s balls. How many are left?”

“Three, according to the master’s intelligence,” I say.

The first guard chuckles, a dry, rasping sound. “Not for long, I’d wager.”

No, I think, dipping my quill again. Not for long. Malakor doesn’t just collect last moments. He manufactures them.

Another roar, louder this time, more desperate, shakes the vault. It is closer. They must be moving it. I press my thumb against the back of my wrist, rubbing the small, coiled serpent branded into my skin. A nervous habit. A weakness. He hates weakness.

The guards finally retrieve the Casket of Whispers and turn to leave. The one with the smirking face pauses beside my desk. His shadow falls over my ledger. I can smell the spiced wine on his breath.

“You know,” he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Heard a rumor the hound’s getting restless. The curse is… fraying.”

My quill stops. I do not move. I do not breathe.

“Don’t be an idiot,” his companion snaps from the doorway. “Vexia’s work is flawless. The beast is a tool, nothing more. It feels nothing.”

The smirking guard leans closer, his presence a suffocating weight. I can feel his eyes on my hair, my neck. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s hungry. The master hasn’t let it hunt in a month. It likes to hunt. Especially something small. Something that runs.”

He’s trying to frighten me. It’s a casual sport for them, like kicking a stray dog. The pathetic thing is, it’s working. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, terrified bird. I force myself to remain perfectly still, my eyes locked on the half-finished sentence in my ledger.

He finally straightens up with a disappointed sigh and follows his partner out. The heavy stone door grinds shut, sealing me back inside the silence.

But the silence is different now. It is charged, thin. The distant roar feels like a promise.

I look back at the zanthenite heart. It pulses steadily. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. A countdown.

I pick up my quill and continue writing, my hand perfectly steady.

Function: The artifact serves as a memento of a significant military victory and a testament to the enduring power of House Malakor. Its aesthetic properties are of primary note, serving as a centerpiece for any collection of rare and powerful objects.

That is the official record. That is the lie.

In the silent vault of my own mind, the truth writes itself. Function: The artifact is a tool of slow, generational torture. It is a promise that my master’s cruelty does not end with a single death. It extends to sons and to daughters, a creeping rot that will consume a family from the roots up. It is a monument to a vendetta, and it will not be satisfied until the last beat of this stolen heart falls silent.

I finish the entry, blot the ink, and close the heavy ledger. My work for the day is done. I sit in the cold, perfect silence, the brand on my wrist burning like a fresh wound, and I listen to the monster in the dark below.  I don’t just hear its rage. I hear its loneliness. It sounds a lot like my own.