Chapter 1

Lord Imas

The incense in the ritual chamber does not smell of devotion. It smells of rot disguised as lilies, a cloying, sugary thicket that coats the back of my throat and refuses to be swallowed.

It is the scent of The Serpent, and tonight, He is screaming.

I stand before the black altar, the stone cold enough to leech the heat through the soles of my boots. My breath mists in the damp air of Lliandor, mingling with the curling smoke of the brazier. But I can barely feel the cold. I can barely feel my own skin.

My head is a cathedral of bells, all ringing at once.

More. Now. Bleed. Break. Take.

The demands are not words; they are impulses fired directly into the base of my skull, a relentless, grinding static that hasn't ceased in two centuries. It is the sound of a thousand vipers hissing in a sealed room. It scrapes against the inside of my eyes, a constant, blinding pressure that makes thought feel like wading through broken glass.

I press the heels of my hands into my temples, groaning. The noise is louder tonight. It is a physical vibration in my teeth. It makes my hands shake. It makes me want to tear the skin off my face just to let the pressure out.

This is the price of power. The Chaos magic does not sit idly; it churns. It is a storm trapped in a bottle, and I am the glass, cracking under the strain.

"Quiet," I hiss, the word lost in the cacophony.

I need to vent it. I need to open the valve before I explode.

I raise my hand, fingers splayed, calling upon the chaos. I want a simple manifestation—a writhe of shadows to darken the corners of the room, a small act of dominance to soothe the beast.

Nothing happens.

A spark of violet light fizzles at my fingertips, sputtering like a candle in a gale, before vanishing into the gloom.

The noise in my head spikes, a shriek of disappointment that sends a spike of agony down my spine. I stagger, clutching the altar for support.

I stare at my hand. My skin, the color of burnt charcoal, looks dull in the low light. The intricate silver embroidery of my cuffs seems to mock me, a symbol of Khuzuth nobility wrapping a wrist that currently commands the magical authority of a tavern rat.

Pathetic.

I press my fingers together, tapping the pads against one another in a rhythm of calculated irritation. The silence in the room is heavy, pressing against my eardrums, but it is a lie. Inside me, the noise is deafening. It drives me. It makes me cruel not out of desire, but out of necessity. Cruelty is the only language The Serpent speaks. When I cause pain, the noise dips for a moment. When I break something, the static clears just enough for me to breathe.

I am a drowning man, and suffering is my air.

"You demand more," I whisper into the shadows. My voice is low, modulated to betray nothing, even to a god. "Always more."

The Serpent answers with a thrumming void within my chest, a hollow ache that demands to be filled. Pain is the currency of my patron deity. Suffering is the wine He drinks. But lately, the screams of the usual stock—the broken criminals, the weeping debtors—have grown stale. They offer their misery too freely. There is no texture to it, no exquisite resistance. It is cheap wine, and The Serpent has a refined palate.

Because the offering is weak, the noise remains loud. It makes me irritable. It makes me irrational. Yesterday, I nearly executed a chef for spilling soup, not because of the stain, but because the clatter of the bowl hitting the floor sounded like a thunderclap in my sensitized ears.

I am fraying.

Lord Malek knows this. I can feel my rival’s ambition circling my estate like a shark in the water. Malek, a brute who worships The Warrior, believes power lies in the strength of the arm and the sharpness of the axe. He is crude, loud, and effective. Rumors swirl in the high court that Malek has gained favor, that his territory expands while mine stagnates. 

If I do not perform the Rite of the Blackened Heart before the next new moon, my standing in the caste will fracture.

I cannot allow that. I carved my domain out of the unforgiving stone of Lliandor with nothing but my will and my cruelty. I will not lose it to a man who thinks strategy is merely hitting something until it stops moving.

I lower my hands and look at the ring on my right forefinger.

It is a heavy band of obsidian, carved with the coiling likeness of my god. Usually, it hums against my skin, a conduit connecting my blood to the Ley lines of chaos that run beneath Protheka. Today, it is quiet. Not dead, but dormant. Waiting.

I run a thumb over the cold stone. It needs fuel. Not just blood—blood is easy. It needs terror. Pure, distilled terror. The kind of fear that stops the heart before the knife even cuts. I need a victim who understands exactly what is happening to them, who fights the inevitability of it, building a dam of panic behind their eyes until it bursts.

I need a scream loud enough to drown out the god in my head.

A sharp knock echoes on the heavy iron-bound door.

The sound hits me like a hammer to the head. I wince, the noise in my head flaring in response to the intrusion.

"Enter," I command, my voice tight.

The heavy hinges groan, and the rhythmic clinking of armor announces Asema. My Guard Captain stops three paces behind me. I don’t need to look at her to know she is bowing—stiffly, resentfully, but bowing nonetheless. She is Miou caste, bred for war, and she wears her loyalty like a heavy chain.

"My Lord," she says,  voice rough like grinding stones. "The carriage is prepared for the inspection of the docks."

The thought of the docks—the shouting sailors, the creaking wood, the chaotic din of commerce—makes my stomach turn. I cannot handle the noise today. I will murder someone in broad daylight just to make them stop talking.

"Cancel it," I say.

"My Lord?"

I turn slowly. Asema stands rigid, her hand resting instinctively on the hilt of her sword. She is a towering woman, even for our kind, scarred and brutally efficient. She looks at me, or rather, she looks at the space just past my shoulder, avoiding direct eye contact as is proper.

"I have no interest in counting crates of spice today, Captain," I say, smoothing the platinum strands of hair back from my temple. "The Serpent requires a different sort of commerce."

Asema shifts her weight. "The slave markets, then?"

"The Lowtown markets are filled with refuse," I say, disdain curling my lip. "Disease-ridden and broken before they even reach the block. No. We go to the private auction at the Dark Market's satellite house."

A flicker of unease crosses Asema’s face. She hates the flesh trade. She finds it dishonorable, which is why she will always remain a soldier and never a ruler. "As you command. Shall I gather the full guard?"

"No. Just you. I do not require an audience for my shopping."

I walk past her, the heavy velvet of my robes whispering over the stone floor. As I pass, I see her nose twitch, repelled by the smell of the incense clinging to me. Good. Let it sicken her. Let her remember that I walk paths she dares not tread. I do not dismiss her with words; I simply cease to acknowledge her presence, stepping out into the corridor and leaving her to scramble in my wake.

The estate is cold. It is always cold in Lliandor. The grey stone walls weep condensation, and the narrow windows let in only the gloom of a sky that has forgotten the sun. I stride through the halls, my boots striking the floor with precise, predatory cadence. Servants—humans and lesser elves alike—scatter before me, pressing themselves into alcoves, averting their eyes. They are wise. 

Today, my patience is as thin as the skin of a bubble.

I step out into the courtyard. The rain is falling, as it always does here—a relentless, freezing drizzle that turns the world into a blur of slate and charcoal. The carriage waits, black lacquered wood glistening wetly, the batlaz beasts harnessed to the front snapping their jaws at the groomsmen.

I climb inside, settling onto the plush leather. Asema mounts her horse alongside the carriage. The driver snaps the reins, and we lurch forward, the wheels grinding against the cobblestones.

I lean my head back and close my eyes, listening to the rain drum against the roof. The hunger in the obsidian ring flares, a sudden spike of heat that feels like a needle driven into the bone of my finger. I hiss, gripping my hand.

Soon, The Serpent whispers. Soon. Soon. Soon.

The repetition is maddening. It burrows into my thoughts, disrupting my focus. I cannot plan. I cannot think. I am merely a vessel for this endless, starving noise.

Find it. Break it. Feed me.

I open my eyes. My reflection stares back at me from the darkened window pane—violet irises glowing with a feral, desperate light in a face of sharp angles and aristocratic boredom. I look like a prince of darkness, a master of this city. But beneath the silk and the Zanthenite clasps, I am a starving man. I am a slave to the cacophony.

The carriage turns a corner, heading toward the darker districts where the law turns a blind eye and human lives are sold for copper.

A sudden pressure builds behind my temples. It is not pain, but anticipation—the static charge in the air before lightning strikes. The hairs on my arms rise. My magic, so dormant moments ago, stirs in the deep well of my soul, agitated and alert. It is sensing something. A beacon in the gray wash of the city.

I sit up straighter, steepling my fingers, pressing the tips together until the knuckles turn white.

The Serpent is guiding me. I can feel the pull, a magnetic hook lodged in my chest, dragging me toward a specific point in the city. There is something there. Not just a slave. Not just meat.

A challenge.

A grim smile touches my lips, devoid of any warmth. I do not know what awaits me at the market, but I know this: whatever it is, I will own it. I will take it apart, piece by piece, until I find the scream hidden at its center.

I will feast. And finally, there will be silence.