An iron-shod staff struck the obsidian floor of the ducal audience chamber with a cold, ringing snap.
The sound echoed through the cavernous throne room of the Iron Citadel, bouncing off black stone pillars etched with weeping blood-veins.
Grand Regent Malakor sat on his jagged iron throne, his scarred face dark as thunder.
Standing thirty paces before the dais was not an ordinary messenger.
It was Inquisitor Thorne-Crow’s personal Censorate herald, draped in high-collared crimson robes that dragged across the dark stone. The herald’s face was completely concealed beneath an enameled mask of polished silver shaped into the sneering beak of a raven.
“The Inquisitor’s patience has expired, Lord Regent,” the herald said. His voice was high, dry, and sharp as a bone needle.
Malakor leaned forward, his heavy iron gauntlets gripping the armrests.
“Siege General Vorn has launched thirteen assaults,” Malakor growled, his Nascent Soul aura vibrating the air with suffocating weight. “White-Lotus Academy is surrounded. Their outer fortifications are crumbling. The eastern wall was fractured by liquid earth-fire yesterday morning.”
