Keiser felt his stomach drop as if the world had tilted beneath him, the echo of the elf's grin returned sharper than any blade. He could still see the clever face in the gloom by the temple wall, the way the old man, the elven had leaned in, voice soft and sick with amusement while the chapel hummed its prayer and every head in the nave bowed in silence.
They had been alone in the shadow of the arch, hands clasped for a bargain that tasted of iron and rot. Keiser had asked the one question that wouldn't leave him… the specifics. On what had the elf carved into Lenko's fate.
"He'll die tonight," the elven had said, the words slow and deliberate, "by the hands of the one he loves."
Those words uncoiled in Keiser's chest. His pulse hammered as hot dread spread under his ribs. He pictured Lenko, stubborn, defiant, that stubborn small fist Keiser had seen clench when plans frayed, and the image split him open.
Love, the elven had said… love as an executioner.
