"Why do the gods choose the unworthy to carry their will?"
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The corridors of Tarkun's stronghold felt like the throat of a beast preparing to swallow them whole. Anumi kept her breathing steady as she walked beside Lord Arzash, their footsteps echoing against stone walls that had witnessed too many broken promises and spilled blood. The Urartu guards flanking them moved with the casual confidence of men on their own territory, hands resting on sword hilts that gleamed with recent sharpening.
She had argued against coming here. In the heated family meeting just hours before, she had voiced every concern that now clawed at her mind like restless spirits. This was folly. walking into the lion's den when the lion was already hungry for blood. But Lord Arzash had been resolute, his single eye holding that calculating gleam that had made him legendary in the old days when he served the king's court.
"Fear is a luxury we cannot afford tonight," he had told her as they prepared to leave. "If we don't attempt diplomacy now, there will be nothing left to negotiate over but ashes."
The weight of the hidden dagger against her forearm provided little comfort. When the guards had demanded their weapons at the entrance, she had refused until Arzash placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. The gesture spoke volumes. trusted in words more than steel tonight, believed that his silver tongue could accomplish what armies could not. She prayed to whatever gods still listened that his faith was not misplaced. The great hall loomed ahead, its massive oak doors carved with the Urartu family crest a snarling wolf's head surrounded by crossed swords. The symbolism was hardly subtle. As the guards pushed open the doors, Anumi felt her stomach tighten into a knot of ice.
The chamber beyond was vast and oppressive, dominated by a long table that could seat thirty men comfortably. Torches lined the walls, their flames casting dancing shadows that made the stone gargoyles appear to writhe with malevolent life. The air was thick with the smell of burning pitch and something else. the metallic scent of freshly cleaned weapons. Urartu men filled one side of the table, their faces hard as the stone beneath their feet. They watched the two Dabru representatives with barely concealed hostility, hands never straying far from their weapons despite the supposed sanctity of parley. At the head ofthe table sat an ornate chair, clearly meant for their lord, but conspicuously empty.
"Where is Lord Tarkun?" Arzash asked, his voice carrying the authority of a man who had once advised kings. One of the Urartu men, a grizzled veteran with scars crisscrossing his cheek, gestured toward the empty chairs across from them.
"He will be here soon. Please, sit."
Anumi studied the faces around the table as she took her seat beside Arzash. These were not mere soldiers they were Tarkun's inner circle, men who had fought beside him in the border wars and whose loyalty had been bought with blood and gold. Their eyes held the cold calculation of predators sizing up potential prey.
The silence stretched like a bowstring drawn to its breaking point. Anumi found herself thinking of all the variables, all the possible outcomes of this meeting. In the best case, they might reach some form of temporary truce a breathing space that would allow cooler heads to prevail. More likely, they would achieve nothing but formal declarations of hostilities, turning their cold war into something hot and bloody But there was a third possibility that made her blood run cold that this was not a negotiation at all, but an execution disguised as diplomacy.
She glanced at Arzash, seeking reassurance in his calm demeanor. He sat with the poise of a man attending a pleasant dinner party, his weathered hands folded before him on the table. Only the slight tension around his remaining eye betrayed any awareness of the danger they faced.
"Tell me, Uncle," she whispered, using the formal address that acknowledged both his position and their familial bond,
"what makes you so certain we can reason with madness?" A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
"Madness often has its own logic, child. The trick is learning to speak its language."