The map chamber smelled faintly of ash and parchment, its high obsidian walls etched with silver lines that glimmered like constellations. Each line pulsed faintly, rivers, roads, and borders shifting as the realms themselves shifted.
Kaelreth stepped inside without ceremony, his long cloak brushing the floor, shadows gathering like loyal hounds at his heels. He raised one hand, and the silver lines twisted, narrowing in on a swath of mortal lands in the far north.
This is where we'll find him, he said, his voice almost soft. The Kingdom of Veylor. Cold, proud, and drowning in ambition.
Seraphira moved to his side, eyes scanning the illuminated map. And that's where we risk walking into every soldier's blade.
He glanced down at her, something dangerous flickering in his gaze. Not if they never see you.
Before she could speak, the temperature in the chamber shifted not colder, but… sharper, as though the air itself had been honed to a blade's edge. Shadows rose from the floor, curling around her ankles like smoke.
Stand still, Kaelreth murmured, and for once, she obeyed.
The shadows climbed, twisting around her body in spirals, weaving through her hair, spilling across her skin. They were cool at first, then warm, then burning but not painfully. More like they were writing something into her, pressing a truth deeper than flesh.
She gasped as her reflection shimmered in the black mirror of the wall and vanished. In its place stood a woman with raven-black hair, eyes the green of deep forest, and skin kissed by the sun. No trace of flame-red hair, no hint of her royal features. Even her stance looked different, more guarded, less regal.
Kaelreth stepped back, studying her with a satisfaction that made her bristle. No one will see the princess now. You are just another face in the crowd until I say otherwise.
She raised an eyebrow at him. And who exactly am I supposed to be?
A merchant's ward. Quiet, unimportant, easily overlooked. His lips twitched. If you can manage that.
The witch's spirit drifted closer, circling her like a cat. Careful, little flame. The longer you wear a mask, the more it begins to fit.
Seraphira ignored her, flexing her hands and feeling the unfamiliar weight of this borrowed skin. Let's get this over with.
Kaelreth's shadow-wolves appeared then, stepping soundlessly from the dark, their eyes like pale moons. We ride at night, he said. By dawn, we'll be in mortal lands. And by week's end… the mortal king will know the Devil comes for him.