Berith descended into the crypt-choked spine of Ashenholt duchy. The path to the crypts was steep and lightless, slick with the condensation of centuries. The black gate recognized his fury before it recognized his blood. It groaned open to receive him.
Cold air spilled out to greet him. Berith crossed the threshold into the tomb-throne without hesitation. Darkness embraced him like kin.
And there he was.
Volden Montclair was already waiting, draped in the remnants of nobility—his corpse-thin body wrapped in funeral silks, white braids cascading over the curved throne of darkwood and bone.
His cataract-rimmed eyes glistened, as though they saw something Berith didn't yet understand. "You've come again."
Berith stopped a few feet away. He didn't kneel this time. "Where is she?" he growled. It was a demand the dead would be wise to heed.
