The ink was black, but the edges of the parchment gleamed dark red. Blood... not fresh, but thick and clotted in streaks where careless hands had folded it. Arkais Varhgaust stared at it, the candlelight making the glaze shimmer like dried lacquer. It smelled of iron.
For years, he had carved the name Ilysera from his soul, torn her memory from the marrow of his bones, convinced himself that she was nothing but a corpse left to rot in the flames that had swallowed her. Yet here it was, a letter, soaked in blood, whispering a different truth.
His gauntlet scraped against the wooden desk as he unfolded the parchment. The words were jagged, uneven, as if written by a trembling hand or one barely clinging to sanity.
She breathes. She suffers. She waits.
Three sentences. Three knives.
A deep breath turned to a growl in his throat. His grip tightened until the edges of the parchment crumbled beneath his fingers. This was a game. A trap. A torment. He knew better than to hope, no, hope was for men untouched by war, for fools who believed nightmares ended at dawn. But the world did not play fair, and neither did the ghosts that refused to stay buried.
The candle wavered, casting shadows that bled into the walls. The coppery scent of the parchment taunted him, seeping into his lungs like decay, like guilt, like something so much worse.
Someone had written this with intent. Someone had let the blood dry before sealing the message, knowing full well that he would hold it in his hands and taste vengeance on his tongue.
Arkais exhaled sharply.
She breathes. She suffers. She waits.
His wife—his dead wife—was alive.
And somewhere, someone was laughing.