Page 47 of Crown of Storm and Silence
"The story never truly ends," the Obur replies with obvious delight. "Merely pauses between chapters. We shall continue this tale when circumstances are more…conducive to poetry."
Banu hesitates for a moment, her gaze flicking between Emir's outstretched hand and my tense form. "Don't let him turn you into a philosophical midnight snack," she tells me with characteristic bluntness. "I'd hate to have to explain to Nesilhan why her husband became vampire food."
"I'll resist the urge to become anyone's literary feast," I promise dryly.
As they disappear into the forest—though not before Banu pauses to kick a piece of splintered wood from where Mikail landed, muttering something about 'vampire debris' as a trophy—I turn my full attention to the creature who knew me when I was young and stupid enough to think I could change the world through sheer bloody-minded determination.
An Obur. One of the oldest, most dangerous creatures to crawl out of the shadow realm's deepest reaches. And unfortunately, someone whose circular logic and cryptic observations have been driving me to distraction for over six centuries.
"Well," I say, settling against a convenient tree with deliberate casualness, "now that we've dispensed with the philosophical violence and fairy assault, what brings you to this charming little slice of mortal mediocrity?"
Mikail's smile reveals teeth too sharp to be human, too white to be anything but a threat. "Must the spider spin webs to catch flies, or does he sometimes visit old haunts for the pleasure of remembered screams?"
"Hate to break it to you, but this particular haunt has been renovated," I point out helpfully. "New management, different screaming policies. Much less aesthetic suffering, unfortunately."
"Truth wears many faces," he agrees, settling onto a fallen log with careful precision. "Though we did compose some memorable symphonies in our youth. Do you recall that delightful week we spent teaching the Jade Emperor's court about the artistry of suffering?"
"That was six hundred years ago, Mikail. I've developed new interests since then. Ones that don't involve quite so much screaming."
His laugh carries sharp edges. "Yes, whispers reach even the deepest waters. The great Shadow Lord, trading his sword fora cradle, his throne for a rocking chair. The little spark grows fat on lullabies—does she know daddy's old songs had different lyrics?"
Every shadow within a fifty-foot radius responds to my sudden spike of rage, reaching toward Mikail with raw menace. But he's old enough, powerful enough, that they slide off him with minimal effect.
"Careful," I say softly, my voice carrying enough menace to freeze blood in veins. "You're speaking of my wife."
"Wife," he repeats, wiping blood from his mouth with delicate fingers. "The shadow king builds a nest. How the mighty have…softened,”
"At least I'm not still wandering the realm like some ancient, bitter bachelor," I reply with deliberate mildness. "Tell me, Mikail, how's that eternal solitude working out for you? Still composing poetry to your own reflection?"
"The lonely wolf mocks the caged bird," he muses with that insufferable smile. "Daddy will be so proud of his pet's new tricks."
The words strike deep, and I have to fight not to show how they affect me. "My father can rot in whatever pit he's currently calling home."
"Ah, but here lies the riddle's answer," Mikail says, his expression turning serious, hunting. "Erlik stirs in the depths of Kara Cehennem. He gathers shadows and whispers, weaving plans from the threads of your supposed…vulnerability.”
Ice floods my veins despite the summer warmth. "What whispers?"
"The ones that sing of softness. Of weakness. Of how love has made the untouchable Shadow Lord…predictable.” Mikail's smile widens with malicious pleasure. "They compose ballads about your domestication, dear Kaan. Such beautiful, dangerous music."
My shadows writhe with murderous purpose as the implications sink in. If my own lords are questioning me, Erlik has more support than I thought. Somewhere in the direction of the village, I hear a dog howling in terror as my power responds to the threat.
"Which lords," I ask with bone-deep stillness, biting off each word, "dare question me?"
"Your own lords whisper harmonies behind closed doors. Even some of the younger shadows wonder if perhaps it's time for…new leadership." He examines his bloodied fingernails with affected boredom. "Your father finds these melodies…concerning.”
The mention of Erlik sends fury exploding through my chest. My father. The demon who destroyed everything I ever loved, who turned me into this creature of shadows and death, who poisoned Isil's mind until she threw herself from the tower two hundred years ago, taking our unborn child with her because he found my capacity for love…inconvenient.” And now history threatens to repeat itself.
"Enough games," I snarl, shadows lashing out to crack the trunk of a nearby tree. "What does the bastard want?"
"A reunion. Father and son, sharing memories in the depths of Kara Cehennem. He has questions about your recent…compositions that he'd like to discuss personally."
"Tell him to go fuck himself with a rusty blade dipped in holy water."
Mikail talks with mock disappointment. "Such crude poetry. And here I thought marriage had refined your verse." His crimson gaze flicks toward the direction of the village, where lights still twinkle in cottage windows. "She truly is radiant, by the way. The light in her calls to hungry things."
The casual way he mentions seeing Nesilhan makes every shadow I possess surge toward him with lethal intent. "You'vebeen watching her," I say, and my voice drops to something deadly quiet.
"The artist observes the masterpiece," Mikail replies with a shrug. "But I'm not here for pleasantries, Kaan. Your father stirs in the depths."
