Page 9 of Crown of Storm and Silence
"Lord Kaan," Omer says without preamble, his ancient features set in disapproval. "We must speak privately."
"Oh, but we're having such delicious fun here," I protest. "General Altin was just explaining how I've become a genocidal maniac with poor impulse control. Such fascinating theories."
"The eastern provinces are in open revolt," Omer continues as if I haven't spoken. "Lord Mehmet has declared independence. The merchant guilds have severed all trade agreements. And now this." He gestures toward the Light Court delegation. "You cannot continue this path."
I turn to study the faces of my remaining councilors, noting the exhaustion mixed with resignation. These men have served my family for generations, weathered wars, and my father's legendary cruelty. But somehow I've managed to accomplish what Erlik never could—I've driven three of five to outright rebellion.
I'm genuinely a little proud.
"Are you suggesting," I say slowly, savoring each word, "that I should prioritize boring political stability over my clearly superior creative vision?"
"We're suggesting," Varis speaks up with dangerous bravery, "that perhaps it's time to accept that some searches end in failure. That maybe…maybe it's time to let go of hope."
The silence that follows his words is so complete I can hear my own heartbeat.
Then I start laughing.
It begins as a chuckle, builds to proper laughter, and escalates into unhinged cackling. Shadows pour from my skin in delighted waves, turning the courtyard into a writhing sea of darkness.
"Hope?" I repeat between fits of hysteria, wiping tears from my eyes. "Oh, what a wonderfully naive concept. The bond may be severed, but my instincts scream that she's alive—call it hope, call it delusion, call it the desperate fantasies of a man slowly dissolving into his own darkness. But something in me refuses to accept her death."
My shadows surge outward, wrapping around ankles and wrists, lifting both delegations off the ground with casual ease. The horses scream and bolt, and someone makes a sound like a stepped-on cat.
"Let me explain something to all of you," I say, my voice carrying across the courtyard with perfect clarity. "I am not a reasonable man. I haven't been reasonable since the moment I realized my wife would rather face the unknown than spend another day with me. I am a creature of shadow and obsession, and I will paint this entire realm in destruction before I accept that she won't return."
I release them all at once, watching with genuine delight as they crash to the cobblestones in a tangle of limbs and wounded dignity.
"Now," I continue, "unless someone actually has useful information, I suggest you all remove yourselves from my sightbefore I decide this conversation would benefit from fewer participants."
The Light Court delegation scrambles for their surviving horses with admirable speed. General Altin manages to maintain some dignity as he remounts, though his neck bears interesting shadow-shaped bruises.
"Gün Ata will not tolerate this indefinitely, Kaan," he calls as they retreat. "Even gods have limits to their patience."
"How disappointing," I reply with genuine regret. "And here I was hoping he'd learn to appreciate my vision. Really, you'd think someone who's been alive since the dawn of creation would have developed better taste by now."
My remaining councilors are slower to retreat, huddling together like sheep who've caught sight of the wolf. Elder Omer approaches with the careful movements of a man trying not to startle a dangerous animal.
"My lord," he says with admirable caution, "perhaps we could discuss?—"
The mention of her possible return, the very thought of hope, triggers something violent in the severed connection. Pain explodes behind my eyes like lightning, driving me to my knees. It starts as stabbing agony, like someone's driving hot needles into my brain. Blood runs from my nose, spattering the cobblestones.
"Kaan!" Emir rushes forward, but I wave him back with a shaking hand.
The bond. The severed, ruined connection is having what I can only describe as a tantrum, sending phantom pulses of agony through my skull. This has been happening more frequently—episodes where my body tries to reconnect to something no longer accessible.
"I'm utterly fine," I lie with conviction, wiping blood from my nose. "Just a minor headache. Nothing that wouldn't be improved by violence and decent wine."
But I'm not fine. The severed bond drains my life force drop by drop, and every use of my powers accelerates the rot spreading through my essence. Soon, I'll be nothing but ash and regret.
"My lord," Omer says with gentleness usually reserved for dangerous invalids, "please. Let us help you."
I look up at him, noting the genuine concern in his ancient eyes. For a moment, I'm actually tempted to accept. To lean on the wisdom of men who've served my family faithfully.
Then I remember black eyes disappearing into shadow, remember the taste of fear and betrayal on lips I'd kissed a thousand times, remember waking up alone in a bed that still smelled like her perfume.
"The only help I need," I say, rising with as much dignity as someone can muster while bleeding from facial orifices, "is for everyone to stop offering solutions to problems they couldn't understand if I drew them detailed diagrams."
I turn and walk back toward the castle, leaving them standing in the courtyard with their offers of assistance and reasonable suggestions. Behind me, I hear whispered conversations about contingency plans and alternative leadership, but let them plot. Let them scheme.
