I stood to Gunlaug's left, hands folded neatly before me, posture composed and unobtrusive as the Bright Lord stared down at Aiko. The woman stood alone at the foot of the throne, spine straight, voice steady as she delivered her report on the Artisans' productivity for the past quarter. Numbers, quotas, projections—useful, certainly, but so repetitive that I could have recited half of it myself.
On the opposite side of the throne, Harus loomed in his usual hunched silence. His pallid eyes were fixed on Aiko with the dead, unblinking intensity of a corpse pulled upright by strings. To her credit, she didn't so much as falter. She spoke as though he weren't there at all, never once acknowledging his presence.
I admired that about her. Harus enjoyed instilling fear. It was one of the few pleasures he allowed himself. And even after all this time, even knowing exactly what he was and what he could do, his presence still set my nerves slightly on edge.
Not that I would ever let it show.
Aiko wasn't the only one growing weary of her own report. I could feel the room's collective boredom pressing in from all sides. Gemma was slouched in his chair, long legs stretched out, idly twiddling a thin strip of metal between his fingers and warping it back and forth with casual ease. Seishan sat upright and immaculate, every inch the proper noblewoman, yet her eyes were just slightly unfocused, her attention drifting somewhere beyond the chamber. Sasrir had all but melted into his chair, a lazy puddle of shadow that occasionally rippled, as if to reassure us that he hadn't quite fallen asleep.
Gunlaug himself listened like a statue.
He did not move. He did not shift. Not even the faintest twitch betrayed him as Aiko spoke. With the helmet sealing away his face, I genuinely couldn't tell whether he was attentive, bored, or unconscious. For all we knew, the Bright Lord could have been dead inside that armor, propped up purely by momentum and fear.
Finally, Aiko concluded her report.
Only then did Gunlaug stir. He asked a handful of perfunctory questions—enough to remind everyone present that he was, indeed, in charge—before dismissing her with a curt gesture. She bowed and returned to her seat beside Gemma. He flashed her a small, crooked smile, which she returned, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction now that the spotlight was off her.
Gunlaug's attention shifted next, settling squarely on Sasrir.
"Any of the new insects caught your eye?" he asked gruffly.
Presumably, his gaze pinned Sasrir in place. It was hard to tell through the helmet.
Sasrir's shadow rippled, then gathered itself, reforming into a proper human silhouette. Even then, his posture remained languid, disinterested. I flicked him an amused glance, but he ignored me completely, focusing instead on Gunlaug.
"No," he said flatly. "Not really. Most of them are trash. One or two are mediocre. The few that might have been interesting all died in the Labyrinth." A pause, then a lazy shrug. "A shame, really."
Gunlaug lingered on him for a moment longer, the silence heavy and deliberate, before turning his attention to Gemma.
"And you?" he asked. "What have you heard over these past days since they arrived?"
Gemma rolled one shoulder in a casual shrug. "Same mess as usual. Some are still shitting themselves. Some are crying in corners. Some are stabbing at shadows—" here, he glanced pointedly at Sasrir "—and a few have snapped back into focus and are starting to settle in."
"Try to recruit the last group," Gunlaug commanded. His tone made it clear this was not a suggestion. "They don't need to be the strongest. They just need to understand their place, and be willing to serve."
Aiko frowned. "Aren't we already oversaturated with Guards and Hunters?" she objected. "Ever since Sasrir began training them, casualties have dropped sharply. And the Pathfinders have nearly been made obsolete—his Shadow Travel alone outclasses them. Can our current quotas even support expanding the Host further?"
All eyes turned to Sasrir.
He, of course, looked utterly unconcerned. He even had the audacity to shrug again. "What, are you blaming me for doing a good job? I thought you'd be happy your people aren't dying."
"No one is complaining," Seishan interjected smoothly. Her voice was silk over steel. "We are merely impressed by your efficiency. In all my years on the Forgotten Shore, I've never seen those two groups so… professional. In a matter of months, you've shaped them into a proper legion. Something Tessai never managed."
The name hung in the air, unspoken implications rippling outward.
Seishan inclined her head slightly. "Where did you learn such methods, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Sun Tzu," Sasrir replied without hesitation. "The Art of War. If you like, I can lend you my copy when we return to the Waking World."
"Enough."
Gunlaug's voice cut through the chamber—not shouted, yet powerful enough that it seemed to press down on everyone present. Sasrir and Seishan fell silent immediately.
Then the Bright Lord turned to me.
"And what of you, Preacher?" he asked. Even through the armor, I could hear the ridicule, the malice woven into his words. "What stray pets have you adopted over the past two weeks?"
I didn't flinch.
"A couple of people have asked to join my flock," I replied calmly. "Yes. None of them would be of any interest to you—they're not much in the way of fighters." I paused briefly, then added, "Although one or two were asking about employment under Seishan."
I turned my head toward her.
She pursed her ruby lips in thought, tapping her index finger against them once, twice. "I suppose I have room for a few more," she said. "What are they like?"
"Same as always," I answered. "Scared. Scarred. One of them claims to be from a Legacy Clan, though. Clan Vestral."
That did it.
The others perked up almost instantly. Gemma straightened a little. Aiko's brows knit together. Even Harus shifted, his corpse-pale eyes sliding toward Seishan as if awaiting her judgment.
Only Sasrir remained as he was, already sinking back into his formless puddle of shadow.
Seishan shook her head slowly. "I don't recognize the name," she said. "But I can confirm Vestral is not under my mother's banner. If they truly are a Legacy Clan, then they're likely a vassal of Bastion… or perhaps the Night Garden."
Gunlaug's chambers were exactly what I expected—and somehow still worse.
The moment I crossed the threshold, I felt it: the room did not exist to be lived in. It existed to be seen.
The space was enormous, far larger than any single man reasonably needed, with a ceiling so high it swallowed sound and made voices feel smaller than they were. Thick stone pillars lined the walls at precise intervals, each carved with reliefs of conquest—Hunters kneeling, monsters slain, indistinct figures bowing in submission. None of the faces were detailed enough to be individuals. They were symbols, not people.
Power did not care for names.
The floor was polished obsidian, smooth enough to reflect light like black glass. I could see my own pale reflection stretched thin beneath my feet, distorted by the sheer scale of the room. Every step echoed, measured and deliberate, as if the chamber itself demanded restraint.
Gold was everywhere.
Not subtle accents or tasteful trim—no, Gunlaug favored excess. Gilded inlays traced the walls in sharp, angular patterns meant to draw the eye upward. Weapon racks displayed relic blades and armor sets, all pristine, all unused. They were trophies, not tools. Proof of ownership rather than necessity.
Several chests sat openly along one wall, their lids partially ajar, overflowing with soul shards, coins, and artifacts that radiated faint, dangerous auras. None of it was locked away. Why would it be? Who here would dare steal from him?
At the far end of the chamber stood a raised platform, and upon it, Gunlaug's personal throne.
It was different from the one in the council chamber—less ceremonial, more intimate. Crafted of dark metal and bone, reinforced with glowing runes that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. The seat was wide, heavy, and unmistakably uncomfortable. A throne meant not for rest, but for dominance. One sat there to loom, not to relax.
Behind it hung a massive mirror.
That, more than anything else, caught my attention.
The mirror stretched nearly from floor to ceiling, its frame ornate to the point of obscenity. Gold, gemstones, and symbols of authority surrounded it like a shrine. The surface was flawlessly polished, reflecting the room—and Gunlaug—perfectly.
Of course.
A man obsessed with power would naturally be obsessed with how that power looked.
There was no bed in sight. No personal clutter. No books, no mementos, no signs of indulgence beyond wealth itself. Even the few chairs present were positioned with military precision, clearly meant for others, never equals.
Everything here served one purpose: control.
Control of space. Control of perception. Control of people.
This room was a statement, a constant reminder to anyone who entered that Gunlaug was not merely a leader—he was the axis around which the Bright Castle turned.
I kept my hands tucked in my sleeves and my expression mild, even as the weight of the place pressed down on me.
Yes, I thought quietly. This suits you perfectly, Bright Lord.
A palace for a tyrant who worshipped himself.
This wasn't my first time here. Which meant I knew exactly how to behave.