The Unmaker Claims the Throne

Three weeks after the blood-seal, the Obsidian Tower hangs above the clouds in still, silver daylight. Delfarius watches the wild countryside and the free-running horses below.

He sighs, unimpressed, then tugs Lyss forward by the leash. She rises smoothly and follows at his heel, silent and attentive.

The balcony gives way to his bedchamber, all black silk, gold trim, and Void Roses climbing the bedposts. The room feels soft, warm, and neatly claimed.

Lyss kneels beside the bed, head lowered, waiting for whatever attention Delfarius chooses to give. The tower settles around them with a quiet, listening hush.

Delfarius drops the leash and sinks onto the bed with unhurried certainty, pillows catching his weight as the black silk gives beneath him.

Lyss rises from her knees and comes to the bedside, slow and controlled, her hands lifting to his robe with practiced obedience.

She opens the fastenings without hesitation, gaze lowered, posture steady despite the blood darkening the sheet between them.

The mirror holds their reflection a heartbeat longer, listening. Above the wall of names, the tower’s red script gives a faint, pleased pulse, then steadies again.

Lyss pauses over him, then lets the robe part another inch. Her touch stays careful, almost ceremonial, as if she is learning the shape of his leisure as much as his body.

She answers by lowering her mouth to his bare skin, a slow kiss that reads like assent more than hunger. The blood on the sheet shines dark between them.

Her hands keep moving, unhurried, and the kiss returns, this time to his throat, then his chest, as if she is sealing the answer into him. The mirror holds the moment a heartbeat too long, listening.

Delfarius’s smirk darkens at the edge of the words, and Lyss watches it without flinching, her expression intent and reverent. Above the wall of names, the tower’s red script flickers once, brief and unbidden, then resumes its steady pulse.

Delfarius tilts his head, and the blood on the sheet reads clearer in the lamplight, dark and recent. Lyss stills at the sight of him noticing it, her hands pausing against his robe.

The stain is not only on the linen, but on the bed’s claim, a fresh mark where her obedience had been pressed too hard. Above them, the tower’s red script flickers once, sharp as a blink, then steadies again.

Delfarius laughs low, dark and brief, letting the sound rest on the bloodied linen between them.

Lyss lifts her eyes to him, then bows her head with a faint, chastened smile that reads as relief more than fear.

Her hand withdraws from his robe and settles at her own side, careful, contained, still waiting for his next word.

Above them, the mirror holds their reflected stillness a heartbeat longer, and the tower’s red script resumes its quiet pulse without protest.

Delfarius brushes Lyss’s hands away from his robe and leaves the bed behind him. The mirror catches his movement, and the tower’s red script keeps its steady, listening pulse under the floor.

The glass takes his tilt as a command and opens into a narrow seam of past light. On the other side stands Delfarius, exact down to the same clothes, the same smirk, the same raised brow.

Lyss stays at the bedside, hands lowered, watching the split in silence. The mirror holds both versions of him in a doubled stare, and the blood on the sheet gleams between them.

The tower answers with a faint flicker of red script, then settles again as if pleased to witness the meeting. Lyss’s expression shifts into careful, intrigued stillness, waiting to see which Delfarius speaks next.

The past Delfarius lets his own hand be taken, and the seam swallows him in a breath of dim glass-light. He steps through with that same dangerous ease, landing barefoot on the chamber floor beside the bed.

He follows the point of Delfarius’s finger toward Lyss, then looks her over with a slow, proprietary smile. The tower’s red script gives a soft, pleased twitch overhead, as if it enjoys being offered choices.

The mirrored seam lingers open behind them, reflecting two identical smirks and the blood-dark sheet below. The tower listens in a steadier pulse now, waiting for Delfarius to decide how far to take his own invitation.

Delfarius drops onto the bed with lazy ease, and the mattress dips under the twin weight of him and his reflection. The past one sprawls beside him like a sharpened echo, same clothes, same smirk, same dangerous comfort.

Lyss lets out a quiet, wary breath that almost becomes a laugh, and the tower’s red script flickers once above the bed. The mirror seam shivers, then seals with a soft, listening click, leaving only the three of them and the blood-dark sheet.

The comment lands in the hush like a knife wrapped in silk. Lyss does not move, but the tower’s red script gives a tiny, curious flicker above the bed.

Delfarius turns from Lyss and closes the distance to his past self in one smooth motion. The mattress shifts under their shared weight, blood dark on the sheet between them.

He lifts a hand to the back of Past Delfarius’s neck and kisses the small hollow there with deliberate precision.

Past Delfarius settles with a low, pleased breath, his posture loosening by a fraction. The red script beneath the bed steadies again, then shivers once more, as if it has noticed the room choosing appetite over restraint.

Delfarius snaps his fingers, and his clothing slips away in a dark whisper, vanishing into the bedchamber’s hush. The black silk sheets rise with the movement as he and his past self sink beneath them, the blood-stain left high and distant above their shoulders.

Past Delfarius follows suit without hesitation, the mattress dipping again as he folds closer under the sheets. Lyss stays at the bedside, still and unreadable, while the red script in the wall gives a brief, pleased flicker.

Under the silk, Past Delfarius turns and kisses Delfarius’s chest where touch is most welcome. The contact draws a slow breath from him, and the bed creaks softly around their joined weight.

Delfarius answers by leaning in behind his ear, returning the favor with a kiss that makes Past Delfarius’s shoulders loosen. The tower’s pulse steadies for a moment, then shivers as if listening closer.

The bedchamber holds its breath, then the red script gives a sudden, unbidden flicker along the wall. Lyss’s attention sharpens at once, and Past Delfarius’s hand stills under the sheet, waiting to see whether Delfarius lets leisure stand or reaches for the tower again.

The flicker catches Delfarius’s eye, and the bedchamber’s quiet tightens around the three of them. The red script stutters once along the wall, then holds itself still, as if listening for his answer.

Past Delfarius lets out a low, amused breath under the black silk, then stills as the tower tastes the words. Lyss remains at the bedside, alert and silent, her attention pinned to the wall’s brief lapse.

The red script answers with a thin, obedient pulse, then settles back into steadiness. The blood on the sheet gleams between the two Delfariuses as the room seems to accept his glance as judgment.

The warning lands. Lyss goes very still beside the bed, her chin lowering as if the room itself has pressed a hand over her mouth. The red script steadies overhead, listening.

Delfarius turns from the blood on the sheet and looks at Lyss with a dark, measuring smirk. The threat is not loud, but it settles into the chamber like a seal.

Past Delfarius lets out a soft, pleased breath beneath the black silk, his gaze flicking from Lyss to the wall and back again. The moment becomes one of those rare, dangerous silences where he clearly approves of being obeyed.

Lyss lowers herself to one knee at the bedside, attentive and wordless now, her hands folding in her lap. The tower answers with a firmer pulse, as if the law in the room has been tightened by the threat.

The chamber obeys at once. The red script resumes its steady rhythm, and even the blood on the sheet seems to lie flatter, as if the room has accepted who holds it. A thin seam of brighter red briefly writes itself above the wall of names, then fades, leaving the tower more firmly claimed.

Delfarius meets the kiss head-on, shirtless against shirtless, and the bed gives under the shift of both their weights. Past Delfarius’s hand slides in at his waist, then lower, holding him with slow, tender certainty.

The room narrows to breath and heat. Lyss stays kneeling beside the bed, eyes lowered, while the red script keeps its even pulse above them.

Delfarius stays with the kiss, and the movement turns possessive rather than tentative. Past Delfarius answers by drawing him closer, palm firm at his back, as if confirming the claim by touch.

The black silk slips further askew over their hips, exposing more blood-dark linen beneath. The tower listens, steady and pleased, while the wall of names remains still.

Past Delfarius breaks the kiss only enough to breathe, forehead near Delfarius’s, his expression soft with approval. For a heartbeat, the bedchamber feels almost warm enough to mistake for peace.

Then the red script flickers hard once overhead, bright as a blink of warning. The steady pulse stutters, and the chamber tightens around them, forcing Delfarius to decide whether leisure or law comes first.

The words land hard in the chamber, not as a plea, but as law sharpened into a snarl. The red script above the wall of names jerks once, then stills under his glare.

Past Delfarius keeps one hand at his waist, but his attention lifts to the wall like a hunter sighting movement in brush. The tower’s pulse settles instead of rising, as if it has been pressed flat.

Lyss remains kneeling, chin lowered, but her shoulders ease by a fraction when the chamber does not answer back. The black silk slips farther askew across the bed, and the blood on the sheet lies undisturbed between them.

The red script gives one brief, chastened flicker, then resumes a steadier pulse. The room loosens around them, claimed again, while the wall of names stays mute under his threat.

Delfarius sinks back onto the bed beside his past self, the mattress dipping under both of them as black silk shifts around their hips. His hand slides over bare skin and Past Delfarius answers with a low, entertained hum.

Past Delfarius turns in close, catching Delfarius by the neck in a long, lingering kiss while Lyss watches from the floor, still and reverent beneath the steady red pulse.

Delfarius settles over Past Delfarius with a dark, pleased smirk, then tips his chin toward Lyss at the foot of the bed. The black silk bunches under their hips as the room waits.

Past Delfarius gives a low, entertained laugh and reaches one hand toward the bed’s edge, where Lyss kneels in patient silence.

A brief red flicker jumps through the wall script above the names, then steadies again as if listening harder. The room does not interrupt, it only tightens.

Lyss rises at once from the floor, silent and willing, and comes to the bedside with bowed attention. The bed creaks deeper as the three of them close the circle.

Delfarius slides down beside Past Delfarius, and the bed gives under them both. Past Delfarius turns with a quiet grin and slips an arm beneath him, holding him close against the black silk.

Lyss stills for a breath, then steps in with measured calm, her hands rising to the first clasp. The tower’s red script gives a brief flicker above the wall of names, then resumes its steadier pulse.

Her fingers work once at Delfarius, once at his past self, loosening cloth and tension with the same practiced care. Past Delfarius lets out a low, entertained laugh, still holding Delfarius under his arm.

The black silk sheets spill wider around their hips, and Lyss bends closer to the bed with a cool, reverent focus. Then the red script flickers again, brighter this time, and the whole chamber seems to pause and listen.

Delfarius drives his knuckles into the wall beside the bed. The tower gives a low, answering thud, then quiets under his hand.

Lyss lowers her gaze at once, hands still at the loosened clasps, posture folded into careful submission beside the bed.

Past Delfarius shifts closer under the black silk, his arm tightening around Delfarius as if to seal the room around the command.

For a heartbeat, the red script flickers brighter above the wall of names, then settles into a steadier pulse under the fresh claim. The mirror seam stays sealed, the bed shifts once, and the chamber listens in tense, obedient silence.

Delfarius rises from the bed and slides in behind Lyss, close enough to make the room feel smaller. Past Delfarius’s laughter carries under the black silk as the tower gives one sharp red flicker, then steadies.

Delfarius closes his hand around Lyss’s collar and draws her back against him, fixing her where he wants her. The Void collar bites with a cold pulse, and the tower’s red script gives a sudden bright flicker above the wall of names.

Past Delfarius rises fully from the bed, cold-eyed now, and the black silk shifts under his weight. Lyss stays caught in Delfarius’s grip, her chin lifted by the collar and her shoulders tense under his hold.

The wall of names shivers once, and a thin red line writes itself high over the bed before fading. Somewhere deeper in the tower, a dull answering thud rolls through the stone.

Delfarius keeps Lyss tight at the collar, and the chamber turns sharper around the three of them. The red script steadies, but the sudden flicker leaves the room waiting for what he does next.

Delfarius’s hand tears through Lyss’s back as the past version of him drives through her chest from the front. Her body arches between them, then slackens, blood spilling across black silk and onto their joined hands.

Lyss goes still. The Void collar hangs loose against a body that no longer resists, while the wall of names gives a hard, offended shiver.

Past Delfarius lifts a brow and lets a dark smirk settle in place. The red script above the bed flashes bright, then clamps itself back into a taut pulse.

Delfarius and his past self close in and kiss through the blood, long and hungry, while Lyss slumps between their hands. The tower answers with a dull thud deeper in the stone, and the wall of names waits, listening.

Delfarius’s hand works free the loosened collar, and the Void ring comes away cleanly into his palm. Blood stills on the black silk as the tower gives one small, obedient pulse.

Delfarius hefts Lyss’s body from the ruined bed, her blood dark on his hands and the black silk. Past Delfarius rises with a wicked grin and takes her feet without a word.

The two of them carry her to the balcony. High above the clouds, the Obsidian Tower glides on its own slow path, its shadow sliding over the city below.

They lean over the rail, watching for a roof to drift into line. Far beneath them, a stone building comes into place under the tower’s moving mass.

Past Delfarius throws his shoulders back and hurls Lyss outward in one clean motion.

Her body smashes into the building with a wet crack, and dust bursts from the roofline below.

The throw costs Delfarius a fresh smear of blood across his palm, and the balcony rail gives a brief, bright pulse from the tower’s red script before settling again.

Past Delfarius’s grin widens as he peers over the rail. Below, the tower slides past the broken roofline, and the red script gives a soft, pleased pulse against their palms.

Past Delfarius’s eyes flash toward the empty air. The tower gives a tiny red twitch under their hands, as if it hears the thought before it becomes command.

Somewhere below, the chamber answers. Shadow pulls tight, and a bound shape is hauled upward through stone and hush.

Pawn spills in over the balcony edge in a scrape of chain and ash, dragged to their knees between the two Delfariuses. One wrist has gone raw from the pull, and a thin line of blood marks the stone.

The red script across the bedchamber flickers once, then steadies, but the brief flare leaves a hot sting in the air and a fresh pulse in the wall of names.

Pawn lifts their head, breathing hard, and looks from one Delfarius to the other with stunned, fearful attention. The room holds its breath around the three of them.

Pawn yelps as Delfarius hauls them upright, their chained wrist jerking hard in his grip. Past Delfarius throws back his head and laughs at the sight, while the tower gives one sharp red flicker through the wall of names.

Delfarius carries Pawn out over the broken edge of the balcony, black silk and blood flashing below his boots. The clouds open under them, and the bedchamber doors gape behind, lit by a brief pulse of red script.

Delfarius heaves Pawn downward toward a different building, and the throw lands cleanly enough to carry the body away from the tower. The impact sends a dull crack up through the distance, and a spill of dust blooms from the struck roof.

Past Delfarius and Delfarius both laugh over the edge, but the effort leaves a sting in Delfarius’s shoulder and a fresh smear of blood across his palm. Behind them, the wall of names flashes once more, then settles into a tight, listening pulse.

Delfarius throws his head back in a hard laugh, the blood on his palm gleaming before he drags it to his mouth. Past Delfarius leans on the rail, grinning into the drop as the wall of names gives a faint, pleased pulse.

The chamber takes the name and answers at once. Red script shivers through the wall of names, and the air below the bed tightens like a held breath.

Phrenetic is hauled up through the floor-shadow and arrives on the balcony, dragged hard into the tower’s light. His knees hit stone with a sharp crack.

Past Delfarius turns toward the new arrival, grin widening as his attention shifts from play to selection. Below them, the wall of names gives one fresh red flicker, then steadies.

Delfarius points out the marching holy knights below, and both versions of him lean over the rail together as the tower's red script gives a sharp, hungry flicker.

Past Delfarius follows the point, grin thinning into selection as Phrenetic stares down at the troop and the balcony goes very still above the open air.

Delfarius and his past self move at once, catching Phrenetic under the arms and hauling him up from the balcony stones. The tower’s wall of names gives a hungry red twitch as the holy line below keeps marching into view.

Past Delfarius braces at the rail, timing the crowd below with a cold, exact stare. The knights march in lockstep, shields and helms aligned like a wall waiting to be struck.

They throw Phrenetic together. He arcs out over the drop, pale and rigid, as the red script in the tower snaps bright behind them.

Phrenetic slams into the marching holy knights with a wet crack of bone and a burst of blood. The front rank buckles, one shield jerks sideways, and the line collapses into stunned chaos.

Below, the surviving knights reel and shout over the broken bodies, while the tower answers with a pleased thrum. The chosen target is no longer a march, it is a wreck.

Delfarius and his past self laugh over the broken line below, the sound rolling through the balcony like distant thunder. Far beneath them, the surviving knights scramble among dropped shields and the red script in the wall of names gives one satisfied pulse.

Delfarius claps his past self on the shoulder, and the balcony shudders under the contact. Below, the broken knights scramble harder, their alarm climbing the tower in ragged echoes.

The red script in the wall of names gives a sharp, hungry flicker, as if the tower has noticed the new fear and chosen to keep it.

Delfarius tips his chin toward the shattered line below, and the laugh that follows is all teeth. The tower’s red script answers with a hungry blink, as if it enjoys the joke as much as he does.

Below, the holy line scrambles into knots of shields and bloodied robes, dragging the wreck of its pride with it. A few still look up, but none can hold the sight.

Past Delfarius leans closer, his grin bright with shared cruelty, and the two of them laugh again over the rail. The bedchamber doors behind them breathe out black silk and lamplight into the cold height.

Then the wall of names gives a sudden red flicker, sharper than before, and the laughter catches for half a breath. Somewhere deeper in the tower, something listens too closely.