The march to the imperial capital was not a pursuit; it was an execution procession.
Twelve thousand men moved along the Grand Imperial Highway, their ranks swollen by four thousand surrendered crusaders who had sworn their oaths to the Northern Crown rather than face the gallows. At the vanguard rode the Five Thousand Spears, their iron-plated shields freshly painted with the emblem of the Wolf and the Veil—a snarling predator crowned in quicksilver thorns.
Behind them rolled forty heavy baggage wagons laden with the silver of Oak haven and the grain reserves of the southern baronies. The land offered no resistance.
Every provincial governor and castellan between the Sinking Fen and the capital flung open their gates before the column arrived. They had seen Vane’s severed standard dragged through the dust; they had heard the rumors of the northern warlord who had cleaved through the holy pyres with a blade of sovereign fire, backed by a witch whose eyes burned with the pale judgment of the Veil.
By the fifth day of the march, the great limestone ridgeline of Mount Aurelius fell away, revealing the heart of the empire.
Sol-Vaelen—the Golden City.
It sprawled across seven hills at the confluence of the White River, an ocean of marble palaces, domed basilicas, and tiered gardens ringed by three concentric walls of dressed granite forty paces high. In its center rose the Imperial Palace, capped by the colossal Golden Spire that caught the setting sun in a blinding glare of melted brass and polished orichalcum.
Yet the streets beyond the walls were utterly deserted.
The harbor was blocked by scuttled merchant carracks, their masts jutting from the gray water like broken ribs. No patrols manned the outer redoubts. The Emperor had pulled all sixty thousand legionnaires of the Imperial Guard inside the innermost ring—the Wall of Saints—abandoning the outer boroughs to the mercy of the invaders.
Malakor reined the great roan to a halt on the crest of the northern olive groves, half a league from the Lion Gate.
He had shed his travel cloak. His blackened iron cuirass gleamed in the dying light, the silver scars on his hands and collar pulsing in faint synchrony with the blood-tether anchored to his soul. His great sword was strapped across his shoulder, its dark steel humming with an unquenched, subterranean hunger that had grown sharper with every league they covered.
Aurelia brought her mare alongside his stirrup.
Her dark hair was braided back with strips of black leather, her gaze fixed on the gleaming pinnacle of the Golden Spire. The air here was heavy, laden with centuries of incense and imperial hubris, but beneath the perfumes, she could smell the rot. The foundation of Sol-Vaelen had been built over the primary leylines of the Old World, and the stone was weeping from the pressure of the unsealed Veil.
"He is waiting in the Throne Room," Aurelia said quietly, her voice cutting clean through the rustle of dry olive leaves. "Emperor Valerius. He has summoned the High Arcanists of the Sunken Court. They have broken the seals on the imperial crypts beneath the palace."
Malakor turned to look at her, his amber eyes narrowing into slits of molten gold. He reached out, his bare, scarred hand catching her chin, tilting her face up toward his. The heat radiating from his palm was an unyielding command that banished every phantom whisper from her thoughts.
"He can wake whatever ghosts he pleases," Malakor murmured, his thumb dragging across the firm curve of her bottom lip with slow, possessive authority. "They will bleed the same as his priests."
Aurelia’s hand rose to clasp his forearm, feeling the corded iron of his muscles beneath the bracer. "The palace crypt connects to the abyssal vault we sealed at Mount Sorrow, Malakor. Valerius is not trying to defend the walls. He is trying to bring the Veil down upon the city before he yields the throne."
A low, savage laugh rumbled deep in Malakor’s chest, devoid of humor, vibrating with the pure, primal fury of an apex predator that had cornered its prey.
"Then we will ensure he chokes on the dark before his spells take hold," Malakor growled, leaning down until his mouth brushed hers, hot and rough against the evening chill.
He pulled back, his gaze locking onto the silent gates of the Golden City. He drew his great sword with a single, deafening ring of steel, raising the dark blade high into the twilight.
"Sound the horns," Malakor commanded, his voice roaring down the line to twelve thousand waiting blades. "Break the Lion Gate!"