Page 101 of Vasmora

The bloodbinder stumbled into the tent, perhaps from the effect of whatever sleeping spell they’d placed on him. His arms had been bound in copper shackles, like Zevander’s. The moment he caught sight of Lothare, he dropped to his knees and bowed his head. “Sir, Lord Vexmoor, Sir. I’ve come vith an urgent message.”

“You came with a message?” Lothare snorted. “We took you.”

The man peered up at him from beneath his brow and nodded. “Yes, vell, I have a message nonetheless.”

“From whom?”

“Akmyrios.”

Lothare pressed his palm to his chest, a look of surprise crossing his face. “King Sagaerin’s high mage?”

“Yes, Sir. He has a proposal vor you.”

“We’ll get to that in a moment. First, I need you to confirm …” He lifted the severed hand out of the satchel. “Is this the hand of General Loyce? And is she dead?”

The bloodbinder slid his gaze toward Zevander and back.

“Be honest, little man. Or I’ll have my wolves determine whether you’re lying. Liars taste bitter.”

“It’s true. Loyce is … indisposed.” He waved toward the hand the man held. “Vether, or not, she’s dead … I’ve not convirmed.”

“I see.” Lothare held up the hand a moment longer, examining it before stuffing it back into the bag.

“I offered her the same death as she offered your sister,” Zevander said flatly.

Lothare’s jaw shifted, undoubtedly contemplating whether to ask the question burning in his mind. “And … what is that?”

Brow creased, Zevander lowered his gaze and shook his head.

Lothare raised his hand and turned toward one of his men. “Andalone, if you would please.”

As one of the men strode forward, Zevander backed up a step, the glyph across his hand burning.

“Do you mind if he has a look at your memories?” Lothare asked. “He’s very skilled. Very specific.”

Zevander hesitated at first, then gave a reluctant nod.

The man dressed in the same garb as the other assassins raised his hand, and a glyph glowed across his palm. Images appeared in the air between them, a flash of the girl’s face that he hadn’t seen in a century. Smiling as she offered him bread. Bathing him in preparation for General Loyce. Rubbing gold onto his skin the night of the Golden Bacchanal.

And finally, the moment Loyce decapitated her fellow Bellatryx for betrayal.

“Aradia,” Lothare whispered with a wince.

The distress hardened across his face at Loyce ordering Vaelora tossed into the pit.

With clenched teeth, Zevander watched himself jump in after her, biting back the anxious feeling that pounded in his chest.

“Promise me something …” Vaelora spoke low, her voice quivering like a candle in a drafty corridor. “Should you ever leave this place and cross paths with my brother…tell him I love him.”

“Enough of that. You’re getting out of here.”

Zevander winced at the broken promise. Screams echoed through the cave, and he had to look away. Years of training had taught him to tamp down his memories, to lock them away, and there he was, reliving it all over again.

“Enough! Enough!” Lothare said, and he turned away, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

The image faded, and Zevander let out a long exhale.

The tent was quiet only briefly before Lothare let out a sound of rage and misery and pounded his fist against the chair, busting the wooden throne into small pieces. Once he’d succeeded in demolishing it, he ran a hand down his face, still turned away.