Coldharbour did not sleep—it recoiled.
The air there was not air, but will made dense: iron thought, chained longing, the quiet pressure of countless souls pressed into obedience. And at its center, upon a throne carved from broken vows, Molag Bal stirred.
Not because he was threatened.
Because he was reminded.
A fracture in memory. A repetition of insult.
“Again…”
The word did not echo—it corrupted space as it passed.
“Again there walks a mortal who refuses the shape of a leash.”
He ros