The Writ of Iron.
The Vaulkhar Karond sat within his chambers, heavy gauntlets flipping the iron pallet with dull deliberate tones. Metal against metal. The writ had been cast the night before but still it felt heated. Its dark surface shimmered, catching the sunlight, bouncing it into the furthest shadows and along the ceiling.
The Vaulkhar’s face grimaced, his brow teased with contempt. He clenched the writ in one hand.
“Iago Sathar…” the words spat from his lips.
It was not the request itself that had befouled the Vaulkhar, but the manner in which the Dreadlord had asked it. His face creasing with a lascivious grin as he had exerted himself in the pomp of the court. Iago had thwarted his assassin, and bested his champion. Then had paraded into his court like a grand noble demanding he be given the opportunity to attain glory.
And now the Court of the Witch King had granted House Sathar with a Writ, granted on commendation of the Vaulkhar no less, to gather and raise such forces as to claim victory, and enter the greater circles of the Court.
Or fail and face the consequences. Bare the shame of his House as the molten Writ would be poured down his throat.
The Vaulkhar’s face warmed at the promise of such an event. To be certain, he would hand the Writ of Iron personally to Iago.
Indeed, he imagined, his blessing would be best to seal his fate.
