Sunder

The words circled through his head, straight, rigid lines forced to bend until they shattered. The brutal statement of fact could not become a condolence or apology.

The white core of the portal shimmered into existence, lines of light circling the rim in flitting streaks. He stared into the piercing brightness and envisioned a kingdom, palace, wing, corridor, room. The white energy darkened with color and depth, and words reassembled themselves into stark lines.

Destane is dead; I am the new Lord of the Black Sand; the contract is null; your kingdom is free; I will return her to you.

The lines would end then, curtailed indeterminately as he would wait for the disbelief to subside, leaving only hatred.

The portal was open, clear. An old, worn face beneath a dull crown, a frown of surprise and suspicion; curt, unwilling deference. The procession of words began.

Destane is dead...? And you… Subdued incredulity. Then…

Continue. The contract is null; your kingdom is free.

Suspicion faded to awe, a blank stare, a tinge of relief. A change in inflection, a sudden spark of desperate hope.

Then…she…

The sorcerer’s moment of hesitation did not go unseen. The king faltered, relief to doubt to fear, the air fraught with invisible questions.

Words resumed their forward march; one unrelenting line remained.

I will return her to you.

Sunder.

She is free.