The Deathseeker returned with the struggling emperor and deposited him in the middle of the room. The Dark asha stepped toward him, her fingers busy.

“The time for deceit is over, Your Majesty,” the asha told him. “You have been hiding under this form for many months, and the people suffered under your tyranny. You have killed the worthy Tansoong and recruited many of your own into positions of power in the palace. You have wallowed in luxury and allowed your people to live in filth. You survived our last battle but at a cost. Even now, my wards wrap around you, and you are no longer strong enough to break free. I let you keep your illusion only because every Daanorian soldier in this city would want your head if they knew, and the last thing I wanted was a mutiny before the forger was done. But now you have outlived your usefulness.”

“Lady Tea,” I implored her, hoping to find some mercy left inside her, “Emperor Shifang’s death will do more harm to your cause.”

“But Emperor Shifang is no longer with us, Bard. I knew it when I scried my way into Daanoris from the Sea of Skulls and confirmed it when I saw the hanjian, Baoyi, directing the soldiers against us.” Magic burned. The emperor threw his head back and screamed. He thrashed desperately on the floor, twitching, as his features twisted and writhed—and melted, like wax dripping over some great bonfire. I watched, horror stricken, as a new face emerged from that ruined expression, a mask peeled away to reveal the face of an old bald man with a long beard, gasping in pain on the floor.

“Meet the scourge of Daanoris,” the bone witch said. “The Faceless, Usij.”