“And the other?” Soth prompted. He tightened his grip on the ancient throne, and the wood cracked beneath his grip.
“The dark-haired woman with the crooked smile roams the hills as well,” Azrael reported. “The elves say she calls herself Kitiara. She claims that she was your doom, that you followed her voice into the mist that brought you here.”
Soth pounded the throne with a mailed fist. “I want you to have anyone spreading that rumor killed!” he shouted. “I forged my own doom. I am the cause of my damnation.”
The death knight had repeated those words quite often in the last few years, but he knew they were a lie. There were things of darkness that had power far greater than his. He was lord of Nedragaard Keep and master of a duchy even larger than Barovia. But the elves called Soth’s domain Sithicus, an Elvish term that meant “land of specters.” Although he would never admit it, Soth knew the name was a fitting one for his kingdom of shadows.