The Lord's House is burning, and I am the arsonist.
The rooms are filled with searing light and heat and sweet poison--the smell of jasmine fills the air as the gardens below catch and blossom into flame.
I struggle through those blindingly bright rooms, through the charring gilt furniture and tapestry and paintings, which the fire devours like a drunk upon his finest wineskin. It purrs in my ears. I am its creator and its master. And I am looking for my lord.
Through room after room, I fight my way through collapsing archways and sprays of embers. There are women and men on the floor, their fists curled up around their heads like slender, blackened boxers.
I find my lord in his chambers. His body lies, spread-eagled and whiter than snow, a perfect alabaster statue, upon the crimson sheets of his bed. The fire has not touched him.
Something else has.
In an ornately painted box, on the pillow beside him, is his severed head.
