The darkness swallowed everything.
It was thick—suffocating—like tar clinging to Denwen's skin, pulling him deeper, deeper, deeper into an abyss where no light existed. A silent void stretched infinitely in all directions, pressing in on him, warping his sense of self. He tried to move, but his body was weightless, drifting like a corpse in a bottomless ocean.
Then—
A step echoed.
A slow, deliberate click against the unseen floor.
Denwen's breath hitched.
He was not alone.
Another step. Then another. The sound reverberated unnaturally, crawling into his ears, burrowing into his mind. The presence was near—too near—though he could see nothing in the oppressive dark.
And then—
The abyss opened its eyes.
Two glowing white singularities flared to life before him, burning like distant stars against the black. They weren't human. They weren't even alive. They were something else—something beyond understanding—beyond existence.
A mouth followed, slow and deliberate, stretching into a crescent grin. It was too wide, too sharp, filled with teeth that weren't quite teeth, but shadows sharpened to unnatural edges. The grin didn't belong on a human face.
It stared at him.
It knew him.
"Denwen."
The voice was everywhere. It crawled up his spine, wrapped around his ribs, and slithered into his skull like worms burrowing deep. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. The sheer weight of its presence crushed the very air in his lungs.
"Did you enjoy playing god?"
Denwen tried to breathe, tried to move—but his limbs were locked in place, paralyzed by the abyssal gravity of the entity before him. His voice, his essence, his will—it was all slipping away, swallowed by that terrible, hungry smile.
"They screamed for you."
The darkness shifted.
Shapes emerged.
Figures broken, battered, lifeless—his comrades.
Elara stood before him, or what remained of her. Half of her face was burnt beyond recognition, the right side of her skull exposed, white bone gleaming against charred flesh. Her mouth moved—silent, pleading.
Behind her, Kaelin lay crumpled, his limbs bent at impossible angles, his eyes wide with an expression of agony frozen in time. The massive hole in his chest still smoldered, the edges blackened as if she had been eaten away from the inside.
Garric's decapitated head rolled to Denwen's feet, his dead eyes staring up at him, lips trembling, forming soundless words.
They reached for him.
Hands mangled and bloody, clawing at his legs, his chest, his throat. Their fingers dug into his skin, tearing, ripping, breaking—
"You were our Queen."
A voice hissed in his ear.
"You moved the pieces."
The darkness shifted, and Denwen saw himself.
Seated upon the throne, high above the chessboard of carnage and ruin. He saw his own hand, moving them across the battlefield, directing them to their deaths.
One by one, his comrades fell.
Elara screamed. Kaelin begged. Garric died with his name on his lips.
And yet, he never stopped moving the pieces.
"You had all the power."
The grinning entity stepped forward, the abyss twisting around it like a living thing.
"And yet, you did—nothing."
The suffocating weight of guilt bore down on Denwen. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps as the hands of his fallen comrades tightened around his throat, squeezing, crushing—dragging him down into the abyss with them.
Then—
Laughter.
Sweet, terrible laughter.
The Queen's voice slithered through the void, mocking, indulgent. She emerged from the blackness, her towering form cutting through the abyss like a sharpened blade. Her eyes, empty and knowing, glowed with amusement.
"Oh, Denwen…" she crooned, stepping closer, her obsidian heels clicking against the unseen surface. "Did you truly think you could just leave?"
She loomed over him, tilting his chin up with one cold, clawed finger.
"You played my game."
Her smile widened, hungry and full of cruelty.
"And now you're mine."
Denwen thrashed, but his body wouldn't obey. He was drowning, being pulled deeper into the abyss. The hands of his fallen comrades gripped his arms, his legs, his soul—dragging him into the endless black.
"No." He gasped. "No, no, no—"
The Grinning Man's teeth gleamed.
The Queen's eyes burned.
"Checkmate."
Then—
Cold hands wrapped around his face.
His body jerked violently.
Denwen screamed.
Awakening
Light blinded him.
Denwen thrashed, his limbs flailing, his throat raw from the sound that still tore from his lips. The warmth of hands—human hands—pressed against him, holding him firm.
"Denwen! Denwen!"
The voice—his mother's voice—cut through the haze of horror.
He was no longer in the abyss.
The scent of antiseptic flooded his nose. Bright white hospital walls surrounded him. The nightmare—was over.
But it didn't feel over.
His body was drenched in sweat, his hospital gown clinging to his skin. His breath came in ragged, desperate gasps, his pulse hammering against his ribs like a war drum.
His mother was there—Racheal—her hands cradling his face, her eyes wide with fear and worry.
"Shh… shh… it's okay, you're safe, you're safe," she whispered, brushing his damp hair back.
But he wasn't.
The Grinning Man's laughter still echoed in his skull.
The Queen's eyes still burned in the back of his mind.
The hands of the dead still clung to his flesh.
And worst of all—
It felt as though he was being constantly watched.
---
The hospital room was filled with a heavy silence, one that pressed down on Denwen's chest like an iron weight. His skin was slick with sweat, his breathing still uneven from the remnants of the nightmare that had clung to him like a second skin. The echoes of the abyss still lingered at the edges of his mind, whispering, taunting.
Then—
A familiar voice cut through the tension.
"Bro, at this point, you should just come out plain and tell us you're in love with Lady Death," Roy said, arms crossed, trying to mask his concern with humor. His smirk was casual, but his eyes weren't. They held the kind of exhaustion that only someone who had been worried sick could have.
Kara, who had been silently standing nearby, shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel before turning away and making a beeline for the bathroom, the door shutting behind her with a little too much force.
"You really know how to give a girl trouble." Nicole sighed, shaking her head in exasperation. "At this rate, you'll be the reason I get gray hairs before I turn twenty." Her voice was light, but there was no missing the relief in it.
Denwen forced a small chuckle, but it came out weak—hollow.
His gaze swept the room, taking in the figures around him.
Varek stood near the far wall, arms folded tightly across his chest. His head was tilted downward, his face set in deep, quiet disappointment. He wouldn't even look at Denwen. Wouldn't meet his eyes.
That hurt more than any physical wound.
Racheal, his mother, turned toward him, shaking her head. Her expression was a mixture of relief, frustration, and something else—something deeper. "You know you're in a lot of trouble, young man," she murmured, her voice carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken worries. "But for now, focus on recovering." She gestured to the bandages wrapping his body, a clear reminder of just how much pain he was still in.
Denwen sighed, slumping back against the pillows. His body ached, every movement sending sharp stabs of discomfort through his muscles. "At this point," he muttered, "I've been admitted to the hospital more times in the past few months than in my entire life. Now, I don't even know how long this is gonna take to heal."
His voice wasn't just exhausted. It carried something heavier—a deep, gnawing self-disappointment that clenched around his ribs like a vice.
A silence followed.
Tense. Uncomfortable. Unspoken emotions clashing in the air.
Then—
A voice cut through the tension, sharp and absolute.
Varek.
"Guys." His father's voice was calm but firm, edged with something undeniable. Something final.
"Give us the room. I need to speak with him. Alone."
Denwen's stomach dropped.
His heart sank like a stone into the pit of his gut.
The others hesitated for only a second. Nicole glanced between them, her expression flickering with concern. Roy didn't crack a joke this time. Even Racheal, who had been tending to him moments ago, gave her son one last lingering look before nodding.
One by one, they filed out.
The door clicked shut behind them.
And then, there was only silence.
Only him and his father.
Denwen swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
Varek still hadn't moved from his place by the wall. Hadn't spoken. Hadn't looked at him.
The air felt heavy.
Denwen could already tell—
This conversation would not be easy.