'*'*'
Fun fact this fic nearly ended!
As I mentioned I throw a combination of dice to help decide the outcome and actions taken in some events.
I threw this combination twice today and both times it was bad!
.
Next chapter we will know of Kai's fate.
'*'*'*'
The scent of seared meat and roasted soul-fruit drifted lazily through the air, mingling with the faint tang of ozone still left from the aftermath of battle. Somewhere nearby, a half-shattered shield served as a makeshift spit, slowly turning over the fire. Someone laughed. The world, for a brief moment, felt soft.
Sunless plucked another fruit from [Mother's Maw] with a casual flick of thought—cool, smooth, and oddly slick in his hand. The fruits were strange things. At first bite, sweet and ripe, like the memory of summer. But after the hundredth, he had grown tired of the taste—and the damn things had adjusted, turning sharp and tart, like they were offended by his boredom.
Adaptive soul-food. Fantastic.
Still, it served its purpose. Everyone needed time to recover—not physically, but mentally. After the kind of slaughter they'd endured, what eased nerves better than fire, food, and a bit of spectacle?
Unfortunately, Effie had sensed the opportunity for the latter.
"You lucky little gremlin!" she barked, pointing dramatically at Cassie, who sat cross-legged on a rock, quietly cradling one of her new Echoes like a sleeping bird. "First Mr. Brood Lord over there, and now you! Do you know how long it's been since I even smelled an Echo? Three years! And you just waltz in and bag three like it's a flea market sale?"
Cassie smiled sheepishly, brushing a strand of pale hair behind her ear. "I only got two, actually… the crabby one was a gift from Sunny."
Effie's eyes gleamed like a fox who'd just sniffed out a chicken coop.
"Oh? Ohhh? So not only is the Duke of Mood Swings over there hoarding Echoes like candy, but one of them just happens to be his girlfriend? Isn't that sweet!"
Sunless, mid-bite, choked.
He turned slowly, eyes narrowing.. Sasha froze mid-spoonful. Cassie looked ready to spontaneously combust.
Caught mid-bite, he turned away and barely avoided spraying half-chewed fruit into the fire. The accusation rang through the clearing like a bell, loud enough for half the camp to hear. Nephis, Gemma, and his men were within earshot—and while most of them probably didn't care, he did.
He was trying to build something, damn it. A name. A myth. The cold and untouchable Duke of the Dark City did not get accused of romantic entanglements by feral huntresses, especially not with Nightmare creatures.
"Bold choice of words, Athena," he said, keeping his voice low and cold, sharpening it just enough to cut. "I would strongly advise against spreading such ridiculous notions."
Effie placed a hand over her heart, mock-offended. "Oh no, he's advising me. What's next, forbidding me? Come on, Duke-y. Think you've got the authority to tell me what to do?"
Sunless didn't respond. He just gave a faint nod.
A second later, Saint arrived.
Materialized beside him in a breath of silver heat and silent steel, her presence immediately stole the air from the clearing. Her armor gleamed in the firelight, sword still sheathed, shield resting against one shoulder. Impassive. Patient. But even still, the impact of her silent arrival was enough to make most of the bystanders flinch.
She didn't speak.
She simply looked at Effie.
Effie looked at her. Then at Sunless.
Effie didn't flinch. She *lit up.*
"Oh, so that's how it is," she purred, voice dropping just slightly—just enough for only Sunless to catch the edge of it. "Wanna bet who's gonna win, then? If I knock your girlfriend flat, you owe me ten shards—no, *fifty.*"
Sunless sighed. Long and slow.
"And if you lose?"
Effie gave him a wicked little grin.
Effie winked, full of wicked mischief. "And if I lose? Well… let's just say I'll be needing a place to cry. Preferably someone's lap."
He blinked.
Then gave her a long, unreadable look.
Of course. Theatrics. She wanted a scene. No doubt Cassie or Neph had told her about his usual mannerisms, and now she was poking at him on purpose—chipping away at the myth of the Duke like it was a game. But this time she wasn't just needling him for laughs.
She wanted the whole camp watching.
She wanted blood, maybe. Or just fun.
But either way—fine.
He could play, too.
"Alright," he said, lifting his hand. "Have at it."
"Alright, stone legs," Effie purred, spinning her bronze spear between her fingers like a baton. "Let's see what you've got. Or are you just gonna stand there and pout like your master?"
Saint said nothing.
She simply stepped forward, shield lowering into position with a weighty finality that made the dirt crunch beneath her. Her body gleamed dully in the firelight—weathered marble given motion, grace forged from granite. Not even the fire crackling nearby seemed brave enough to touch her.
Cassie perked up, whispering, "Oh no."
Sasha muttered, "Is she seriously going to—?"
"She's seriously going to," Sunless murmured, already regretting the inevitable.
A semicircle had formed. Scouts paused mid-meal. Gemma raised an eyebrow. Even Nephis turned, flask halfway to her lips.
Effie paced, grin wide and teeth showing. Her spear spun again, humming with speed.
Then she launched.
Like a streak of bronze lightning, she closed the distance in a heartbeat—feet light, spear sweeping in a broad arc aimed low at Saint's legs.
*Clang.*
Saint didn't even blink. Her shield dropped with a dull *thud*, catching the strike effortlessly and absorbing the momentum like a stone swallowing rain. Her feet didn't move. Not even an inch.
Effie's second strike was a twirling thrust aimed at Saint's shoulder.
It met her shield again. Deflected. Harmless.
A third came from behind her back, more flourish than function, but still fast—only for the stone knight to tilt her massive frame and casually parry with the rim of her shield.
"She's toying with her," Sasha whispered.
"She's *teaching* her," Sunless corrected, grinning.
Effie darted back, breath quick, eyes bright. She wasn't discouraged. Just *thrilled*.
"That's it? I thought the legend would be more than a living statue!"
Saint stepped forward.
Effie tried to circle—fast steps, feinting left, then striking high-right with the flat of her spear. Saint didn't flinch. Instead, she suddenly moved—precise and clean.
She pivoted, brought her shield up, and shoved.
The force of it was immense.
Effie skidded backward a meter, boots digging into the dirt. She dropped into a crouch, laughing. "Ohhh, that's how it is! Playing rough now?"
She lunged again.
This time her spear crackled as she activated a burst enchantment—metal heating slightly, the air warping around it. The next exchange was faster, a blur of bronze streaks dancing around the immovable knight. Strikes from above, from below, the shaft snapping like a whip as Effie worked every angle she knew.
None of them broke Saint's stance.
The stone warrior absorbed each one. She moved her shield like a sculptor's chisel, angled perfectly to redirect or kill momentum. Then, as the spear came in for a jab to her flank, Saint stepped in, turned her shoulder, and *checked* Effie with the rim of her shield.
Effie hit the dirt—hard.
Flat on her back. Arms splayed.
"…ow," she muttered.
Saint's final blow had knocked her flat—back against the stone, limbs sprawled, her spear clattering somewhere off to the side.
Effie lay there a moment, breathing hard, before blowing a lock of hair out of her face and groaning dramatically.
"…Ugh. So that's me officially owing you lap time," she muttered, raising a finger toward Sunless without even lifting her head. "Feel free to collect whenever, your Grace."
She flashed a crooked, tired grin.
"Just maybe not while Saint's still looming like a pissed-off statue."
Saint stood over her, unmoving. Then she turned and walked away.
"Rude," Effie wheezed, sitting up with a groan. "I *was* going easy on her."
Cassie laughed softly, covering her mouth. "She didn't even draw her sword…"
"Oh, don't rub it in, porcelain," Effie grinned, rubbing her ribs. "That was foreplay. Wait 'til the rematch."
Sasha flushed.
Saint returned to Sunless's side without a word.
He didn't say anything either, but there was a tiny curl at the corner of his lips. Not a smile—just the ghost of one.
Effie dusted herself off and turned to the others. "Alright, fifty shards down the drain. Worth it. But if anyone asks, I let her win."
Sunny couldn't stop a chuckle escaping his lips.
'*'
Sunless was humming to himself. Soft and tuneless—just a low murmur beneath his breath, like a half-remembered song from a childhood he didn't recall. It wasn't out of calm. It was never calm, not really. But it helped keep the nerves steady.
The Mausoleum was vast. Too vast. An old, forgotten palace for the dead, draped in stone silence and stale time. Its breathless quiet seemed to press down on the skin, thick with ancient dust and the weight of unspoken memory. Even his shadows moved cautiously here, gliding through the dim corridors like children tiptoeing through a sleeping cathedral.
He'd spent the night exploring it. Watching. Waiting.
Inside, the Mausoleum was a warren of twisted halfways—liminal passages that never felt quite real, like folded pages in a book that had been dog-eared too many times. They wound and doubled back, all eventually leading to one of seven doors. Each one opened onto the same impossible place: the Main Hall.
It wasn't a hall. It was a crypt the size of a cathedral turned inside out. Hundreds of meters high and deeper still, it defied geometry with its solemn, yawning scale. Every wall was studded with tombstones—some cracked, some whole—reaching up toward a ceiling so distant it vanished into darkness. There were no names. Only faint impressions, like erosion had eaten away memory and left behind suggestion.
The air was still, not stale but preserved—like it had been trapped here for centuries, waiting to be exhaled.
At the center of it all, half-shrouded in gloom, stood the Slayer's statue.
Or rather, what was left of it.
A titanic figure of a woman crouched like a coiled snake, head bowed—or more accurately, *missing*. The statue had been decapitated long ago, but it still radiated menace. Even headless, the sculpted cloak wrapped around her hunched body conveyed purpose, tension, *intent*. A dagger rested in her stone grip, its blade poised mid-thrust. She was ready to pounce. Waiting, eternally.
The craftsmanship was unnatural. Sunless could feel it—*see* it, in the way the folds of the stone cloak shifted with each step his shadows took around her, as though they moved subtly when he wasn't looking. She didn't need a face. Somehow, the air around her *had one*. An identity. A story that was still hunting.
This was the heart of the Mausoleum. And in its shadow, the Guardian danced.
He'd watched it for hours. Watched it glide silently through the tombs, its presence more suggestion than sound. It never made noise. Never stumbled. It didn't lurk—it *performed*.
The Guardian was a mockery of nobility, yes. But it was also a mirror. A grotesque reflection of courtly grace turned lethal.
It moved like a whisper through the velvet gloom—*too smooth*, *too composed*. Even now, as it circled beneath the towering walls of the Hall, it looked almost beautiful. From a distance, it could have been mistaken for a mourner. A pale, slender woman in mourning robes, trailing lace and brocade that fluttered without wind, along her tail.
But up close, the illusion fractured.
Its limbs were *wrong*. Too long, too jointed, too many . Its posture that of a dancer mid-bow, or mid-curtsy—but its elbows bent twice, and its spine rippled when it moved, like fabric stretched too tight over broken bones. Needle-thin fingers traced invisible patterns in the air, delicate as embroidery. Death, stitched in silence.
A bone-white mask rested over its face, cracked delicately and mended with gold like fine kintsugi. It was elegant. Impossibly so. And wholly *false*. Behind the mask, Sunless could feel the presence of something alive. Something *wet* and breathing, savoring the pretense.
Threads trailed from its arms like marionette strings, catching light as they swayed. Some were connected to nothing. Others dragged behind them *trophies*—a desiccated hand, a matted braid, the empty shell of a doll's head. Not clutter. Not by accident. Each one placed with intention. Ornaments in a ballroom of the dead.
And the blade.
Not held. Not wielded.
*Woven into it*.
A stiletto, thin and black, lay folded into its wrist like a scorpion's sting. It never swung it. It *slid* it. Fast. Precise. He hadn't seen it move—but he'd seen the aftermath. Blood cooled on the cold stone where someone had stood a millennium ago. A minute. A mistake. The Guardian hadn't even seemed to notice it had killed.
Because it hadn't needed to try.
This wasn't a beast. Not even a monster.
This was a relic.
An executioner dressed for a waltz.
It had stepped into the chamber like a ghost returning to a stage it once ruled, and Sunless had watched—motionless, breath held in the back of his throat—as it tilted its head. Not toward his shadows. But toward *him*.
Like it knew it had been seen.
Then it vanished again. Not with haste. With *poise*. Each step precise. Each retreat a choreography.
It didn't hunt for hunger.
It hunted because someone had once taught it how to *curtsy before a kill*.
And it had never forgotten.
Sunless stared across the vast chamber, into the growing hush before dawn. The others were still sleeping. Still recovering.
But he remained.
A fellow dancer, standing at the edge of the floor.
And beneath his breath, as he watched the Seamstress vanish between tombstone rows, he smiled.
Not out of joy.
But because he was excited to meet her again.
And this time, it would be his turn to lead.
'*'
The fight began with silence—and then a soundless arrow, fast as a scream swallowed by velvet, pierced the eye of the Seamstress.
Gemma had drawn first blood.
It should have been a disruption. A shock. The kind of strike that broke rhythm and gave the hunters a chance to dictate the tempo. But the Seamstress did not flinch. She *tilted*—a half-curtsy mid-sliver, as if acknowledging the wound with theatrical grace. Blood spilled not with panic, but with decorum. As if she had *allowed* the strike. As if it was simply part of the performance.
Gemma was already gone, darting across the far entrance astride one of his massive spectral foxes, drawing the monster's attention. It had been the plan from the start—bait, disorient, and misdirect. Not even to hurt the Seamstress, not really. Just to *set the stage*.
Because this wasn't just a fight. It was a duel with a creature that believed itself royalty, and knew the steps of every dance.
Sunless and Nephis advanced in silence atop the second fox, charging across the cathedral-sized chamber toward the Slayer statue. The first objective. No [Moonlight Shard] could be claimed without touching it. And without the shard, they couldn't slay the Gate Guardian.
Tactics over glory. Logic over chaos. The true killing blow would come *after*.
Saint, bound to him through soul and loyalty , ran alongside the fox, her shield catching sparks and light like a banner of war. Effie was already ahead, sprinting with a lazy sort of elegance, like this was just another drill and not a battle with one of the Fallen.
On the opposite end of the ruined ballroom, the distraction force had engaged.
The echo of a Carapace Scavenger lunged, all chitin and claws, flanked by three sinuous centipede echos and three desperate Pathfinders. They had no illusions about their role—they weren't there to win. They were there to *buy time*.
And yet, even knowing that, they faltered.
The Seamstress did not fight. She *danced*. She moved through their ranks like the lead in a haunting ballet, each step punctuated by a flourish or an eerie pause, as if listening to music only she could hear.
One moment she spun away from the Scavenger, the next she leaned into an impossible backbend, fingers tracing glowing arcs through the air. Threads snapped taut. Limbs darted with venomous grace. When she struck, it wasn't brutal—it was *beautiful*.
The Carapace echo shattered in a heartbeat, its plated limbs falling in pieces across the marble floor.
A Pathfinder screamed. One of the Seamstress's needle-thin hands had reached into his chest with such delicacy it looked like a lover's touch. Fingers slipped between his ribs like a surgeon's scalpel. A punctured lung, blood gurgling in his throat. Even Nephis's divine flame couldn't undo drowning on the inside.
Sasha threw a canister. Her aim was off—but whether from panic or intent, it detonated early, right in the Seamstress's face.
It didn't harm her. Not truly. But it *interrupted* her.
She reeled back a step, one hand rising in slow disdain, brushing ash from her porcelain mask. She looked offended. As if Sasha had misstepped during a waltz.
And that was the moment Saint had waited for.
Two shadows surged up her legs, fueling her with impossible strength, and in one fluid, ruthless motion, she *threw* Nephis like a javelin of divine fury.
The silver fire erupted mid-air—first a flickering spark, then a burning cloak, and then, in a flash, a falling star descending from heaven. Changing Star lived up to her name, her body eclipsed by the sheer radiance of celestial flame. For a second, she *was* a comet, barreling toward the Seamstress with enough heat to vaporize stone.
The impact painted the chamber in silver and blue fire. Screams drowned in light. Shadows burned away.
And for a breathless moment—*it looked like the fight was over*.
When the light faded, the Seamstress stood in a smoking crater of melted marble. Her right side was *gone*. Gone—burned to blackened threads and drifting ash. Two of her arms had been incinerated, the once-impeccable lace now a tattered ruin.
But her head turned. Slowly. Deliberately. And then she raised her remaining arm and smoothed her broken skirt, the charred hem trailing cinders.
She bowed.
The same courtly, cruel dip of the head from before.
And began to dance again—on three limbs this time, dragging the ruin of her form into movement as fluid as before.
It was Sunless's and Effie's turn.
They moved without a word. Saint stepped ahead, shield up, daring the monster to approach, while Effie circled wide to flank. Sunless vanished into the gloom, shadow flowing around his body like a second skin. Only the left side remained a threat now—and they would not waste the opportunity.
They didn't need to beat her at her own game.
They just needed to *end the performance*.
'*'
The remnants of the Seamstress still writhed like a half-forgotten nightmare. Even mutilated—its right arms gone, its torso gored by Saint's earlier strike, and its tail trailing threads slick with silver blood—it radiated a kind of focused madness. Twitching. Grinning. Its left side, intact and grotesquely elegant, curved toward them like the sweeping arm of a puppetmaster ready to claim new marionettes.
Sunless didn't need to kill it.
He just needed to buy time.
And he wasn't alone.
Shadow surged around his body like a second skin, slick and oily, crawling beneath the plates of his armor and wrapping itself around muscle and bone. His breath was steady. His mind sharpened. [Midnight Shard] gleamed black in his hand as he sprinted toward the abomination, a streak of darkness drawn across a field of tattered ruin.
Effie moved with him, a copper blur beside his shadow. Her bronze spear spun lazily in her hand, trailing arcs of heat and wind. Unlike Saint, who approached like a storm front—measured and unstoppable—Effie danced with mischief in her blood, a predator with a grin sharp enough to cut.
They were not alone.
Saint stepped forward last, her massive greatsword sliding from her back with a hiss of stone against steel. Her shield hit the ground like a hammer-blow, sending a low tremor through the earth. No words, no flair—just pure, deliberate menace. She moved like a statue given life, each footfall measured, each shift of her weight destructive.
And Sunless led the charge.
He'd built his foundation on [Shadow Dance]—fluidity, unpredictability, motion without thought. But the style wasn't an end. It was only a beginning.
He wove Nephis's brutal efficiency into it—her explosive transitions, the impossible economy of action, her relentless pursuit of lethal intent.
He added Caster's blade work—the elegant footwork. Speed. Precision.
Even the convulsing chaos of the Spectral Legion had value, their jerking, erratic violence. He mimicked them. Let his limbs snap like broken things and then realign into perfect geometry.
And beneath it all—the core, the weight—was Saint. Her grounded, unshakable style gave everything else shape. She was his anchor. His axis.
Together, they struck.
Effie landed the first blow. Her spear darted in from the left, baiting a swipe from the Seamstress's remaining hand. The abomination's claws came too slow. Effie twisted mid-air, vaulted over them, and dragged her spear down across its ribs, carving deep into shimmering flesh.
It shrieked, and the tail lashed—
Saint was already there.
Her shield met the segmented limb with an earth-shaking *boom*. Splinters of bone and silk sprayed out like shrapnel. She didn't flinch. Her sword came up in a reverse grip, cleaving downward in a punishing arc that shattered what remained of the Seamstress's right hip. The creature staggered, its long legs twitching violently.
Sunless flowed beneath it.
He moved like a shadow cut loose from the ground. Darting through gaps in the flailing limbs. Each swing of [Midnight Shard] drew blood—deep, precise cuts across the belly, the thigh, the remaining left arm.
He was faster.
Smarter.
He was learning.
With each dodge, he mapped the Seamstress's rhythm. With each strike, he adjusted to its weight, its reach, the curve of its tail. It was a dancer, yes—but it was a wounded one. Lopsided. Predictable.
He could do this.
He *was* doing this.
Then the mistake came.
He stepped in too close, feeling cocky, drunk on motion. His blade snapped forward, aiming for the Seamstress's throat.
He didn't see the thread.
It was thinner than hair. Glittering in the dark. A single strand of cursed silk, trailing from the tattered remnants of its ruined hand.
It brushed his side.
He hit the ground like a sack of shattered glass.
The impact cracked bone—he felt it, sharp and wrong. His breath hitched… and didn't come back. Just a terrible, yawning silence in his lungs.
The world tilted sideways, vision swaying like a pendulum. Pain burst through his spine in a cold flash of white fire, a searing signal that something was horribly, horribly wrong.
His legs wouldn't move.
Worse—he couldn't even feel them.
And looming above him was the Seamstress.
That damned smile still stretched across her face, too wide, too human and too not. Threads curled from her fingers, dancing like whispers of silk caught on barbed wire.
Effie screamed his name—sharp, panicked. Her voice pierced the haze and dragged his focus back for an instant.
She flew forward like a thrown spear, bronze point leading, fury trailing in her wake. Her aim was perfect—the spear plunged into the Seamstress's throat with a wet, grinding crunch.
The creature howled, body spasming in a grotesque shiver.
And then came Saint.
Not in a rush. Not wild. She moved like judgment—inevitable, unhurried, terrifying.
She stepped between the Seamstress and Sunless like a closing vault door, lifted her shield, and caught the descending claws in a block so fierce it cracked bone. The recoil echoed like a drumbeat. Her sword turned once in her grip, then slashed forward with finality, missing the serpentine tail by mere inches.
He could just make out Effie darting to intercept another flurry of threads. She moved like fire—burning, brilliant, impossible to ignore.
But Sunless couldn't follow.
Pain swallowed everything. Thought blurred into static.
Was this… how it ended?
Just like that?
He wanted to scream. Wanted to cry for help.
But no sound came. His throat felt stitched shut.
No—worse. Nothing came because he wasn't even trying anymore.
It was funny.
No, really—it was just too damn funny.
Some rat from the outskirts, dying in a Mausoleum meant for Nobility . What a ironic ending. A joke played by fate. Maybe he should laugh. Maybe he was laughing—he couldn't tell anymore.
The world was slipping sideways. Light twisted. Sound muffled. His thoughts became stretched, stringy. Time bled.
Where was he?
How long had it been?
The real joke? He couldn't even die.
His blood, cursed with tenacity, refused to surrender. [Blood Weave], augmented by [Trinity], was fighting to patch him back together. Stitching flesh. Mending nerves. Pulling marrow from his core to refill the hollow of his broken spine.
But it wasn't enough.
Even aided by shadow, the damage was too great. The only thing keeping his spine from slipping apart was a stray strand of [Web], gluing him together like a marionette with snapped strings.
And so, he remained—caught in a hellish cycle of agony.
Not living. Not dying.
Trapped.
Time lost meaning. Minutes stretched. Hours unraveled.
And somewhere, deep in that unbearable haze of pain… something cracked.
He lost track of himself.
Who was he?
Why was he here?
What was he waiting for?
And from the crumbling wreckage of his thoughts, a quiet decision emerged. A whisper at first.
**Enough.**
He was done.
No more.
He'd had a good run, hadn't he?
Who could endure this?
It was time. Time to let go. Time to die.
He was ready.
Ready…
'*Are you?*'
The voice echoed through the static like a ripple across still water.
*Are you really ready?*
His breath caught.
His fingers twitched.
And then—he bared his teeth.
"No," he whispered, the sound more defiance than voice.
**No.**
**Not ready. Not even close.**
Give up?
Never.
He refused to give this wretched world the satisfaction. If it wanted him dead, it would have to choke on his soul.
He would live. He would thrive.
He would **endure**.
He was Sunless—the boy who'd survived the outskirts, alone.
Who had killed an Awakened Tyrant in his very first Nightmare.
He was all that remained of Az— the enforcer of the Çelik, a stray, a ghost who refused to be forgotten.
He was—
*"lost… f.m...light..."*
And with that thought, he summoned the [Midnight Shard].
His trembling fingers found the hilt and clung to it with the last shard of strength he possessed.
**Memory Enchantments: [Unbroken]**
**Enchantment Description:** *This blade refuses to break, and thus is durable beyond reason. It will greatly enhance the power of its wielder when they are close to death—*but only if the wielder is still unwilling to surrender.*
And he wasn't.
Never.
The blade answered him.
It opened the gate. A surge of dark power poured into him from somewhere deep—far below soul and flesh. It filled the cracks in his body, his spirit, with molten will.
It fed [Blood Weave] and [Trinity] until they flared like a forge. The damage didn't disappear—but it stopped spreading. Tissue started knitting. Nerve ends flickered with faint sparks of connection.
He was still dying.
But now, he was dying **angrily**.
And as long as death hovered near, [Unbroken] kept its grip on him, feeding strength into the weave of his flesh. Power into his will.
A **virtuous cycle.**
A loop of stubborn survival.
He would not fall.
He would not break.
Not yet.
Not ever.
And far away—distant now, like the sound of thunder behind glass—the world burned in silver fire.
'*'
Somehow… he had come within a hair's breadth of death.
It hadn't been some grand mistake or fatal miscalculation. No—what had nearly ended him had been a cruel, perfect storm of his own pride and the Seamstress's horrifying ingenuity. Somehow, against all logic, all layered defenses, she had bypassed the protections of his [Mantle of the Underworld]. A thread like a whisper had found its way past armor and instinct, and carved through the very spine of him.
Sunless still couldn't shake the aftertaste of it—that heady mix of fear, fury, and bitter, electrifying awe. For over ten minutes, he had been trapped in a torturous loop of dying and almost-healing. But for him, it had stretched into eternity. A slow, silent fall into the abyss, again and again, with nothing but agony to keep him tethered to life.
And yet—he had survived.
The cost had been steep. More than half the expedition's forces were dead, strewn across the desecrated ruins like discarded husks. But the mission… the mission had been a success. Against the odds, Nephis had claimed the [Moonlight Shard].
It would be enough.
The Bright Castle would rejoice, of course. They would polish the blood from this victory, bury the screams beneath ceremony and light. A grand celebration would be held. And this brutal, near-catastrophic slaughter would be spun into legend—a tale of courage, triumph, and destiny.
It had to be. If they were to pursue the remaining Shards, the illusion of victory had to be absolute.
Sunless stood apart from the others now, as he always did. The darkness clung to him, familiar and comforting. It was easier this way. He could not let them see the toll that close brush with death had truly taken on him. The crack beneath the mask. The raw, human wound pulsing under all his titles and names.
He watched them from a distance.
Cassie stood guarded by the twin Saber Echoes, their sleek forms drifting protectively around her like silent sentinels. She was pale, a little withdrawn, but alive. Whole. Nephis stood beside her, enveloped in the cool radiance of her mantles blue flames—serene, terrible, and impossibly steady.
They were safe.
And that was enough to anchor him.
The pain in his spine still whispered. His limbs still trembled when he thought too hard about what had nearly happened. But they were alive. The mission had succeeded.
He would carry the rest.
Without a word, Sunless turned his back to the ruins. It was time to return. The Bright Castle awaited.
At the double.
'*'*'
Caster had always known that the lowborn masses were beneath him. It was a given—an immutable truth written into the fabric of the world. That he would rise above them was never in question. But it wasn't until the Mimics came that he truly grasped just how *pathetically fragile* these mongrels were.
The moment they could no longer trust their eyes, the herd collapsed into madness. Peasants, artisans, even so-called "soldiers"—all turned on one another like frightened animals. There was no plan. No leadership. No strategy. Just panic. The moment the Bright Castle ceased to feel like a sanctuary, they began to slaughter everything that moved.
Caster hadn't even *bothered* to expect better. What could one possibly expect from insects?
Not one of them had possessed the intelligence to discern that the demon causing the all-consuming silence was incapable of shapeshifting. Not one of them had noticed that the Mimics *avoided* the mist-shrouded bordello belonging to Alice. It was there, naturally, that Caster—with the assistance of Alice and Harus—established the first true resistance. And it was *he*, not some common-born hero, who ensured the safety of over one hundred and twenty Sleepers.
Of course, that was before the Golden Serpent took the field.
Gunlaug… a wretched, posturing beast of a man. A rat dressed in gold, with too much power and not nearly enough grace to wield it. But even Caster could not deny the brute's strength. The carnage Gunlaug unleashed tore through hundreds—humans and Sleepers alike—over a span of days.
Only once the massacre waned did the rats begin crawling back toward order.
During that grim accounting, Caster had learned that nearly four hundred souls had died or vanished. A devastating loss—not just for the Bright Castle, but for every human clinging to life on the Forgotten Shore.
It was during this chaotic recovery that the expedition returned. The survivors—Sunless chief among them—marched back through the gates like shades from some deeper nightmare. Sunless… the so-called *Duke of the Dark City*, returned with blood on his hands.
And what did he do upon witnessing the carnage?
He called for a council. A gathering of Gunlaug and his generals, to take place in the one place no mimic dared tread: Alice's bordello.
*
Caster stood like a blade unsheathed—silent, sharp, and watching.
To his left, Gemma lounged at the table like a coiled beast, deceptively relaxed. Beside her sat Sheishan of the Song Clan, all poise and veiled contempt. Across from them, Kido offered a vague, unreadable smile, fingers tapping against her teacup. Tessei of the castle guard hadn't removed her helm, her gauntleted hands folded across her chest. Behind Gunlaug's high-backed chair stood Harus, gnarled and bent like the carcass of some long-dead tree, his expression blank as a doll's.
And beside Harus stood Sunless.
The silver tray balanced between three wineglasses rested like an altar at the center of the table. Gunlaug's golden voice broke the low murmur of the generals.
"Do you know why I green-lit an expedition for the [Moonlight Shard]?" he asked casually, lifting a goblet as though proposing a toast. "For years I ruled the Bright Castle like a king. Many of you might wonder why I'd care to return to the waking world at all. I have luxuries here—power, influence. But in the waking world?" A slow grin. "I'd have *so* much more. And to that end… I'll let the Duke explain our next step."
All eyes turned to Sunless.
He stepped forward without fanfare, his expression distant but composed. A mask of apathy. Calculated. Cold.
"There are three pillars to successful manipulation," he said. "The first is *consistency*. If your story stays the same in every version—and aligns with what people can see, hear, and feel—it becomes truth."
Tessei scoffed. "That assumes anyone's still willing to listen. Half the Castle is dead, and the rest are still counting fingers in the dark."
Sunless didn't pause. "Which is why the second pillar matters. *Patterns*. People fear chaos. They crave order. Even if it's manufactured. A pattern gives them something to cling to."
"Sure," Sheishan muttered, sipping wine. "But you can't sip from a shattered cup. This place is in pieces."
"And yet the pattern remains," Sunless replied smoothly. "We just need to *give it shape* again."
Gemma grunted. "Get to the third, boy."
"Lying," Sunless said simply, holding up one of the three wineglasses on the tray. "But not as you know it. Not blatant fiction. Just careful omission. Redirection. Reframing."
He placed the glass back down. "When we return to the waking world, traditional lies will be useless. Too many people with Aspect abilities will see straight through them. So instead, we give them *a story they want to believe*."
Harus finally shifted behind Gunlaug, his voice a dry rasp. "The one where the Bright Lord was a reluctant tyrant. A man who made hard choices for the sake of survival."
Sunless inclined his head. "Exactly."
He looked to the gathered leaders, his gaze brushing over each like a scalpel. "If we can sell that, then instead of being seen as butchers, we become heroes. Pioneers. We discovered a new fragment of the Dream Realm. We secured the survival of over a five hundred Sleepers. We made sacrifices, yes—but all for the greater good. The three great clans and the Government would not be able to deny our demands. We will become culturall icons."
"You're suggesting we make martyrs of the ones who died," Kido said, leaning forward. "And sweep the failures under the rug?"
"No," Sunless replied. "I'm suggesting we *turn the failures into a warning tale*. A moment of reckoning. The cost of unpreparedness. The price of underestimating the Dream. We spin it as *necessary tragedy*, and they'll eat it up."
"Convincing them will still be difficult," murmured Tessei.
Sunless's voice grew colder. "Then we make it *easier*. We cut out the problematic elements before we leave. Anyone too unpredictable… too violent… too tied to things we'd rather not answer for—we isolate them. Remove them, if necessary. Quietly."
He let that hang in the air before continuing.
"But not all. Some we reshape."
Gemma narrowed her eyes. "Reshape how?"
"Redemption," Sunless said. "We take the most notorious survivors and rebrand them. A Penitence Legion. Volunteers who atoned through service. Soldiers forged by fire. Tools we direct—and narratives we control."
"Propaganda," Sheishan said bluntly.
"A foundation," he corrected. "Gunlaug himself will be among them—briefly. It'll sell the story. A king humbled. A tyrant choosing the good of the many. Even a golden serpent can wear a martyr's crown if the light hits just right."
Harus chuckled—a low, eerie rasp. "And what do you gain, Duke?"
Sunless offered a thin, joyless smile. "The same thing you all do. Survival. Control. a future."
Caster watched in silence.
The speech was over. The game had already begun. And the rats were dancing—not to Gunlaug's tune, but to Sunless's quiet, invisible strings.
For the first time, Caster truly saw it.
Sunless wasn't just a shadow. He was a serpent too.
One born in the dark—and infinitely more dangerous than the golden one sitting on the throne.
.