After traversing the castle's impossibly vast halls – their scale dwarfed only by the stem – they finally reached a doorway.
Beyond lay a dimly lit chamber, its walls hung thick with tapestries depicting a riot of various flowers, woven densely around and above the entrance.
Stepping inside, their gaze was drawn to the center of the room. There, on a bed draped in silks, lay his sister.
She lay like a withered rose, her skin parchment-thin and veined with shadows. Only her eyes remained unbroken—two shards of defiance cutting through the room's gloom. She turned to him, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
"Zeph," she said, her voice weak but steady. "I was wondering when you'd show up."
Zephyros crossed the room in a few quick strides, his heart pounding in his chest. He knelt beside her bed, his hand reaching for hers. Her fingers were cold, but her grip was firm.
"I'm here," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm here."
For a moment, they simply sat there, the silence between them speaking volumes. Then, his sister's gaze shifted to Celeste, who stood silently in the doorway.
"You brought her," his sister said, her tone unreadable.
"She insisted," Zephyros replied, his eyes never leaving his sister's face.
His sister chuckled softly, the sound like the rustle of dry leaves. "Of course she did." She turned back to Zephyros, her expression softening. "You've always been her favorite, you know."
Zephyros frowned, his grip on her hand tightening. "What are you talking about?"
But before she could answer, a fit of coughing wracked her body. Zephyros reached for a handkerchief, his hands trembling as he pressed it to her lips. When the coughing subsided, the fabric was stained with blood.
"Maybe my death is a noble lie — but can't that be a good thing?" Iris muttered, igniting a minor debate.
"Death cannot be a lie. If anything, it might be the only real truth." He says nothing more.
Decay might be truth as well.
A perfect structure doesn't decay.
But when it does—when it crumbles—
its flaws are revealed.
And in that ruin, the truth is made clear.
Celeste glanced at his clenched hand, her head tilting slightly—curious, but silent.
"Zeph," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Promise me something."
"Anything," he said, his throat tight.
"Swear you'll never let their rot take root in you." Her bloody cough splattered the silk. "Promise me you won't run away from horrors," Iris seized his wrist, her nails like bird claws. "Promise me you'll burn this house down, Zeph. Even if you're still inside it."
The words hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting. Zephyros clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around hers.
This again, he thought, a flicker of frustration rising in his chest. This endless refrain, this plea she repeats as though it's a mantra to ward off some unseen evil.
He hated it. Hated the way her voice trembled with desperation, hated the way her eyes searched his for reassurance he wasn't sure he could give.
But he couldn't tell her that. Not when she lay there, her body frail and her spirit fading. He wanted to scream that promises were for fools, but her breath rattled like dice in a gambler's fist.
Maybe Father showed her the family secrets, he thought bitterly.
Maybe she knows something I don't. But this... this endless repentance, this self-flagellation—it weighs on my nerves. If not for my love for her, any sane person would have walked away by now.
But he couldn't. Not when her eyes, once so full of life and fire, were now dimming, their light being snuffed out like a candle in a storm. Why her? he wanted to scream.
Why her, of all people? Shouldn't it be the sinners who suffer? Shouldn't it be the wicked who are punished? Her core—her very essence—is being drained, consumed by this cursed illness. It's not fair. It should've been me.
The thought clawed at him, a raw, unrelenting ache that left him breathless. He would have traded places with her in a heartbeat, would have borne her pain if it meant she could live. But god, if they even existed, had chosen otherwise.
"I promise," Zephyros said again, his voice low and steady, though it cost him every ounce of strength to keep it from breaking. He wanted to shake her—but her eyes held the same stubborn light that once scolded him for stealing pastries. He kissed her knuckles instead.
Her grip on his hand loosened, her eyelids fluttering as though even the act of holding his gaze was too much. But her lips curved into a faint smile, a ghost of the defiance she had always carried.
"Good," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "That's all I needed to hear."
Zephyros stayed by her side, his heart a tempest of grief and resolve. He wanted to scream, to tear the world apart, but he forced himself to stay calm. For her. The wooden owl in his pocket—its once-smooth surface now slightly cracked and splintered—was a reminder of what he had made, and the ones he was destined to break.
"If I have power," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, "I'll burn every lie this family holds."
Celeste, standing in the doorway, coughed softly. "Fire warms… until it devours."
Zephyros stayed silent, his gaze fixed on his sister's face. The room seemed to close in around him, the weight of his promise pressing down on his chest like a stone.
Zephyros stood up, his hands trembling.
"Your father now?" Celeste asked, her voice soft but insistent.
He nodded, his grief hardening into something colder, sharper.
"Yes," he muttered.
Zephyros began walking. The castle's audio system crackled to life, its voice booming through every corridor and chamber, echoing off the ancient stone walls. The sound was oppressive, suffocating, as though the castle itself were alive and screaming.
"You are God's chosen! You are the death of heretics! In your name! In our name! In the royal family's name! Every one of them should be beaten to death, to repent! We are devout leaders! You all shall answer to this, as everyone should! In our God's name! Let none see their children grow!"
The voice ceased as abruptly as it had begun, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. Zephyros walked on, his footsteps echoing faintly against the polished floor.
Celeste trailed behind him, her presence a quiet contrast to the cacophony that had just filled the air.
He paused for a moment, his mismatched eyes narrowing as the words lingered in his mind.
The god's voice boomed—hypocrisy draped in gold.
Zephyros licked blood from his teeth. If death's divine, then butchers are priests. Let's build a cathedral.
The logic settled in his mind like a stone sinking into water, cold and unyielding.
I must remain secure, composed. I cannot afford to be too easily swayed. I'm only sixteen, after all. The deaths of a few relatives shouldn't bring me joy, should they? He scoffed inwardly, the thought almost amusing in its absurdity. Desperately clinging to a throne—how laughable.
A subtle laugh escaped him, low and humorless, as they continued down the hall. The sound was swallowed by the vastness of the castle, leaving no trace behind.
At last, they reached a pair of towering doors, their surfaces carved with intricate patterns that seemed to writhe in the flickering torchlight.
Celeste stepped forward, her hand resting lightly on the handle, and pushed them open.
The room beyond was vast, its ceiling lost in shadow. A massive desk dominated the center, its surface cluttered with scrolls and trinkets. Beyond it, at the far end of the room, loomed an even larger obsidian throne, its surface gleaming like a shard of night.
My father, Zephyros thought, his gaze lingering on the throne.
The room was alive with chaos. Six figures stood to each side of the desk, their voices raised in furious argument.
Their words overlapped, a cacophony of accusations and demands that filled the air like the buzzing of angry wasps.
Around them, twenty-one guards stood at attention, their faces impassive, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.
Zephyros stepped inside, his presence unnoticed at first amidst the turmoil. His eyes swept over the scene, taking in the tension, the desperation, the raw hunger for power that hung in the air like a storm waiting to break.
This is what it means to be royal, he thought, his lips curling into a faint, disdainful smile. This is what it means to rule.
All twelve figures turned to Zephyros as he entered the room. Their eyes lingered on him, a mix of curiosity and disdain flickering across their faces. Just a boy, they must have thought. A child, nothing to fear. Once we remove that lump of meat on the throne, he'll be no more than a footnote.
Zephyros met their gazes with a calm, almost detached expression. His mismatched eyes scanned the room, mentally mapping each face.
One figure stood out: a tall, sharp-featured boy who looked about four years older than him. Dalit's smile glinted—a scalpel dipped in honey. Zephyros' palm itched for flame. This one dies first.
"I'll burn that one," Zephyros muttered under his breath, his voice low but deliberate.
He filed Dalit's face away in his mind, a target for later. Stop acting, he told himself, forcing his expression to remain neutral as he walked past the group. They barely acknowledged him, their attention already shifting back to their whispered schemes.
His father sat slumped on the obsidian throne, his once-imposing frame now reduced to a hollow shell.
A Squidi knelt before him, its owl-like eyes darting nervously between the king and Zephyros. With a final bow, the creature scurried away, leaving Zephyros standing alone before the throne.
"Hello, Father," Zephyros said, his voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of disdain.
The king raised a trembling hand, his skin dry and paper-thin. Zephyros hesitated for a fraction of a second before leaning down to kiss it.
The gesture felt hollow, almost grotesque. Disgusting, he thought, pulling away. He's not even a man anymore. Just an empty husk, a puppet waiting for its next command.
Zephyros' gaze swept over his father's frail form, a pang of something—pity, perhaps, or anger—flaring in his chest.
There are things you can't fight, he mused. Natural disasters, high-ranking rasvian users, demons... you run from those. But when you own a district, when you hold power, you can do so much more. And yet, here he is—a shadow of what he once was.
Before Zephyros could say or think anything further, his father spoke. His voice was a rasp, barely audible, but the words cut through the air like a blade.
"You might become king," the king said, his dry hand reaching up to caress Zephyros' face. The touch was slow, almost tender, but it sent a shiver down Zephyros' spine.
The king's hand trembled—a spider's leg sheathed in sagging flesh. "You'll drown this realm in your light, boy," he wheezed, "and call the slaughter salvation."
Zephyros froze, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he was paralyzed, his father's words echoing in his mind.
Then, with a sharp inhale, he stepped back, breaking the contact. His heart pounded in his chest, his thoughts racing.
I retract what I said earlier, Zephyros thought, his gaze fixed on his father's vacant eyes.
He's not just a puppet. He's something worse—a vessel, hollowed out and filled with whatever commands they've poured into him. And who knows what the next one will be—or who the next vessel will become?
Behind him, Celeste approached the twelve figures gathered around the oak desk.
"Ah, Celeste—" Dalit was the first to speak, his tone overly familiar. He sat at the head of the table, surrounded by individuals who could have been his grandparents.
"It's Miss," Celeste corrected, her voice slow and deliberate. Her eyes scanned the room, taking in the scattered papers and hastily drawn maps.
Dalit remained silent, eyes fixed on her with an unreadable stillness. His jaw clenched—not in anger, but in calculation.
She was an enigma laced in rot, a woman who should be bound—not by his chains, but by the consequence of her own sins. No judge, no trial. Just the slow tightening of fate's noose.
He wouldn't touch her. Wouldn't need to.
He would move quietly—pull the threads buried in walls and whispers—
just enough to collapse the ceiling.
Just enough for two lives to end, and only one to deserve it.
Strategies of all sorts lay spread across the desk, each one a testament to their ambition—and their desperation.
They've made a near-flawless plan, Celeste thought, her gaze lingering on the details. But there are holes here and there—small flaws that could be exploited. If they don't patch them up swiftly, the king won't stand a chance.
She glanced up, her eyes following Zephyros as he retreated from his father's throne. The boy's face was unreadable, but she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.
He's learning, she thought, a faint smile tugging at her lips. But he still has so far to go, she turned her gaze to Dalit, he serves to be..useful.