"Some rule through blood. Others through fear. But I... I do not rule. I remind. I remind the world of what it tries to forget."
The Sovereign Platform was silent.
Caelen Sareth had just won the final of the Tournament of Spirits.
Before him, Elwin Telar lowered his head-defeated but dignified. The Platform vibrated one last time before coming to a stop.
But Caelen did not bow. He did not smile. He did not raise his arms.
He descended the steps of the Platform slowly, as if each step tolled the end of a bygone era.
All eyes turned. The silence stretched.
King Maelrath, seated on his black stone throne, stared at him.
Caelen walked toward him.
Professors, directors, guards... no one dared to stop him.
He climbed the steps to the throne, step by step, without a word.
The victory drums did not sound. Only the icy wind flapped the banners of the Academy.
Caelen stopped just inches from the sovereign.
He leaned in.
And whispered:
- I am Ashen.
The king's pupils dilated.
Before he could speak, react, flee...
Caelen placed two fingers on his temple.
Mental Zone Activated: The Theatre of Torture.
A whip cracked. A rain of laughter fell. A red curtain descended from the sky.
The world shifted.
They were elsewhere.
On a vast circular stage of scorched stone. At the center: a broken throne.
And all around: shadowed stands filled with faceless spectators. Nobles, mages, children-all frozen in silent laughter.
An orchestra of the tortured stood below. Musicians with torn-off fingers played violins of flesh, drums made from ribcages, horns sculpted from human skulls.
With every note, a pain. With every chord, an awakened memory.
And at the center of the stage...
The Fool.
Ashen, as he once was. Disfigured, deformed, an iron mask welded to his face, arms chained, gaze mad.
He danced.
And every step broke a bone.
Every gesture twisted a memory.
Every scream made the spectators tremble.
The king stood there, alone. Naked. Fragile.
And the Fool stopped.
He slowly turned his head.
- Majesty... the curtain finally rises.
- You gave me a mask. You gave me a cage. You gave me fear as my only companion.
- You wanted laughter? I'll give you a laugh that burns.
- Look at them! All these spectators... They're the same ones who applauded as I bled. Their faces are empty because they never wanted to see.
- But you... you will see.
Ashen made a gesture.
The king was hurled against a torture chair. Invisible bonds tied him down.
Before him, Ashen's memories replayed in a loop:
• The child stretched with hooks.
• The cage suspended in the banquet hall.
• The nobles laughing as he was forced to dance on shards of glass.
Then, the stage transformed.
The walls wept blood. Naked, burned children banged on skulls, chanting "Again! Again!"
A mirror appeared, reflecting Maelrath... but wearing the Fool's mask.
The king screamed. He tried to close his eyes.
But his eyelids were nailed open by the Fool's magic.
Ashen leaned in.
- It's not pain that breaks a man.
- It's indifference.
- It wasn't iron that marked me.
- It was your silence.
- Executioners think their reign is absolute. Until the victims return with crowns of flame.
A palace hung from the ceiling. The hallways bent in absurd angles.
Doors lined the walls.
Behind each one, a victim of the king.
Mute children. Tortured servants.
All whispered in unison:
- Why did you laugh? Why did you say nothing?
- You think I'm mad, Maelrath?
- Then look closely.
- This madness-you built it with your own hands. This theatre is your creation.
- And me? I'm only your reflection, twisted by your laughter.
He laughed.
A dry, cracked laugh-almost human.
Then fell to his knees.
His laughter turned to sobs.
- I am mad... because I saw too much. Felt too much. Loved the idea of justice too deeply to survive without hate.
He stood.
He screamed.
A massive golden scale appeared.
On one side: the king's crimes.
On the other: Ashen's screams.
The scale tilted.
The king fell to his knees.
The orchestra played louder.
The spectators applauded... and melted like wax statues.
The king ran, screamed, fled, through hundreds of mirrors.
Each reflected a deformed version of himself:
A screaming child.
A cackling monster.
A chained king.
In each of them...
The Fool was waiting.
- Look at yourself, Maelrath. Look at what you never dared to become: a man capable of regret.
The stage became an open coffin.
Maelrath was sealed inside.
On the lid, engraved: "Here lies the oblivion you deserved."
He screamed. Begged. Pleaded.
But Ashen did not answer.
The Fool whispered:
- You thought you had forgotten me.
But I am the memory that never dies.
He snapped his fingers.
And the stage burned.
The spectators melted.
The orchestra exploded.
The curtain tore.
The king reappeared on his throne, on his knees, naked, eyes wide open.
He whispered, again and again:
- The Fool looked at me... he looked at me...
The mages rushed in. He did not respond.
He would never respond again.
Caelen, below, turned his back.
And walked away without a word.
The Academy Council voted his expulsion within the hour.
Official reason: "Unacceptable use of mental magic on the person of the sovereign."
But no one dared lay a hand on him.
As he passed through the gates, silence reigned throughout the Academy.
Even the stones seemed to watch him pass.
In his mind, a soft voice:
- Thank you for letting me speak. You can silence me now. But I'll remain here.
Just in case the world begins to forget again...
Silence.