The silence in the hall was heavy—almost tangible. The echo of Lucien's screams still reverberated through the marble walls, mixing with the metallic sound of shattered goblets.
Marquis Alaric D'Lorien held his son tightly in his arms, trying—vainly—to calm him. Every tremor that shook Lucien's body seemed to pierce Alaric's chest like invisible blades.
"Calm down, my son… breathe…" he murmured, voice firm yet heavy with distress, tightening his grip around the young man's trembling frame. "I'm here… nothing else matters now."
The heavy sound of footsteps echoed through the hall. Knights entered, leading the priests.
With swift gestures, they approached Lucien, preparing for a healing ritual.
"Allow me to try…" said one of the priests, raising his hands as divine energy began to emanate from them.
The instant that power touched the boy's skin, a piercing scream tore through the air:
"Aaaaaahhhh! Help… no! I… I can't take it anymore!"
Each new healing spell only intensified Lucien's pain, his veins throbbing as if filled with trails of black fire. His body arched, muscles contracting beyond his control, and horror etched itself across every line of his face.
The priest, sweat beading on his brow, stepped back slightly, his expression grave.
"There is no salvation…" he said, voice heavy and dark. "The divine energy is clashing with something… something I cannot understand. Every attempt will only magnify his suffering."
Lucien gasped, groaned—his body twisting in indescribable agony.
"Father… please… no…" he murmured between sobs, tears streaming down his face. "I can't endure this anymore!"
The Marquis swallowed hard, each word cutting into him like a blade. His eyes met his son's—and in them, he saw all the terror and innocence he could no longer protect. With a steady gesture, he took a knight's sword, holding it with care, his gaze locked on Lucien's eyes.
"Shhh… my son… nothing will hurt anymore. I'm here." Alaric's voice was steady, yet steeped in sorrow.
The next movement was swift and precise. With trembling but resolute hands, Alaric drove the blade into his son's chest—ending the torment that no magic could erase.
Lucien's scream dissolved into a single whisper.
His voice broke, and a lone tear slid down his face. "Fa… father… I don't want to di—"
The rest of the sentence vanished into a convulsive breath as life fled his body.
The hall seemed suspended in time—every breath held, every gaze fixed on Alaric, reflecting shock and disbelief.
No one moved. The goblets and plates remained untouched, footsteps stilled, as if the world itself had stopped to witness the weight of that moment.
Alaric took a slow breath, kneeling with impeccable posture, the sword still in his hand—courtesy unbroken even in despair.
"Given the circumstances… I must take my leave." His voice was firm, though his eyes betrayed his pain. "No father should ever have to choose this way."
With deliberate precision, he wrapped Lucien's lifeless body in his arms and began to walk out. Each step was measured, echoing with gravity through the silent hall.
King Vaelrion lifted his gaze, golden eyes fixed on Cassian Linus—his right hand and defender.
"Cassian… keep watch over the princes from now on."
The Queen of the North remained still, hands clasped before her, observing every motion. Her cold voice broke the silence:
"It seems we'll have no choice… the only answer to such pain will be violence."
A frozen silence swept the room after her words—each syllable as heavy as iron.
The king rose, his draconic presence imposing, golden and black aura pulsing faintly.
"The banquet, which was to last three days, ends here. Let the death of this brilliant young man serve as a reminder of the price of life—and the weight of the responsibility upon us all."
A heavy silence hung over the hall, every gaze reflecting shock, disbelief, and grief.
The restrained murmur of those present faded into the vastness of the chamber—as if even time itself had hesitated.
While the guards led the nobles through the corridors, away from the echoes of screams and the clang of broken glass, the distant hum of the feast slowly dissipated—until, in another part of the castle, a different silence took hold.
A quieter sound. Denser.
The room was steeped in twilight, light filtering through heavy curtains, mixing the scent of burned herbs with the biting cold of the night.
Éreon entered carrying Éon, each step firm upon the wooden floor. His brother's body felt impossibly heavy in his arms, yet there was no hesitation in his movements.
Something within him warned that every second mattered—that what was about to happen could change everything.
He laid him gently on the bed, feeling the weight of his brother's body in his arms.
The veins—swollen and black as fresh ink—throbbed violently beneath his pale skin.
Small tremors rippled through his flesh, like parasites crawling beneath the surface. Éreon clenched his jaw, suppressing the urgency threatening to spill over.
"We need to get your clothes off… now," Éreon said, voice firm and edged with urgency. "We don't have time."
Éon groaned, his body arching in agony.
"I… I don't want to die…" he whispered, breath short, eyes filled with tears.
"You won't die," Éreon replied, leaning in to grip his shoulder. "But you have to stay conscious. Why do you think I made you the Heir of the Abyss? So this wouldn't happen."
As he stripped away the upper part of Éon's garments, he kept his gaze fixed on him—every motion controlled, yet full of care.
"What's happening to me?" Éon's voice was weak, almost lost amid the spasms.
"You're the guardian, Éon. I… I am you, but I am not." Éreon's voice wavered between power and sorrow.
"When I fused with the divine essences, I became something that could no longer control the Abyss. My mind connected to chaos itself—it became a battlefield. Echoes of possible worlds, fragments of realities… all within me."
Éon writhed, his body reacting to the energy pulsing through his soul.
"That's why you're here," Éreon whispered. "You were born from the serene fragment that remained of me—from the part that still knew how to tell reality from chaos. You are the pure form of the Abyss—the balance I lost."
"So… all of this… it's my responsibility?" Éon gasped.
"Yes." Éreon pressed his palm to his brother's chest, as if anchoring him to reality. "Every shadow that tries to swallow you, every fragment of my chaos—you must contain them. I failed, but you can. That's why I made you the Prince of the Abyss. If you lose stability, the Abyss will consume everything—and every creature trapped inside it will be set free."
The room seemed to breathe with them. The density of the air felt almost tangible as Éreon placed a hand on his brother's face, voice low and intimate.
"Listen to my voice, Éon. Hold on to every piece of you… and of me. We're connected—we always have been."
Éon's gaze trembled, lips parted in the struggle to stay conscious.
"Do you remember the first time you managed to hear me?" Éreon asked, tone distant—memory and urgency intertwined.
"Yes…" Éon tried to smile through the pain. "It was during my first mission, in the eastern territory. I… I was afraid."
"Exactly," Éreon nodded. "You wondered if you'd be able to kill. That was the first time we spoke. Do you remember what I told you?"
"You said that everything in life had a price… and that my hesitation could get me killed."
"Yes," Éreon said, almost laughing—like recalling another lifetime. "And after that, every time you doubted, I guided you."
"And I always answered…" Éon smiled faintly. "I know, Totsuka no Tsurugi."
"Then trust me now. I'm going to fix this… but it's going to hurt."
The room seemed to vibrate. Éon's breath came ragged, the black veins pulsing—ripples spreading across his skin like living tendrils of the Abyss.
Éreon's eyes blazed with supernatural intensity, reflecting the power surging within him—the Abyss itself contained in flesh and bone.
He leaned over his brother's head, hands pressing against Éon's forehead, and spoke with ancient authority:
"Mentis!"
Éon's body convulsed violently on the bed. Screams tore through the air, echoing through the silent room.
"AHHHH! AAAHHH!"
Sweat streamed down his face, every fiber of his being reacting to the chaotic energy invading him—dragging him into the Abyss even here, in this mortal space.
"You have to endure it now!" Éreon roared, voice deep and commanding, vibrating through the air. "I'm going to pull out what's tormenting you, Éon!"
Black and violet tendrils emerged from Éon's skin, twisting with a will of their own—pulling the internal chaos outward, toward Éreon. He held firm, anchoring his brother to reality.
The room seemed to shrink—the very fabric of reality trembling as the chaotic energy was drawn out.
In the center of the darkness, a colossal shape began to emerge, taking form out of nothing. A metallic chill crawled down Éreon's spine.
Érebo's black eyes locked onto his—an impossible, all-seeing gaze, heavy with centuries of expectation and judgment.
A deep voice resounded, echoing like thunder through the chamber:
"Σὺ γνῶθι, τέκνον… ἐὰν προχωρήσῃς, τὴν σύνδεσίν μας λύσεις… καὶ ὁ Κληρονόμος πλήρης γενήσεται. Οὐκ ἔσται ἐπιστροφή."
("Know this, child… if you proceed, our bond will break… and the Heir will be complete. There will be no return.")
The air seemed to crush Éreon's chest. Every fiber of his being felt the weight of that instant—the moment where everything could change. The entire room seemed to hold its breath with him.
What he chose to do next could determine the fate of all.