As the chamber's invisible illumination settled—an ambient, sourceless glow bleeding softly through the darkness—Seraphine was finally, fully revealed.
Pale light washed over her face, catching first in her hair: split cleanly down the center, as if reality itself had drawn a line through her existence. One side fell in silken white, luminous like frost under moonlight; the other was pitch black, swallowing the light around it.
The contrast was not messy nor crude—it was precise, unnervingly harmonious, as though her body had been designed to embody division.
Her eyes mirrored that same duality. One iris was a deep, endless black, not reflective but absorptive, as if it drank the world in. The other was a cold, crystalline white, sharp and luminous, holding a faint glow that made it impossible to mistake her gaze for anything mundane.
Together, they framed a face of striking, almost painful beauty—soft lines, youthful contours, unmarred by age or hardship despite the terror clawing through her now.
She looked fragile.
Not weak—but precious. The kind of beauty that made violence against it feel obscene. The kind that stirred a primal instinct to shield, to hide away, to preserve at all costs.
A living treasure.
Her body, revealed now that the Conflict had torn away her cloak, was slender yet well-filled, dressed in simple ceremonial travel attire befitting her station—functional, layered, modest. White and black fabric interwoven with muted silver threads traced faint sigils across the cloth, sigils of modest elegance rather than authoritative power.
Clothes made not for battle, but for presence.
For symbolism.
She was shaking.
The Conflict noticed everything.
A slow, childish giggle bubbled up from its gaping, lightless maw—a sound entirely divorced from joy, scraping against the nerves like wet glass.
"Oooh," it cooed, tightening its grip around her throat just enough to make her gasp. "So this is what you look like."
Its thin fingers flexed deliberately, testing how easily it could crush her airway.
"How fascinating."
Seraphine clawed weakly at its wrist, her movements stiff, panicked, ineffective. Black-and-white blood beaded at the corners of her lips as her breath hitched.
The Conflict leaned closer, its blank white face hovering inches from hers.
"I've heard the Humanoids have a word for people like you," it continued, voice lilting, almost sing-song. "Those who are… exceptionally pleasing to look at. 'Trophy wives.' 'Trophy husbands.' Isn't that adorable?"
It giggled again.
"That's all you'd ever be good for, really. Standing pretty. Smiling when told. Sitting on a throne next to someone who actually matters and can do things."
A pause.
"Like that so-called Empress of the Undead."
The words were surgical.
Precise.
Seraphine's eyes trembled—not with anger, but with something worse. Recognition.
The Conflict inhaled slowly, theatrically.
"If it weren't for that stench," it went on, "that unmistakable reek of an Arisen… I'd swear you were just another mundane little thing like all the others."
Its fingers tightened again, forcing a choked sound from her throat.
"Honestly, can you even call yourself an Arisen?"
The question hit harder than the grip.
Seraphine felt something crack—not loudly, not dramatically—but deep, somewhere near the core of her being.
The Conflict wasn't finished.
"Oh, there's been talk about you," it said cheerfully. "Whispers. Murmurs. Rumors that slither through the Backend like sweet little parasites."
It tilted its head.
"But seeing it firsthand?"
A delighted shiver ran through its voice.
"Truly astonishing."
It leaned closer still.
"The Third Crown Princess of the Alcove of Tales. Youngest blood daughter of the Head Saintess herself."
It's a free hand gesture mockingly toward her moderate chest.
"And utterly incapable of using Lorerunes."
The words rang like a verdict.
"As defenseless as a mundane," the Conflict continued. "No invocation. No manifestation. No resonance with Lore. The foundational power of the Arisen, and you can't even touch it."
Seraphine's vision blurred.
"The only thing even remotely noteworthy about you," it added, almost thoughtfully, "is your soul."
Its grin widened.
"Quite robust. Resilient. Deliciously unbroken despite how timid and cowardly it's owner is."
A pause.
"But without the power of Lorerunes?"
A soft laugh.
"Useless."
She hated it.
She hated the Conflict.
She hated the sound of its voice.
She hated the way the words slotted so neatly into wounds she had spent her entire life trying to hide.
And most of all—She hated that it was telling the truth.
Then—
"That's enough."
The Zenith's voice cut through the chamber like a blade dragged across stone.
"I don't plan on staying here all day listening to you rattle on," he said flatly. "Either get on with it, or I'll take our little agreement and pretend you were never here."
The chains around him shifted, metal scraping against metal, the red mist pulsing with a faint irritation.
The Conflict straightened immediately.
"Ah," it said pleasantly. "Of course, your Greatness. My sincerest apologies."
Without hesitation, it tore away the last remnants of Seraphine's cloak. Fabric ripped, fluttering uselessly to the floor. Her arms were forced backward, stretched as far as her joints would allow, as though sheer will might keep them out of its reach.
She whimpered softly, breath coming in ragged, uneven pulls.
In her right hand, clenched desperately tight, was the ever-shifting symbol—the key. Its form flickered subtly even now, sword, spear, face, chains, never settling.
In her left—
A communicator.
Active.
A faint glow pulsed as a connection finally went through.
"—Seraphine?" a tired voice crackled faintly.
The Conflict reacted instantly.
Its free hand pierced through the device with surgical precision, shattering it in a burst of sparks and dying light. The voice cut off mid-syllable.
It withdrew its hand calmly, flicking away the remains.
"Oh dear," it said sweetly. "Desperation does suit you indeed."
Seraphine's shoulders slumped.
The Zenith's attention shifted fully to the symbol now.
"…So that's it," he muttered. "Strange. I didn't feel it on her at all. Still don't."
His gaze sharpened.
"Is it a fake?"
"No," the Conflict replied smoothly. "That is indeed the genuine key."
It gestured toward Seraphine.
"The symbol possesses unique properties. The current possessor can suppress its presence entirely. Even direct observation fails to reveal it—for you, specifically."
The Zenith frowned, or one would guess it was frowning.
"For everyone else," the Conflict continued, "the key exudes a persistent compulsion. A sensation that it must be moved. Far away from a particular location."
It spread its arms.
"That location being this chamber."
"A double-layered failsafe," the Zenith murmured. "Clever."
His gaze flicked to Seraphine again.
"She did this?"
"Yes."
Ignoring her labored breathing entirely, the Zenith asked, "It won't interfere with releasing me?"
"No. The function remains intact."
"Then why are you wasting time?" the Zenith snapped. "Take it."
The Conflict paused.
"The key can only change possession in two ways," it said. "If the current holder willingly relinquishes it… or if they die."
The Zenith's patience evaporated.
"Then kill her," he said coldly. "I'm already reconsidering how useful you are."
The Conflict said nothing.
It simply stared at Seraphine.
Or rather, its vast, lightless maw did.
Seraphine understood.
She had known from the moment its grip tightened why it hadn't killed her yet.
Conflicts thrived on discord. Not just destruction—but breaking. Internal collapse. The shattering of meaning. And the value of that suffering scaled with influence.
No matter how powerless she was…
She was still a Crown Princess of one of the greatest forces in Mythraion.
Still, the daughter of the Head Saintess, one of the most influential figure in known history.
Still a symbol, a useless one. But still a symbol.
And it intended to savor her completely—
Before the end.
Unfortunately for the Conflict, the Zenith of the Axiar had never cared for theatrics.
"If you're not going to kill her," he said flatly, his voice grinding through the chamber like stone dragged over bone, "then hurry the fuck up and finish the deal. Or don't. I don't mind staying here for the rest of eternity if it means you waste yours."
There was no bluff in his tone. No leverage being applied.
Just spiteful annoyance and the willingness to act on said annoyance.
The Conflict froze.
Then—slowly—it released a sound like a child forced indoors at dusk. A long, petulant sigh that carried irritation rather than disappointment.
"Very well," it said, its pitchless voice flattening. "If that is your will, Greatest Zenith."
Its fingers tightened.
Fully this time.
Seraphine's body jerked as the grip around her throat became absolute. Air vanished. Her lungs burned as tears spilled freely now, streaking down her pale face, clinging to the contrast of black and white lashes. She clawed weakly at its wrist, nails scraping uselessly against sleek bonesteel-like material.
Her vision tunneled.
"W–wait—" she choked, the word breaking apart. "Just—just a moment—please—"
The Conflict did not slow.
Her consciousness began to fray—
"Wait."
The word cracked through the chamber.
The Conflict paused, irritated.
The Zenith shifted slightly within his restraints, chains groaning in protest. "What does you need a moment for?"
Seraphine's eyes widened. She hadn't expected anything. She had begged purely out of instinct, desperation clawing blindly for air.
But now—
Now she had a chance.
"I—" She coughed, black-and-white blood flecking her lips. "I just—need you to listen once again."
The Conflict rolled its head lazily, clearly unimpressed. To it, this was no different than before.
Words.
Noise.
Futile flailing.
The Zenith remained silent.
Seraphine forced herself to focus through the burning in her chest.
"You hate this world," she said hoarsely. "I know you do. I can hear it in every word you say."
A pause.
"And maybe you're right. Maybe Mythraion deserves to burn."
The Conflict's grip tightened a fraction, amused.
"But… there are people here who had nothing to do with what was done to you," she continued. "People who weren't even born to see it. People who will be crushed just like you were. Forgotten. Used. Trampled under choices they never made."
Her breath hitched.
"You talk about despising them," she went on, voice trembling but stubborn. "But if you destroy everything—if you help the Conflicts end it all—how are you any different from the ones you hate?"
Silence.
The Zenith did not respond.
Her words struck something—but not cleanly. It was like throwing pebbles at a fortress wall. Most shattered uselessly. But a few… rattled against cracks long sealed.
The Conflict watched dispassionately.
Seraphine pressed on, desperation sharpening her resolve.
"You were trapped," she said. "Stripped of choice. Of future. Of dignity."
Blood dripped from her nose now.
"And now you want to do the same to everyone else."
Her voice wavered. "I don't think that's justice. I think that's just… spreading the same misery."
The Zenith's chains shifted.
Barely.
To the Conflict, it meant nothing.
To Seraphine, it was everything.
"You don't have to save this world," she said quickly. "I know that's too much to ask. I'm not asking you to forgive anyone."
Her eyes lifted, meeting the glow behind the sealed construct.
"I'm just asking you not to become them."
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the Zenith spoke.
"…Why?"
The word was quiet. Almost curious.
The Conflict stilled.
"Why," the Zenith repeated, "are you so fucking desperate to save this dying, forsaken shithole?"
Seraphine swallowed painfully.
"A world," he continued, "that looks at you and sees nothing but what's in your veins."
His tone sharpened.
"A world where you're either scorned for being born too high, or dismissed for being born too lowly."
The red mist around him thickened slightly.
"A world that calls you useless. Broken. A failure."
Her body shook violently now.
"So tell me, kid" the Zenith said, voice low, dangerous. "Why do you still try so damn hard for a world that has already thrown you away?"
Seraphine's vision blurred completely.
Her knees nearly buckled in the Conflict's grasp.
She coughed hard—blood splattering against the creature's hand.
And then she answered.
"As long as there are people," she rasped, "who see me for who I am…"
Another cough. More blood.
"As long as there are those who don't scorn me—"
Her voice broke, but she forced it back together.
"Even if they're only one… out of trillions…"
Her breath came in ragged gasps.
"I'll still try."
She lifted her gaze again, eyes burning with something far fiercer than fear.
"Because this is the only world we have left."
Her lips trembled.
"And I don't want to lose it."
"…Or them."
The chamber changed.
The red mist thickened, swelling like a living thing, obscuring edges, muting sound. Even the Conflict felt it—an instinctive ripple of unease crawling through its form.
Had her words—
No.
The Conflict dismissed the thought.
It had seen this before.
Self-sacrifice.
Hollow ideals.
They always broke the same way.
It did not believe a monster of the Zenith's kind would lose its eras-long hatred over there words of a girl.
Then the Zenith spoke again.
"I really fucking hate people like you," he said.
The words landed like a verdict.
"The selfless, give yourself for the world types," he continued, irritation bleeding into something sharper. "You always piss me off."
The construct entrapping the Zenith pulsed.
A faint, angry glow flared beneath layers of stone and metal.
Seraphine's eyes widened—not in fear.
In shock.
As if she had seen or heard something.
The Conflict took that glow as confirmation.
It did not hesitate.
Enough games.
It drew Seraphine closer, positioning its abyssal mouth inches from her face. Within the black void, two pinprick lights ignited—eyes.
She felt it then.
Something invasive.
Chaotic.
Her organs suddenly failed in rapid succession. Blood poured freely now—from her mouth, nose, eyes—black and white spilling together as her heart stuttered, her brain starved.
Her consciousness unraveled.
The Conflict expected terror.
Panic.
Regret.
Instead—
Tears streamed down her face.
Relief.
Pure, unmistakable relief.
"…How strange," the Conflict thought distantly. "Perhaps this is mercy for one so crippled."
Her body went limp.
The Conflict ripped the key from her lifeless hand and tossed her corpse aside without ceremony. She hit the stone floor with a dull, final sound.
It didn't bother cleaning the black and white blood from its fingers.
Turning, it reached into its void-like maw and produced a sheet of strange, living parchment—the Contract.
"All terms fulfilled," it said cheerfully. "The Original One has already signed with essence. As long as this touches the key upon your acceptance—"
The red mist surged.
A beckoning.
The Conflict stepped closer, elated.
The seal erupted into a cascade of impossible colors. The runes across the golem-prison ignited in tandem, roaring with ancient power.
The Conflict trembled with anticipation.
It did not notice.
That the Contract did not react.
It did not notice.
That the black-and-white blood on its hand was glowing.
Stone cracked.
Metal screamed.
And then—
A fist.
Wrapped in deep crimson blood.
It smashed upward into the Conflict's open maw, somehow finding purchase where no bottom should exist.
The impact was catastrophic.
The Conflict was launched backward, its body snapping through the air like a broken doll.
The mist tore apart.
And standing where the kneeling prison had been—
Was a figure.
Bloody. Upright. Free.
He flexed his fist, staring at it with mild interest.
"I fully agree to your proposition... Seraphine," he said.
Crimson-gold pupils burned through the haze.