The knell of the great bell tolled from the distant clock tower, its mournful chime rolling through the Crown City. The sound cut deep into the grey stone, a tremor that seemed to rattle the very bones of the realm. The vibration coursed through wall and timber, steel and glass. Through flesh, bone, and sinew alike.
The city held its breath. For all who heard it knew what this night meant. Tonight, the bells would toll one final time. For the man who had earned the hatred and scorn of an entire kingdom. To the wounded and bereaved, it was justice at long last. To those who had shared in his corruption, it was dread incarnate. They sat uneasy in their homes, hearts thundering, praying that their secrets would remain buried beneath the noise.
For Lamar Burgess. The man, the monster, it was the last toll he would ever hear.
He sat in the corner of his cell, slumped against the cold stone wall. His once-white shirt was stained with grime and dried blood, his hair unkempt, his face shadowed and drawn. A fresh line of stitches ran down his cheek, an ugly reminder of battles already lost. His head hung low, hands resting idly in his lap as the echo of the bell reached him.
The air was thick with the stench of mildew and decay, a clinging mixture of rust, mold, and stagnant water that seemed to have soaked into the very stones themselves. Droplets fell from the ceiling in slow, rhythmic intervals, each one echoing faintly against the slick stone floor, while the faint scurry of tiny claws and the high-pitched squeaks from unseen corners whispered through the silence.
These were the only companions left to the man since his imprisonment. Small, nameless creatures that haunted the dark recesses of his cell, and perhaps the only souls within these walls who did not dream of wrapping their hands around his throat the first chance they got.
The week had passed in a blur, and numbness had long taken root in his chest. For the first time in his life, the man who had sent countless others to their deaths. Who had watched the bells toll for so many, now listened as they tolled for him.
The hinges groaned as the iron door swung open, the sound cutting through the silence of the cell block. A wash of pale light spilled over the stone floor, followed by the measured tap of leather soles against the damp flagstones.
Lamar lifted his head, a low groan escaping him. He had half expected this, half dreaded it. His lip curled into a bitter sneer as his weary eyes found the figure beyond the bars.
"Well, well," Lamar drawled, "if it isn't the illustrious Grand Regent himself. Come to gloat? To mock? To savor the sight of me brought low?" He tilted his head. "Or perhaps to remind me of every wretched word I ever threw your way, now that the tables have turned?"
Macon met the accusation with quiet composure, his expression one of faint, weary pity rather than anger. "As tempting as that may sound, Burgess," he replied evenly, "I fear I am not quite as petty as you would wish me to be. No, I came to look upon the man who could commit such atrocities and still cling to the belief that he was righteous." He adjusted the cuff of his suit jacket, the grey of the fabric gleaming softly beneath the dim light, a stark contrast against the gloom of the cell. "You are a curiosity indeed. A creature so utterly bereft of humility, incapable of shame. Truly, a marvel of what man can become when he mistakes conviction for virtue."
He clasped his hands behind his back and regarded the prisoner for a long, steady moment. "There's an old elven tale, one whispered long before your kind crawled into its first kingdom," he said softly. "It tells that mankind was born with a hole within their hearts. One that no crown, no conquest, no creed could ever fill. For ages, I dismissed it as mere arrogance, a relic of elven pride." He leaned forward slightly. "Now, I'm inclined to think there may have been wisdom in it after all."
"Oh, do spare me your eulogies," Lamar scoffed. His gaze locked on the elven man before him. "You may play the part of the enlightened sage. Pretending to stand above such petty human impulses, sneering at our emotions as if they were primitive indulgences. But face it," he leaned forward, "the only reason you're here is vengeance. You crave it. You need it. It gnaws at you, whether you admit it or not."
A flicker of tension crossed Macon's face, a subtle tightening of the jaw that did not go unnoticed.
Lamar chuckled, the sound hollow and rasping. "Ah, I see I've struck a nerve. You call it cruelty, but really, it's the truth. We humans, we burn fast and bright. A hundred years if we're fortunate. We live, we laugh, we rage and we mourn. We love with abandon and we die with regret. And in that brief spark, we live more fully than your kind ever could."
His eyes glinted beneath the pale light. "But you… you live forever. Centuries upon centuries, with every heartbeat an echo of what you've lost. You carry your grief like a chain, each passing year tightening around your immortal neck."
He leaned his head back against the wall. "Tell me, Duchannes, what's the greater tragedy? My death, fleeting and deserved… or your eternity, haunted by a love long since turned to dust?"
Macon drew in a slow, steady breath before releasing it, his gaze fixed and unyielding upon the man slumped before him. "I suppose you're right," he said at last. "It was foolish of me to think myself above mortal impulses such as vengeance or retribution."
His jaw tightened, the memory stirring behind his composed façade. "When I learned of your hand in my beloved Gloreth's death, it took everything within me not to storm the Tower and tear your head from your shoulders with my bare hands. But then I realized, doing so would make you a martyr. A hero, even, to those still foolish enough to worship you. And that thought sickened me far more than letting you live."
He straightened. "I expected that, when this moment came, I would lose that restraint. That I'd rail against you, curse your name, hurl all the anger and grief that has followed me for years." He paused, studying Lamar with cold precision. "But now that I stand before you, I find that I can't. You see, I don't hate you anymore, Burgess." He tilted his head slightly. "In fact, I pity you."
Lamar's brow arched faintly, though the flicker of curiosity behind his scorn was brief.
"None of this was ever meant to be," Macon continued. "You forged it yourself. Every lie, every betrayal, every life you shattered, by your own hand. From the moment you seized that chair, you consigned everything to the flame. Your followers. Your friends. Even those few who still loved you." His words hardened. "You led thousands to their deaths, butchered thousands more, all for power you could never hope to hold. And for what?"
He stepped closer toward the bars, meeting Lamar's gaze head-on. "To die on your knees before a world that will remember your name only as a warning. Your face as the image of treachery. Your legacy as the price of tyranny." Macon drew in one final breath, the faintest trace of sorrow in his eyes. "You came into this world with nothing, as all men do, and now you'll leave as nothing. And I can think of no fate more tragic than that."
Macon pivoted on his heel and began toward the doorway, his coat whispering across the cold floor.
Lamar's whole body convulsed. Features twisting into something that was almost animal. "You… you pity me?" he snarled, each word a spittle-laced hiss. "You worthless, condescending little peck—"
The epithet died on his tongue as Macon stopped, and turned slowly to look back. There was no theatrics in the glance. Only an austere, hard-bred calm that made Lamar's rage thin and brittle. "Do not mistake pity for forgiveness, Burgess."
"The hatred I carry for you burns hotter than rhetoric can name," Macon continued. "Believe me when I say, I will watch the sentence exacted upon you with a rare satisfaction that is scarcely fit for a man of my stature. I will watch it as the world finally reclaims what you have stolen. Piece by bloody piece."
Macon's eyes never wavered. "And when the light finally leaves your eyes. When the wretched, foul creature that once called itself a man no longer breathes upon this earth. Then, and only then, will the balance be restored, and your debt be repaid."
"Now, whether you go with what little dignity you have left, or die howling like the common carrion you are—that, is a question I look forward to having answered." A hard, contemptuous half-smile flickered across his face and was gone as quickly as it came. "Goodbye, Burgess. May you find the peace you so desperately sought… and the reckoning you so richly deserve."
He then turned without another word, his footsteps echoing through the dim corridor until the heavy door groaned open. For a fleeting instant, a sliver of pale light cut through the darkness. Then the door shut behind him with a resounding thud, deep and final, like the toll of a coffin lid sealing shut.
Lamar exhaled slowly, the sound rasping from his chest as he leaned back against the cold stone. His head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes tracing the cracks that veined the walls. The tension bled from his shoulders, replaced by a hollow weariness that settled deep within his bones.
In the silence that followed, the distant clock began its slow, inexorable march toward the hour. Each metallic tick reverberated through the cell like the beat of a funeral drum, marking the final moments of a life that had long since slipped beyond redemption.
****
The execution chamber bore none of the grim austerity one might expect of a place of death. Instead, it resembled a theatre. Rows of cold, steel chairs arranged before a raised dais, the audience gathered as though to witness a performance rather than a punishment. Nearly two dozen spectators sat in uneasy silence, their faces drawn and distant beneath the flickering amber light.
At the front sat the delegates of the great institutions: Acolytes of the Wandering Sea and scholars of the Atlas Institute, their robes of gray and white trimmed with gold filigree that gleamed in the dimness. Their composure was clinical, detached. They watched not out of passion but of obligation, as though attending another experiment, another lesson in the study of consequence.
The rest of the assembly, however, were anything but impartial. They came from every corner of Avalon. Men and women of elven blood, dwarves, therianthropes, even orc, each bearing the weight of loss that could not be measured. Their eyes burned with the same quiet fury, their jaws set tight, grief and rage tempered into something colder. To them, the man awaiting judgment had stolen too much, too long. What they wanted was not justice, it was vengeance denied.
Against the far wall, Bran stood apart from the rest, his back to the chill of the concrete. The room felt more like a crypt than a chamber, its high ceiling swallowing the faint hum of the fluorescent lights. No windows. No escape. Fitting, he thought, for what was about to take place. He adjusted his glasses, his expression sharp, and glanced sideways to the man beside him.
Roland Ravenclaw, his father, stood rigid in his three-piece suit, the same stern discipline carved into every line of his face. His eyes, cold, fixed upon the chamber's center where two figures presided over the proceedings.
Grand Councilman Vessalius sat upright, hands steepled over his knees, his gaze intent and measured. Beside him, Councilman Peverell reclined with his arms crossed, the disdain in his features plain, as though the entire ordeal was a distasteful formality. Above them, the air was still and heavy, steeped in the unspoken truth that the night would end in death, and that for many in the room, it still wouldn't be enough.
At the center of the chamber stood the platform, cold, austere, and unforgiving. Two stone pillars rose on either side, each roughly five feet high, their surfaces pitted and worn from years of use. Behind them loomed a figure cloaked in a plain white robe, the crimson insignia on his chest stark against the pallor of the fabric. His hood concealed everything but the narrow slit where a pair of eyes glinted through. He might as well have been carved from marble, a silent warden of judgment.
Beside him stood a cylindrical structure of blackened concrete, its seams pulsing faintly with a dull, molten glow. The faint hiss of heat and the soft crackle from within spoke of the fire that waited, patient and hungry. A few feet away, a narrow table was laid out with cruel precision. Its surface draped in dark leather, upon which rested an array of instruments that straddled the line between surgical and barbaric. Each blade and clamp gleamed under the sterile light, polished to a meticulous, horrifying perfection.
Bran's jaw tightened as his gaze swept over the scene. He knew this method by name and by reputation. It belonged to another age. An age when justice was performed before the eyes of the masses, not as punishment, but as spectacle. Yet, as he looked upon the instruments, the heat, and the hooded figure, he found the thought uncomfortably fitting. For a man like Lamar Burgess, it was not cruelty that awaited him, only the mirror of what he had sown.
"You know, you don't have to be here."
Roland's voice broke through the low hum of the chamber, soft yet weighted. Bran turned his head, lime-green eyes shifting toward the older man beside him. The light from the halogen crystals overhead caught the silver in his father's hair.
"Given… everything," Roland added quietly.
Bran was silent for a moment, the words hanging between them like dust in the stale air. Then he shook his head. "No," he said. "It's because of everything that I should be." His tone was measured, but something deeper stirred beneath it. "For Rowena's sake, and for mine."
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I want to see him," Bran continued. "The man who made me dirty my hands in the name of his perverse version of justice. The man who twisted another into something he was never meant to become." His jaw tightened. "I want to be here when the light fades from his eyes. When he finally understands that his entire life, every word, every act, was nothing more than a stain upon this world."
Roland regarded his son in silence, the air between them taut as the deep, measured ticking of the clock echoed overhead. Each chime drew closer to the inevitable. Then, from beyond the heavy doors, came the grinding groan of hinges. The sound crawled through the marrow, and the chamber seemed to shrink around it.
The doors parted, and Lamar Burgess stepped through. Shackled at the wrists and ankles, his every step rang against the stone floor, sharp and hollow. The weight of a hundred eyes followed him as he was led forward, chains dragging like the tail of his sins. Behind him, Grand Regent Macon Duchannes entered in silence, his grey suit a stark contrast to the dull walls. He moved toward the corner, shadow enveloping him as he folded his arms, his gaze fixed on the condemned.
Bran could feel the temperature of the room shift. The simmering hatred, the grief disguised as restraint. Every person present bore their own scar, their own ghost that had been shaped by the man now standing before them. The air trembled with the urge for violence, but the weight of law held them still.
The guards guided Burgess to the center of the platform, between the twin stone pillars. The clatter of metal filled the chamber as they unfastened his chains, then fastened new ones to his wrists above his head, stretching him upright for all to see.
Burgess turned his head toward the gathered councilmen, his lips curling into a mockery of a smile. "Oh, all this for little old me?" His tone dripped with derision. "Dinner and a show, how so very predictable. I must say, the two of you never could resist your theatrics."
Vessalius's expression darkened, the man's jaw tightening as he rose from his seat. The scrape of his chair against the stone cut through the tension. "Lamar Augustine Burgess," he began, "for crimes against Avalon. Crimes so vile, so unspeakable, you have been sentenced to die in the only way fitting for a man such as yourself. By Avis Dilaceratus."
He drew a steadying breath, his gaze burning into the man bound before him. "The time for pleas, for excuses, for mercy has long since passed. As a courtesy, you will be granted a final moment. To speak whatever remnants of peace you believe you have left, before we begin."
Lamar's head hung low, his hair falling in disheveled strands across his face. For a long moment, the chamber was utterly still. Until, in a rasp barely louder than breath, he muttered, "I'm sorry."
A murmur rippled through the room. Mycellus's brow arched, uncertain, while Bran and Roland watched in guarded silence. Then Lamar lifted his gaze, and the faint apology twisted into a grotesque grin that split his gaunt features.
"My sincerest apologies," he said, "that I shan't grant you the exquisite pleasure of watching me grovel. Did you imagine it? The great Reaper of the Reeds on his knees, weeping, begging for mercy?" He gave a dry, cruel laugh and spat on the floor, the sound echoing in the stunned quiet. "I'm certain you did. Perhaps you've all dreamt of it, even thrilled at the thought of it, but you'll find no satisfaction here. I will not beg. Not from the likes of you."
His gaze swept across the chamber, landing on every soul present. "You'll have your victory tonight, your little celebration," he sneered. "You'll drink and dance and toast my death as though it were the fall of the Calamity itself. But remember this," he leaned forward, the chains creaking taut, "When I fall, so too will the walls I've held aloft. The peace you cling to will crumble with me."
Then his eyes fixed upon Mycellus, and a flicker of unease crossed the councilman's face. "And you," Lamar hissed, "you pitiful, spineless worm… I hope you watch. I hope you see everything. Every parting of flesh, every crack of bone, every moment that curdles your stomach. Because you, and every deplorable wretch upon that Council, will one day share my fate."
He pulled against his restraints, the metal biting into his wrists. His grin widened, fevered, deranged. "And my only regret, Mycellus… is that I won't be here to hear you scream. To hear all of you scream!"
His laughter rose, manic and discordant, bouncing off the cold stone walls until it no longer sounded human. "When the darkness finally rolls over Avalon. When the monsters you thought you'd caged break your gates and the world you've dressed in order burns to ash, you will remember this day. You will catalogue it, whisper it to your children, curse it in your cups, and when that hour comes you will howl in a chorus of regret. Yes, oh, you will scream!"
At once, the chamber fractured into chaos. Voices rose in a furious crescendo. Shouts of outrage, of triumph, of unspent grief. Some surged to their feet, chairs clattering against stone, while others hurled curses that cut through the air in a dozen tongues of Avalon. Fingers jabbed, fists slammed, arms flailed in the fever of release. The sound was raw and human, a tide of rage and catharsis that crashed against the cold, unfeeling walls of the chamber.
Roland and Bran's faces tightened, shadow pooling beneath their brows as if the light itself recoiled. Bran's fingers clenched until the knuckles blanched, a tremor of barely contained fury riding each shallow breath. A hand, cool, composed, impossibly certain, landed on his shoulder and, in the brief, grounding contact, the sharpened ache of vengeance slackened by a fraction.
"Pay no heed to the ramblings of a madman, young Ravenclaw," Macon said, the faintest smile at the corner of his mouth belying the steel beneath. "Only a lesser man would allow himself to be drawn into the theater of his spite. The true measure of us is how we leave the stage."
Bran swallowed, the heat in his chest fading like embers under rain, and nodded, accepting the steadiness offered to him and the cruel calculus of restraint.
"Enough!" Vessalius cracked through the uproar like a whip, echoing off the stone walls until every shout died mid-breath. The veneer of his usual restraint shattered. His fury carried the weight of command born from exhaustion and disgust. "Be seated, all of you!"
The words reverberated through the chamber, and one by one, the defiant faltered. Chairs scraped against the floor as the crowd obeyed, the air thick with resentment. Though silence reclaimed the room, the hatred burning in their eyes did not fade. It merely smoldered, banked beneath the surface, waiting.
He then turned sharply toward the executioner. "Proceed." His eyes flicked back to Lamar. "May the Gods have mercy on your soul, Burgess, though I suspect they'll turn their gaze long before you reach their gates."
Vessalius sank back into his seat, the fury drained from his face, and the chamber fell into a suffocating quiet. The executioner stepped forward, his boots striking the floor. Without a word, he reached for Lamar's shirt and tore it open in one brutal motion. The sound of rending fabric was sharp and final, the last fragile barrier between the condemned man and the world stripped away. Cold air met scarred flesh, and for a moment, even the angriest spectators seemed unsure whether to look away or keep watching.
From beneath the hood, a voice murmured. A wand traced the air, and light stirred. Thin streams of silver began to crawl along the carved pillars, like liquid mercury winding through veins of stone. They met at the shackles on Lamar's wrists, then sank into his skin, branching like roots, glowing, tightening. His body jerked. The silver darkened to black. He clenched his teeth until they ground together, the tendons in his neck rigid as steel. No scream came, only a strangled rasp and the thud of his heartbeat echoing against the silence.
The executioner moved to the furnace. A low hiss filled the chamber as he drew from it a dagger whose serrated blade burned the color of molten embers. Its heat shimmered in the dim light, warping the air around it. He turned it once, studying the weapon, then looked to Vessalius. The elder gave a single, wordless nod.
"This is it, Bran," Macon said. He inclined his head toward the scene with the practiced patience of someone who had watched a thousand reckonings unfold. "Look closely. Every stitch of guilt, every deliberate cruelty. Do not look away, no matter how foul or how small the detail. Let it sit with you. Let it define you. If you would call yourself an instrument of justice, you must be willing to hold it up to the world in its rawest form."
Bran's jaw clenched. His eyes narrowed until they were mere slits, as if by focusing he could steady the storm inside him. He swallowed, and the steadiness in his shoulders spoke louder than any reply.
The executioner raised the dagger high.
And when it fell, the world went dark.
****
Lamar jolted awake with a strangled gasp, his body lurching upright as if torn from the depths of the abyss. His heart thundered against his ribs, each beat sharp and desperate. For a moment, the world swam, then settled. Gone were the gray concrete walls, the chains biting into his wrists. In their place stood the familiar sanctum of his power, the Director's Office at the Citadel.
His eyes darted around, drinking in every detail. The dark oak paneling gleamed under soft lamplight. Shelves sagged beneath the weight of leather-bound tomes and files stamped with gold insignias. The polished mahogany desk sat exactly where it always had, stacked with manila folders, papers neatly arranged in the same perfection he demanded of all things. On the wall hung framed clippings of his triumphs. His name etched across headlines in bold print.
The air was thick with the mingled scents of tobacco and whiskey, the latter still swirling in a crystal glass half-filled with melting ice. A cigar, forgotten mid-smoke, sent up a lazy curl of gray that painted the air with its slow, fragrant trail.
Lamar exhaled. Then, suddenly, he laughed.
A low chuckle at first, disbelieving and unsteady, but it soon grew, rising into full-bodied laughter that shook his shoulders. He pressed a trembling hand to his face as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. It had all been a dream. A grotesque, fevered vision conjured by exhaustion and stress. The execution, the humiliation, the pain, it was nothing more than a lie. A cruel trick of the mind.
He rose from his chair, the leather creaking beneath him, and took up his glass. The whiskey sloshed gently as he crossed the room toward the tall windows overlooking the Crown City. Below, the skyline glittered in the evening light, proud and untarnished. His city. His empire.
"To think," he murmured with a faint scoff, "that I would actually believe myself defeated. That some impudent boy from the moors could bring me to ruin." He shook his head, amused at the absurdity.
Perhaps what he needed was rest. A brief retreat, away from the endless machinations of the Council and the Tower. A week by the sea, perhaps. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere sane.
He raised his glass for another sip.
"Quite the delusion you've built for yourself, Burgess."
The voice came from behind him. Calm. Familiar. Icy. The glass slipped from his grasp. It shattered against the polished floor, whiskey and shards scattering along with the last of the ice across the wood before settling in stillness.
Lamar turned, dread crawling up his spine.
There, seated on the pristine leather couch, clad in blackened armor that seemed to drink in the light, sat Asriel Valerian, his amber gaze cold, steady, and utterly unyielding.
Lamar's breath hitched. "V–Valerian… h–how… how are you here?" he stammered, a trembling hand lifting to point accusingly at the figure before him. "You died. I watched you fade away."
"Did you?" Asriel's tone was measured, almost playful, as he tilted his head. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Or was that, too, a desperate illusion, much like this one you're clinging to?"
The words struck like a lash. Lamar staggered toward his desk, panic flooding through him. He slammed his palm onto the communicator embedded in the wood. "Send someone in here!" he barked. "I have an intruder!"
Silence.
He pressed the button again, harder this time. "Do you hear me? I said—"
"Nobody's coming, Burgess."
Asriel's words carried across the room with calm certainty. He leaned forward, reaching for the crystal glass of whiskey resting on the coffee table. He lifted it, swirled it, then took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving Lamar. "Hhm. Still can't stand scotch."
"I see…" Lamar muttered, his composure fraying. "You killed them on your way in, didn't you?" He forced a weak laugh. "Well, no matter. I'd—" His hand darted to his side for his wand, but his fingers met nothing. His holster was empty. "What… where…"
"You see, Burgess," Asriel began, rising from his seat with the quiet grace of a predator, "Tala once told me that the human body is a fascinating thing. When it's faced with unbearable pain, it seeks refuge in illusion. The mind suspends itself, creates a world of comfort to hide from the agony."
He took another step forward, the sound of his boots steady and cold. "To you, this office feels real. The scent of tobacco, the warmth of the whiskey, even the air on your skin. But out there…" Asriel's gloved hand gestured vaguely, "it's been hours. Maybe longer. In here? You could live an eternity, trapped in this perfect little lie."
Lamar bared his teeth, fury and fear warring across his face. "What are you prattling on about, boy?"
Asriel's smirk faded, replaced by something far darker. His eyes narrowed. "You feel it, don't you?"
Lamar froze. A searing pain tore through his back, sharp and deep, like steel driven into flesh. He screamed, doubling over, clutching at his spine. Another jolt hit him, this one in his chest, bright and blinding. His breath came ragged, his mind splitting between two worlds.
"Those are the fractures," Asriel said, stepping closer. "Tiny fissures between your illusion and reality… your body remembering what's happening outside." He leaned in, his gaze cutting through Lamar's terror. "It's the pain tearing through your denial, one piece at a time."
Lamar convulsed, a strangled cry ripping through his throat as his body seized. One trembling hand clawed at his neck while the other wrapped around his torso, as though he could hold himself together by sheer force of will. The pain was everywhere. Sharp, blooming, relentless. He felt every cut, every rent in his flesh. His insides churned and hollowed, as though they were being scooped away by invisible hands. His back felt open, airy, his very bones missing. It was unreal, yet hideously vivid. His knees buckled beneath him, his breath shuddering in short, broken gasps.
Asriel watched in silence. "It is said," he began, his tone almost scholarly, "that the rite of Avis Dilaceratus has been carried out only a handful of times since the end of the Calamity. Your name, Burgess, will be etched in history as the fourth." He stepped closer, the echo of his boots slow and deliberate. "But that isn't the whole truth. On the battlefield, soldiers mimicked it upon their enemies. Tyrants, monsters, men such as yourself. Their renditions lacked ceremony, of course. There was less precision… and far more butchery."
Lamar's body shook violently, his breath rattling through clenched teeth as his eyes rolled back, the agony painted across his face.
"The difference," Asriel continued, pacing before him, "between a soldier's hand and that of an executioner lies in intent. On the field, it ends quickly. The condemned bleed out, the body surrenders, shock claims them long before the final stroke. But here…" His eyes glinted. "Here they are careful. Every incision measured. Every nerve kept alive by enchantment. You feel your body taken apart, thread by thread, and still you breathe. Still you feel."
He leaned forward. "Would you believe me if I told you it's been nine hours since they began?"
Lamar's eyes snapped open, wide with disbelief. He tried to speak, but only air escaped his mouth. No sound, no voice.
"Oh, don't trouble yourself," Asriel murmured. "They took your vocal cords thirty-five minutes ago." His gaze then drifted upward toward the ceiling "And the end approaches."
Asriel lifted a hand, and with a soft snap of his fingers, the world fractured. It began as a hairline crack in the air, thin and trembling like the faultline of a shattered mirror. Then the office splintered apart, soundlessly breaking into shards of light and glass that fell around them like dying stars. The floor dissolved beneath Lamar's feet, the walls of his sanctuary. His delusion splintering into dust and memory.
When the world steadied again, he was back in the execution chamber.
But something was terribly wrong.
Everything was still.
Time itself seemed frozen in place. The guards locked mid-motion, the flicker of the lights suspended, even the drifting haze of smoke unmoving. Every face in the chamber was fixed toward him, eyes wide and unblinking, yet utterly lifeless. The silence was suffocating, louder than any scream. Lamar's chest heaved. His gaze darted to Asriel, who stood before him. The young man tilted his chin ever so slightly, toward what lay behind.
A cold shudder ran through Lamar's spine.
He turned.
And what he saw tore the last thread of sanity from him.
His body, his corpse, knelt upon the floor before the executioner's stand. Skinless. Flayed. Torn apart in ways the mind could scarcely comprehend. His ribs pried open like the pages of a book, organs neatly arranged upon the surgeon's table beside him, glistening under the light. Muscle, tendon, and sinew hung in ribbons from the bone. The empty sockets of his own eyes stared back at him from a hollowed skull.
Lamar staggered backward, choking on air. His breath came in frantic bursts, his limbs trembling uncontrollably. He clutched at his chest as a guttural rasp escaped him. Then, finally, the scream broke loose. It tore through the stillness, raw and endless, echoing through the frozen world.
"And there it is," Asriel said quietly. "The final thread tethering you to life."
Lamar's head snapped toward Asriel, fury and disbelief twisting his features. "And what then?" he snarled. "Am I to believe you're my reaper? That the chaos in my mind has conjured you as some personal angel of death come to drag me into the depths of Hell?"
The faintest glint of amusement passed over Asriel's sharp features. "Conjured?" he repeated softly, a dark chuckle curling from his throat. "Is that what you think I am, some fragment of your wretched imagination, born of irony and fear?" He shook his head slowly, eyes gleaming like dying embers.
Then, realization struck Lamar like a thunderclap. His breath caught. "You… you're not a dream, are you?"
For a moment, silence. Then Asriel spoke, his tone almost mournful. "No," he said. "None of us are."
A shiver crawled down Lamar's spine. He turned. Slowly, painfully, toward the rows of frozen spectators. And there, among the motionless crowd, he saw them.
Gunnar, arms folded, a cruel satisfaction curling his lips.
Orgrim, leaning against the far wall, amber eyes cold as tempered steel.
And before them, Isha, her expression dark, filled with a quiet, unrelenting wrath.
They were there. All of them. The ghosts of his past. The ones he thought buried, now standing before him, tangible and silent.
"You see, Burgess," Asriel said quietly, "vengeance never dies. It lingers. It festers. It calls to us long after death has claimed the rest." His gaze hardened. "We are the cursed, the tarnished. The answer to every plea for retribution. So long as vengeance is desired, demanded, we endure. From this moment, until the end of time."
Lamar trembled as Asriel loomed closer, the younger man's shadow falling over him like a shroud. "I promised you an eternity of torment," Asriel continued. "I may not have taken your head in life… but I will have you in the next."
He drew his arm back, and with a single motion, the world split open. The air tore apart in a violent rift, black fire spilling from the wound in reality. A guttural roar filled the chamber as charred, flame-veined arms reached outward, clawing at the edges of the rift and wrenching it wider.
The stench hit first. The reek of sulphur, burning flesh, and molten stone. Heat rolled through the air in blistering waves, searing Lamar's skin. The floor beneath his feet warped and cracked, black rock turning to jagged glass. And beyond the rift. stretching endlessly into crimson twilight, was Tartarus.
An inferno of jagged cliffs and rivers of fire. The screams of the damned howled through the burning winds, a chorus of agony that clawed at the soul. Lamar's breath hitched, eyes wide, his mind fracturing under the sight. He turned back to Asriel. only to find the young man watching him in silence.
"Now," he said. "Welcome home. But rest easy." He spread his arms, the faint curl of a smirk forming, "For you're not alone."
From the edge of the cliff, the ground split apart, and with a shriek of twisting metal, blackened tendrils of steel rose toward the crimson sky. Skewered upon them were dozens of bodies. Half-burned, half-torn, dangling in grotesque mockery of life. Flesh hung in tatters, sinew stretched thin, bones gleaming through what little skin remained. Their moans filled the choking air.
Lamar staggered backward, eyes darting frantically from one figure to the next.
"B-Burgess… you…" a broken voice rasped from above. George Hartshorne, his lips stripped from his mouth, exposed teeth gleaming wet with blood. One of his eye sockets was nothing but a hollow pit, oozing black. "You did this to us!"
"Curse you!" Manfred followed, twisted with hate and agony, his body hanging upside down by hooks that tore through what was left of his torso. "Curse you, you damned bastard!"
Another joined the chorus, Captain Clegane, mangled and near unrecognizable, his flesh charred to coal. "This is all your fault, Burgess! All of it!"
The air quaked with their fury, a cacophony of suffering that drowned even the roar of the flames. Lamar's gaze swept over them, and in every face he saw the wreckage of his sins. Those he had betrayed, used, discarded. Their cries echoed through him, shattering what little defiance he had left.
Suddenly, iron chains burst from the air, coiling like serpents. The first struck him across the chest. Hooks tore into his flesh with a wet, splitting sound. Another clamped around his arm, another through his thigh. Lamar screamed, his body hoisted upward as the chains pulled him taut, his limbs jerking like a broken marionette.
Asriel turned slightly, his gaze shifting to the three shadows that stood beside him. Orgrim, Gunnar, and Isha. Their faces were still, eyes gleaming with grim satisfaction as they watched the man who had stolen everything from them writhe in pain.
"Farewell, Lamar Augustine Burgess," Asriel said with a nod. "I do hope you and your friends find comfort in our… hospitality."
"Damn you, Valerian!" Lamar broke into a ragged roar as the tendrils tightened around him, dragging him toward the fiery abyss below. "Damn you all!"
The chains snapped taut, and with one final scream, he and the damned were pulled into the heart of Tartarus, swallowed by flame and shadow.
Asriel watched until the last echo faded into the distance. Then, quietly, he whispered, "Your reckoning is done."
Gunnar stretched his shoulders until his spine cracked, the sound echoing faintly against the molten stone. "Well, that's that," he said with a rough grin. "By the forge, I could drown in ale and tear meat clean off the bone, and it still wouldn't come close to the satisfaction I've felt this day."
Orgrim crossed his arms, his massive frame unmoving as he regarded the abyss below. "I concur," he rumbled. "Justice served, though it'll be a long watch before we're done here. Might as well get comfortable. We'll be guarding this pit for a very long time."
Gunnar barked a laugh and gave the orc a firm elbow in the ribs. "Aye, at least I've got your ugly mug to keep me company, you great lumberin' oaf." With a wink, his form began to waver, then dissolve into smoke and ember, the faint smell of iron and ash left in his wake.
Orgrim huffed, shaking his head. "Mad bastard," he muttered, before stepping forward himself. The ground beneath him cracked, and with a ripple of firelight, he too vanished into the mist.
Only Isha remained. She turned, her amber eyes glinting in the dim glow of Tartarus as she looked back at Asriel. "You coming?" she asked.
Asriel gave her a faint smile. Tired, but at peace. "Go on ahead," he said. "I'll follow soon."
Isha studied him for a heartbeat longer, then nodded once. "Don't take too long," she murmured, before fading into a swirl of shadow and flame.
In the heavy quiet that followed, Asriel straightened. "I'm curious," he said into the stillness. "What made you choose to wager with the boy? With Gryffindor?"
A soft stir of wind answered first, then a shape emerged beside him. Tall, cloaked in drifting mist. Ancient armor clung to his spectral form, dulled by time yet still carrying the weight of ages. His eyes, a muted amber, glowed faintly beneath the shadow of his helm. Damocles folded his arms.
"Because," he said, "like me, even our goddess wondered if there exists a force greater than vengeance itself."
Asriel turned his gaze toward him. "And did you find your answer?"
A faint smile ghosted across Damocles's face. "Perhaps," he murmured. "Perhaps not. But I would like to believe that our time upon this earth. Our purpose, is meant to be finite. Just as the power of the sword must fade, so too must the need for us. When that day comes, when the world no longer calls for vengeance, we would finally be at peace. And there's no tragedy in that."
Asriel's gaze dropped to his hand. He turned the locket between his fingers, its silver surface gleaming dimly in the infernal light. Inside, a moving photograph shimmered. He and Tala, frozen in an eternal moment of laughter.
"Do you regret it?" Damocles asked quietly.
Asriel's lips curved faintly. "No," he said. "In fact, I'd do it all again. Every battle, every loss, every choice that led me here." He closed his eyes, his thumb brushing over the locket. "Our story, will live on, in the hearts of those who remember." His words softened. "I know that our souls will find each other again, and until then I'll have just the memory. That perfect sensation of love… and that's enough."
Damocles watched him for a time, then gave a solemn nod. His form began to unravel, drifting away in threads of smoke and silver dust until nothing remained.
Asriel lingered, the silence pressing close once more. Then, he opened his eyes, turned to face the burning horizon, and stepped forward. His body dissolved into smoke and embers, carried off by the infernal wind, until the last trace of him vanished into the light.