The chamber of the Four Thrones shimmered with ambient magic, the walls alive with veined crystal that pulsed like a heartbeat. At its center, four seats faced inward — north, south, east, and west — each representing the ancient balance of the world's magic.
From the North, in robes spun of frozen moonlight and winter silk, sat Sage Aelthira, the cold flame of intellect. Though she looked scarcely older than a mortal woman in her prime, her eyes told the truth: they had seen empires rise and fall.
From the West, lounging in what might as well have been a throne carved from smug confidence and polished wit, was King Jareth. Blonde hair laced with electric-blue streaks, smile crooked just enough to be charming, his pristine white robes shimmered like star-metal. It was hard to take him seriously—until he opened his mouth.
"Let's not waste the shimmerlight," Aelthira began, flicking her wrist to conjure a projection — a map of the continent riddled with glowing red points. "This is the latest charting of E.N.D. activity. The frequency and ferocity have escalated. We have confirmed thirty-four incidents of possession in the last five days. The entity's presence is becoming… invasive."
"And intelligent," added Jareth, finally sitting upright, expression sharpening.
He rarely wore that face.
"You all know it," he continued, gesturing broadly to the other rulers. "We've been chasing E.N.D. for decades now. It's not just some chaotic magic storm. It's a snake. A slithering shadow that slips into the cracks no matter how tightly we seal them."
Aelthira nodded solemnly. "It survives by adapting. It always has. Even the last attempt to eradicate it resulted in three cataclysms and the disappearance of half the Skyreach Monastery."
"Exactly," Jareth said, voice losing its usual lilt. "We strike at it, it coils tighter. We trap it, it sheds the skin and slithers into someone else. It doesn't die, it waits. And when it strikes, it's already too late."
He tapped the side of his temple. "It doesn't just possess people. It poisons ideas. Corrupts them. A whisper here, a spark there. E.N.D. doesn't attack the gates. It becomes the gatekeeper."
A silence fell across the chamber.
Finally, Aelthira broke it, lifting her hand. A bracelet of pale crystal shimmered into existence on her wrist.
"This is what our technomages have developed. The Resonance Beacon. If E.N.D. gets too close — or into someone near us — the frequency spike will register instantly."
She handed similar devices to the others via floating magic glyphs. "Everyone wears one. No exceptions."
Jareth stared at the bracelet in his hand. "What, no deluxe version? No dragon-mode setting?"
"No jokes," Aelthira said, not harshly, but firm. "You're powerful, Jareth. But you're not untouchable. Even you."
He let the silence linger. Then, with a resigned sigh, slipped it onto his wrist. "Fine. But mine better glow when I'm being awesome."
The eastern and southern seats remained quiet — distant observers for now. The council turned to less pressing, though still vital, matters: guild regulation in the lower realms, teleportation gate taxation, rising rogue summoner cults. But Jareth's mind wandered back to the thing that always escaped him.
A snake with no tail to step on.
A whisper with no source.
E.N.D.
The Resonance Beacons hummed faintly as they settled onto wrists, the crystalline bands pulsing with a rhythm not unlike a heartbeat. The moment lingered, heavy with implication.
Jareth exhaled, brushing his fingers through his hair. "Still… I suppose we can count our blessings. At least we're not still dealing with Beelzebub."
The name fell like a guillotine.
A moment ago, the room had been tense.
Now, it was silent.
Sage Aelthira froze. Her hand—mid-gesture—trembled. A flicker of frost crawled over her palm before she quickly dispelled it.
Even the crystal walls pulsed once in sudden silence, as if the chamber itself were recoiling.
Outside, in the halls of the castle — servants paused mid-step, birds stopped in midair, guards gripped their weapons tighter without knowing why. The name echoed like a whisper not heard by ears but by souls.
It wasn't fear of death.
It was fear of something older.
Something hungrier.
Something closer to a concept than a creature.
King Jareth chuckled awkwardly, trying to wave away the creeping silence. "What? I mean, come on. Compared to Beelzebub, E.N.D. is just a cockroach in a storm drain. She—"
"Do not speak her name lightly," Aelthira snapped, her voice not raised, but cutting. She turned her icy gaze on Jareth. "Not even as a joke. The last time she stirred, thirteen nations lost their colors. Entire concepts were stripped from the mortal coil."
Jareth raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. Point made."
"She didn't attack," the Sage whispered, almost to herself. "She simply existed — and the world bled."
From the far end of the room, a southern advisor muttered a prayer beneath their breath. The eastern seat remained silent but the mage seated there — cloaked in red and shadow — quietly activated their Beacon, just in case.
Aelthira drew a slow breath, her composure restored. "We defeated her once. Not because we were strong… but because she allowed it. Do not tempt what sleeps beneath the foundation of creation."
The king nodded slowly, his grin dimmed but not gone. "Right. So… no more name drops in public. Got it."
Later
"Especially that one."
Zerathose stared at the assignment sheet like it was written in a foreign language.
Actually, scratch that. If it was written in a foreign language, at least he could have blamed that. This? This was just mockery in paragraph form.
I don't even have magic," he muttered.
He looked around like someone was going to appear and validate him. No one did. He was alone in the dorm common room, slouched over a table stacked with open books, scribbled notes, and a singular ominous paper titled "Practical Magic Theory IV."
"How am I supposed to perform an anti-magic loop when I don't even have regular magic?" he grumbled louder, jabbing his quill at the paper like it personally wronged him.
He slumped back in his chair, arms dangling like a man who had fought and lost a war against academia.
"This is discrimination. I'm gonna file a complaint. I should get bonus points for surviving magical attacks with no magic at all. That's talent."
He picked up the assignment sheet again, squinting at the next line:
"Describe the five most common mana interference patterns."
Zerathose narrowed his eyes.
"…Yeah. I'll just write: 'I don't know. I'm a glorified flashlight with legs. Please be nice.'"
He exhaled, heavily, dramatically, like a tragic protagonist.
The door creaked open.
"Yo," Kagetsuchi said, stepping inside like nothing had happened.
Zerathose's head snapped up. He had half a pencil in his mouth and the other half in his hand, chewing through it like it had insulted him. A sheet of anti-magic theory was crumpled beneath his elbow.
"Kagetsuchi?" he said, almost in disbelief. "You disappeared—are you okay?"
She gave a small shrug. "Just sick. I needed to breathe before I hurled on Professor Velron's boots."
"You threw up?" he blinked. "Like… for real?"
"Yeah," she said. "Bathroom floor got real intimate with me for a minute."
She chuckled lightly, walking past him. He caught a faint scent in the air—sharp, sterile, a little too clean.
Disinfectant?
He watched her move. She looked fine. A bit pale maybe. But she always looked half-dead after skipping lunch. She was even cracking jokes like normal.
Still…
"You sure you're okay?" he asked again, quieter this time.
"Zera," she said, turning back with a tired grin, "I'm not gonna melt. Just sick. Happens."
He nodded, eyes lingering a second longer before turning back to his homework.
As she disappeared into the other room, he sat in silence for a moment. The scent still lingered faintly.
Maybe I'm just overthinking it. She cleaned herself up. People get sick…
He ran a hand through his hair and muttered to himself:
"Or maybe I've just been reading too much cursed theory again. That stuff's getting to my head…"
He flipped the page, but the worry lingered, tucked just beneath the surface of his thoughts.