Zcain stopped them the moment their boots touched the obsidian causeway.
"Stay close," he said, voice low and absolute. "We are in Mrajeareim now. Fragment territory. Every breath here is borrowed."
No one argued.
The realm pressed in immediately—like something had noticed them and was deciding where to bite first.
"This isn't just Ecayrous's domain," Zcain continued. "It answers to him. The ground. The air. The things watching from behind the sky." His gaze flicked once, sharp. "Everyone is an enemy. Including the silence."
Qaritas felt it then—that subtle pressure behind the eyes, the same sensation he got when the dark leaned too close. Nez's fur bristled against his leg, tail flicking once in warning.
They hadn't taken ten steps before Tavran stopped.
"Father."
Zcain turned instantly.
Tavran stood straighter than Qaritas had ever seen him. Rivax and Dheas flanked him, not as guards—but as anchors.
"We'll stay in Deepcrest," Tavran said. "Through the night. We'll watch the matches tomorrow. Be ready if things go wrong."
Zcain studied his son for a long moment.
Then, without ceremony, he stepped forward and pulled Tavran into a fierce, sudden embrace.
"If anything happens," Zcain said quietly, voice rough, "you protect the others. Especially your mother."
Tavran swallowed hard. "I will, Father."
Zcain released him.
The door closed behind Tavran, Rivax, and Dheas with a sound like a tomb sealing.
No one spoke.
Even Eon was quiet.
That was when Uan stepped forward.
He looked like a mistake that had learned to smile.
His head was twisted completely backward, face peeled away from his skull and stretched inside-out, teeth bared in a permanent, delighted grin. His tongue flicked like a serpent's—long, wet, tasting the air. His body was a grotesque fusion of horse and insect, chitin gleaming beneath layers of old, dark blood.
He bowed.
"Well," Uan said pleasantly, voice sliding like oil, "we've been expecting you, Lord Zcain."
Zcain didn't respond.
Uan's smile widened.
"Ecayrous has been most eager for your arrival."
Seven sledges slid forward behind him—each black, each drenched in different colors of dried blood. Some old. Some disturbingly fresh.
"They will change," Uan added cheerfully. "When we reach Demalik. Your masquerade attire is already prepared."
Inside Qaritas, Eon stirred.
Disgusted.
Delighted.
Oh, Eon murmured. Look at the layering. Arterial. Venous. Someone took their time.
"Try it," Eon whispered suddenly. "Just a taste."
"No," Qaritas said aloud, jaw tight.
Uan's head snapped toward him—eyes blinking sideways.
Before he could respond, Uan turned smoothly to Komus.
"Welcome home," Uan purred. "Master Lexen."
Komus didn't blink.
"That's not my name," he said flatly.
Then he climbed into the second sledge without another word.
Qaritas followed him instinctively, dropping beside him. "Komus—are you—"
Komus didn't look at him.
His eyes were cold.
Empty in a way Qaritas had never seen.
And Qaritas understood with a sinking certainty—
This wasn't his friend.
This was the man Komus used to be.
Zcain mounted the front sledge alone.
The others followed:
Third Cree and Hydeius
Fourth Daviyi and Niriai
Fifth Ación and Rykhan
Sixth Nyqomi and Xasna
Seventh Laxiae and Shanian
Uan raised one clawed hand.
The sledges moved.
Fragments lined the path—dozens of them. Hundreds. All watching. All hungry.
Mrajeareim unfolded around them.
A realm of perpetual twilight. The sky churned in deep purples and blacks, streaked with crimson lightning that cracked without thunder. The air stank of ozone and burnt metal. Jagged obsidian shards carpeted the ground, crunching like bone beneath the sledges.
And rising ahead—
Demalik.
Ecayrous's home.
As the sledges drew nearer to Demalik, something shifted in the shadows beside Qaritas.
A flicker of movement—quick, near invisible.
A soft, guttural growl barely above the wind.
Nez.
The black cat with violet eyes moved like smoke between worlds. One moment visible, the next—gone. She slinked beneath the sledges, her fur bristling in unnatural silence. The realm did not seem to notice her. Or perhaps it feared her.
Qaritas felt the tug at his ankles, a familiar coolness as Nez vanished into his shadow—literally sinking into it like ink in water.
She curled within him.
A secret between flesh and soul.
He closed his eyes briefly, sending a whisper downward into the hidden space inside his shadow.
"Find her. Find Ayla. Use my eyes."
A pulse.
Then vision.
Not his.
Through Nez, the world became tinted violet. The walls of Demalik blurred and pulsed as if made of muscle and breath. She darted unseen—across the cracked stone, behind the twitching figures, into doorways she alone could pass.
Each new room was a different flavor of nightmare.
Each flicker of vision made Qaritas's stomach twist.
Then—
A scream.
Ayla.
It tore through the bond like a red-hot brand. Qaritas staggered, pressing a hand to the wall as Nez's body arched beneath the skin of his shadow. His mouth opened—but no words came, only breathless agony.
In his skull, Eon stirred.
"Mmm. There it is. That sound again. She's still breaking. Do you hear the way it fractures? Beautiful, in a way."
"Shut up," Qaritas hissed aloud.
"Oh, come now," Eon purred. "You made me a prison, remember? But you let me see, you let me feel. And I can tell you: she's not dying. Not yet. That would be a mercy. No… she's changing."
Qaritas forced himself upright.
He blinked.
In the hallway nearby, Cree had begun to play—plucking strange silver strings on an instrument shaped like a lyre fused with a spine. It gave off no normal sound, only warped vibrations that made the skulls on the wall hum in harmony.
Qaritas turned—and noticed the walls themselves.
Not stone. Not quite.
They were crafted of stretched skin—faces from dozens of species flayed and pinned, stretched like tapestries. Some looked human. Some did not. All of them seemed to weep when no one was watching.
And still—no Ecayrous.
Even Zcain frowned as they passed into the ballroom. "Where is he?"
Niriai whispered beside Daviyi, "He should've arrived before us."
Laxiae looked uneasy. "Does Evil even arrive late?"
Eon laughed inside Qaritas's head.
"He's not late. He's waiting. Watching. Look for the signs. They're all around us."
The ballroom doors yawned open.
And horror smiled.
But something above, or within, studied them with a hunger older than time.
A fortress of glistening black stone, its towers etched with runes that pulsed like veins. Servants waited outside—faces carved into smiles, flesh sagging, splitting, barely holding together.
One bowed so deeply his jaw detached and fell, hanging uselessly as he rasped,
"Welcome… to Demalik."
Inside, horror had been curated.
Furniture made of flesh.
Walls painted in layered blood.
Skulls repurposed as lamps and vases.
They were separated.
Qaritas's room awaited him.
The costume laid out was unmistakably regal—black and purple, heavy velvet and embroidered sigils. A king's attire. A black masquerade mask waited atop it.
Eon chuckled. "Ah. The den of monsters and evil. How nostalgic. At least they remember they once had a king."
Qaritas paused. "A king who started all of this."
Eon's voice cooled. "I didn't start this."
Qaritas said nothing.
He dressed.
When he stepped out, the others emerged—
Komus in a rainbow jester's outfit, mask locked into a painted smile.
Niriai in blues and greens, corseted and sharp.
Cree balanced between feminine and masculine, white-and-gold laughing mask gleaming.
Hydeius mirrored Qaritas in black and white.
Daviyi burned in orange and gold.
Zcain and his siblings wore the colors of royalty.
Eon laughed softly. "Oh, that's deliberate. They're insulting him."
They moved.
The ballroom doors were made of skulls.
When they opened—
Horror spilled out.
Guests hurled daggers and axes at slaves for sport. Tongues were ripped free. Bodies forced into torture chairs. Blood licked from the floor. A wagon wheel rolled as bones shattered. A rack stretched a victim until another guest sawed them apart.
Music played.
Guests danced.
Qaritas searched desperately.
No Ecayrous.
No Ayla.
In one corner, a masked figure beat a slave into a mound of meat.
In the center of the ballroom stood something unnatural.
A clock—taller than any man, shaped like a starburst made of bone and iron. But it had no hands.
It ticked anyway.
Louder with each passing second.
Faster.
Faster.
"I wonder what happens," Eon said, voice practically giddy, "when it stops. Or worse… when it ticks no more."
Above them, a floating banquet table hovered in the air—made entirely of dark stone, dripping ancient blood that floated downward but never touched the floor. The smell was metallic and sweet, like forgotten war.
Beneath it, guests danced and tortured, never noticing the blood grazing their heads like falling snow.
And then—
A crack.
Qaritas froze.
In his mind—Ayla screamed.
Not with her voice—but with her mind.
It was pure, brutal, raw.
Like a soul being shredded by a dull knife.
He stumbled backward, clutching his head.
"Nez—get out—get out now—"
But it was too late.
Crack.
A sound like bone breaking, but from inside his brain.
Another scream—
Then silence.
Nez went dark.
Gone.
Qaritas collapsed to one knee, eyes wide, mouth agape.
"Ayla," he gasped. "No—no—no—"
But grief had no place here. The walls were already watching.
Then—
Qaritas tried to ground himself—but now the ballroom shifted. The blood-soaked horrors remained, but something deeper stirred.
The paintings.
The ballroom walls were lined with them—massive, oil-rich depictions framed in bone and ivory. At a glance, they looked static—frozen in time, portraying Ecayrous torturing other gods, emperors, kings. Some bled. Others screamed. One showed Ecayrous seated atop a pile of dismembered angels.
But the moment Qaritas turned away from a painting—
It changed.
When he looked back, a different image had taken its place.
One—
One showed Qaritas himself.
Naked.
Torn open.
Screaming.
And yet… it was not a memory he recognized.
"Curious," Eon whispered. "Are you sure you've never screamed like that? Maybe it's a prophecy. Or a wish."
Qaritas turned away.
He almost ran into the throne.
A monolith of black stone, jagged and enormous—covered in chains that writhed like living snakes. No one sat on it.
No one dared.
Some guests wouldn't even look at it, choosing to avert their eyes or mutter strange prayers under breath. One mask cracked in half as its wearer dared glance too long.
The chains twitched.
Waiting.
Eon whispered, delighted—
"Welcome to court."
The throne room fell silent.
All sound stopped.
Even the music.
Even the clock paused between ticks.
The guests turned.
The dancers froze.
The servants bowed, some crawling into their own blood.
Niriai's mask tilted toward the throne, voice barely a whisper.
"He's here."
Cree clutched the strings of their lyre-spine instrument, as if it could protect them.
"I feel sick," they murmured.
The throne's chains snapped tight—
And the air ripped open.
From the tear in space stepped Ecayrous.
His presence was gravity, silence, horror, and beauty all at once.
Robes of woven flesh and shadow. Eyes that glowed like eclipses. Mouths on his arms. A crown of bone.
Everywhere he walked, reality bent.
The blood on the floor recoiled.
The walls trembled.
And though his mouth did not move—
Everyone heard his voice.
"Let the masquerade begin."