Jasper opened his eyes.
But it didn't feel like it.
Everything around him was pitch black—deeper than the night skies over the city, darker than the void between ruined towers. Even the Underground District, with all its crumbling ruins and endless tunnels, had shapes.
This place didn't.
It didn't even have a floor.
Only he existed.
And even then… he looked wrong.
There were no shadows. Not under his feet. Not beneath his arms. Not under his collar. His body hovered like it was cut out of reality and pasted on top of nothing. Like the world hadn't agreed to let him belong here.
He walked.
Not because he saw a path.
Just because standing still felt worse.
But no matter where he turned, there was only more of the same. Empty space. Cold that didn't touch the skin. No light, no gravity, no sound—
Until the eyes appeared.
Millions.
Stretching outward in every direction, far beyond where there should've been space. Pale, lidless, and unblinking. They weren't watching him.
They were approaching.
Fast.
Then the voices came.
Some were whispers. Some were screams. They layered over each other like a choir of regrets—impossible to separate, impossible to shut out.
"End it."
"Please, no more."
"Let us go."
"Why didn't you help?"
"Why did you kill him—why did you—why—why—"
Then it changed.
The tone.
The words turned colder.
Sharper.
"It's your fault."
"You survived. They didn't."
"You ran."
"You hesitated."
"You watched."
And then—
Silence.
Only one voice remained.
It didn't scream.
It didn't whisper.
It didn't accuse.
It simply… existed.
"You're not the one who brings hatred forth onto this world," it said.
No echo.
No weight.
Just fact.
"You are not worthy of my time."
Jasper jolted awake.
His breath hitched, sweat clinging to his skin like a second layer of clothes. His shirt stuck to his chest. The sheets were half-twisted around his legs. One of the bandages along his ribs had come loose—blood had soaked through again.
He didn't move for a while.
Didn't even blink.
Just sat there, spine stiff, eyes locked on the far wall.
The pain came next—dull at first, then sharp. The kind of pain that made you remember where you were. What you'd survived. The kind of pain that let you know you were still alive.
He pulled his knees up to his chest slowly, arms wrapped around them, chin resting lightly on his forearm. His breath was shallow.
That dream.
That voice.
He'd heard it before.
He didn't know where, or when, or how—but it wasn't unfamiliar. It had that tone—the absence of tone—that only came with something ancient. Something cruel. Not in malice. Not in rage.
Just… in disregard.
And the eyes—
So many.
All suffering.
They weren't angry at him. Not really. Even the voices—the ones screaming, begging, accusing—they hadn't been focused on him.
It was like he was standing in the crossfire.
Like he was inside a space that wasn't meant for him.
And yet—
It felt like he had been there before.
As if some part of him had seen that darkness long before his hands ever held a weapon.
Jasper glanced over at the clock beside his bed.
5 o'clock.
Sunday.
He blinked.
Pulled in another breath.
He was thinking too much again.
Meanwhile, inside the manor—
Evodil was asleep on top of the fridge.
He didn't need to sleep.
Didn't need to eat. Didn't need to breathe. Didn't need to do anything, really.
Which was why he wasn't even conscious—more like paused. A god stuck in screensaver mode.
Then his eyes snapped open.
He didn't move. Just stared at the far wall, upside down, blood barely flowing and gravity doing all the thinking for him.
The clock ticked.
5:11.
"Shit."
He rolled too fast, misjudged the angle, and fell.
Head-first.
There was a sharp clunk, then a brief flash of light—space curling wrong around his body, like a page turning backward.
Then—
Air.
Open. Still.
Sky above. White marble below. Weightless for a half-second.
Then gravity caught up.
He twisted midair and landed on both feet inside the White Palace, coat flaring, boots hitting polished stone with a heavy crack.
Smooth landing.
Almost.
Across the room, two chairs were already occupied.
Iris sat tall, legs crossed, hands folded neatly in front of her like a diplomat in court. Dolorus was beside her, posture formal, expression unreadable.
Both of them were staring at him.
Evodil nodded slowly.
"Right on time."
Neither said anything.
He exhaled through his nose and straightened his coat.
"...Give or take."
Evodil took his time crossing the courtyard.
He didn't rush. Didn't apologize. Just walked with that practiced calm, like the palace had been built to accommodate his lateness.
He reached the head of the table—the black throne with the six-pointed star etched into the headrest—and sat.
Not slouched.
Not stiff.
Just angled perfectly. One leg crossed loosely, one arm resting against the armrest. Eyes half-lidded behind the blindfold, posture designed to radiate ownership.
Like the courtyard belonged to him.
Like they belonged to him.
Iris was the first to speak.
"You're late," she said evenly.
Evodil didn't miss a beat.
"Divine teleportation queues," he replied. "Nightmare today. You wouldn't believe how long the wait gets."
Dolorus blinked. "There's a queue?"
Evodil turned his head slightly toward him, tone calm. "Only for gods like me."
Dolorus hesitated. "...Meaning?"
"If we didn't have restrictions," Evodil said casually, "we could move through all points in time and space simultaneously. Cause paradoxes. Rewrite fate. Collide with our own echoes. It'd be chaos."
He paused.
"Not that I'd mind, but rules exist for a reason."
Iris raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Dolorus looked faintly disturbed. "That's… fair."
Evodil nodded, just enough to make it seem humble.
Inside?
He was sweating.
But each second that passed made it easier.
Every breath he took in that chair, every lie that landed clean—it all helped shape the role. Made it feel less like improv, and more like prophecy.
He was getting better at this.
And they still had no idea who he really was.
Iris shifted slightly, her attention drifting from Evodil to Dolorus.
She raised a hand—measured, formal.
Evodil gave a slow nod, just enough to imply permission.
She turned back to him, posture straight, voice even.
"I wished to ask about Oaths."
The air stilled.
"My father," she continued, "is loyal to the Cathedral of Light. He's always intended for me to inherit his Oath. It's… tradition."
She hesitated.
"But I've never felt its call. The rites, the verses, the crown—they're heavy. Expected. I've always dreamed of taking the path of a Solaris Imperial Strider."
Evodil didn't move.
She looked down briefly. "The Oath forged by James Dawn."
A pause.
"Known in the old texts as Quaros."
Dolorus shifted uncomfortably.
"That Oath is dangerous," he said. "Not in its strength, but in its visibility."
Iris looked at him.
"Striders are tracked. Watched. Targeted by cults hoping to wipe out direct successors of Quaros."
He tapped his fingers once against the table.
"If your safety is in question, I would advise a lesser-known Oath. Something simpler. Something survivable."
Iris frowned. "Like what?"
"Soulmate," Dolorus answered without hesitation. "Forged by Ethan—the God of Spirits. It's stable. Deeply personal. Nearly untraceable once bound."
He paused.
"Or Rushy Luck, if you're feeling reckless. Rota's Oath."
Iris raised a brow. "The gambler's bond?"
"A bit theatrical," Dolorus admitted. "But cults rarely bother tracking chaos."
He didn't glance toward Evodil.
But the implication lingered.
Iris turned toward him again.
Not boldly. Not rigidly. But carefully—eyes softer now, searching his face like she was looking for more than just permission.
Like she needed him to say it.
To confirm the one thing no one else would.
That the dream she carried wasn't hopeless.
Evodil tilted his head slightly, fingers steepled in front of him.
Internally?
He was blank.
Ethan? Rota? He barely remembered the name Ethan, and he was pretty sure Rota was either a gambler or a breakfast cereal. Maybe both.
But he didn't have time to wonder.
He was "all-knowing."
He had seconds to answer.
So he nodded once—slow, deliberate—and spoke with calm weight.
"You are looking toward a dangerous path, that much is certain."
Iris didn't flinch.
"But if you survive the massacre—if you endure the fire—then you will not only walk as a Strider."
He paused.
"You will become the strongest ruler your kingdom has ever seen."
Silence.
Not dramatic.
Reverent.
"I can promise you that."
Iris lit up.
The change wasn't loud. No smile broke her face. No gasp escaped her lips. But her eyes—
They burned.
Not with fire.
With life.
She nodded once, slow and sharp. "Thank you, my god. That is… more than I hoped for."
Then, after a breath—
"You are more benevolent than I was led to believe."
Evodil blinked.
"...I am?"
She smiled. "Of course."
Dolorus glanced between them, silently tracking every syllable.
Evodil didn't move.
He didn't understand how this worked.
But it was working.
Dolorus folded his hands.
Then looked up—calm, direct.
"If I may," he said.
Evodil gave him a nod, slow and deliberate, the kind that implied permission while secretly praying it wasn't a trap.
Dolorus didn't hesitate.
"How much of this palace do you actually use?"
Evodil blinked.
Dolorus continued. "Was it built by you? Or has it always existed in this dimension?"
He leaned forward slightly, his tone still respectful, but the questions came faster now. Sharper.
"What are your domains as a god?"
"Where do you reside in the physical world?"
"Why us?"
He gestured subtly between himself and Iris.
"And lastly… what's inside the palace beyond this room?"
The silence hung heavy.
Evodil stared at him.
Calm on the surface.
Internally?
What the f—
He exhaled through his nose, adjusted his posture, and tapped his fingers once on the edge of the throne.
Time to speak like someone who owned everything.
Evodil leaned back slightly, letting his fingers trail along the armrest.
He wasn't going to answer everything.
Only the ones that mattered—or the ones that sounded like they mattered. With any luck, Dolorus would forget the rest.
"The palace," he began, voice steady, "was built by me. Long ago."
He didn't give a date. Let them fill in the blank.
"It was constructed as a sanctuary. A meeting place between ideas. A threshold for those who walk between titles and truth."
He paused.
"Most of it remains unused. Empty by design. A place like this must breathe. If I filled every hall, it would collapse under the weight of interpretation."
Dolorus nodded slowly, parsing the words.
Iris looked entranced.
Evodil continued.
"My domains," he said, "are Light and Peace."
It felt wrong coming out of his mouth. But he let it sit there, noble and untouchable. The palace almost agreed with him—its glow steady, unwavering.
"As for your final question…"
He looked directly at Dolorus now.
"If I am the owner of this place," he said evenly, "and if this is indeed my domain—"
He gestured toward the courtyard beyond the pillars.
"Then tell me, Dolorus… do you feel you can stand from the table and walk where you please?"
Dolorus hesitated.
Iris looked toward him.
The air didn't change.
But something felt heavier.
Dolorus nodded, slowly.
But Evodil saw it.
That slight pause.
That flicker of hesitation behind the calm scholar's mask.
The kind of fear that didn't show in breath or body—but in the eyes. Just for a second.
Then he recovered.
"Of course," Dolorus said, adjusting his tone. "I meant nothing by it. Just a scholar's curiosity. No harm intended."
Evodil didn't respond. Not immediately.
He turned to Iris instead.
She hadn't spoken since Dolorus began questioning him. But her posture had changed. Subtle. Straighter. Shoulders tighter. Hands no longer relaxed, but resting deliberately atop one another.
He smirked.
It wasn't arrogance. It wasn't mockery.
It was knowing.
"I will allow it," Evodil said, gesturing outward toward the endless halls beyond the courtyard. "You may explore the palace."
Iris's eyes flicked toward the arches.
Dolorus stayed perfectly still.
"But there is a rule," Evodil continued.
"Return within half an hour."
His voice didn't rise.
"If you don't…"
The air grew thinner.
"…you will never find your way back."
No one spoke.
The palace remained quiet.
And Evodil smiled like he'd just granted them a gift.
They looked at him in perfect sync.
Then, as if rehearsed—
"Very well, Joker."
Two chairs scraped gently against the floor, barely echoing in the massive space.
Iris and Dolorus stood with calm grace, no fear in their steps—only purpose. Together, they moved toward the far archway, the one that led deeper into the palace.
Evodil watched them, silent.
As they passed under the arch, both of them muttered something. Not to him. To each other. Too quiet for even a god to hear without straining.
And then they were gone.
Out of the courtyard. Out of sight.
Evodil's entire posture collapsed.
He dropped forward like someone pulled the plug on divine posture, face smacking the polished table with a dull thunk.
"Stupid gravity," he muttered into the marble.
He stayed there.
Thinking.
Processing.
Every question they'd asked. Every answer he made up. Every mistake he narrowly dodged. He ran through the new information—cult names, god names, Oaths, terms, dates. All of it had to be remembered. Filed. Used later.
But not right now.
Right now?
He deserved a break.
His head stayed pressed against the polished black wood.
He stared at the grain, the reflection of his own silhouette warped by the surface. Not a face. Just a shape. A figure that didn't belong anywhere—and somehow belonged here more than anyone.
The "Joker."
That's what they called him now.
He couldn't be himself here. Couldn't be James. Couldn't be Noah. Couldn't be any god from the world outside. Those names carried rules. Expectations. Limits.
Here?
He had to be something else.
Something that didn't make sense.
Didn't follow logic.
Didn't answer to history.
A wild card.
A contradiction made flesh.
Something that matched the cursed realm of light this palace lived in.
After a few long minutes, he finally stood.
The throne behind him didn't move. Didn't creak. It felt more like a fixture of the realm than a chair. Rooted. Eternal.
Evodil rolled his shoulders once and adjusted his coat.
They were gone.
Iris and Dolorus had likely assumed he'd remain in the courtyard, looming, waiting like a proper god.
Which meant now was the perfect time to move.
And if he was going to explore, he wasn't about to follow their path.
He turned to the opposite archway—clean, quiet, untouched.
No footsteps. No echoes.
Good.
Let them think he stayed behind.
Without a word, he stepped through.
And vanished into the palace.
He stepped through the archway.
And stopped.
The air shifted—barely—but the silence deepened. The stone beneath his boots turned to old wooden planks, worn from years of footsteps that never made noise.
The first room was familiar.
Uncomfortably so.
It looked exactly like the entrance to his manor.
Chairs lined both walls, some angled ever so slightly—always off-center no matter how many times he fixed them. Paintings hung crooked on nails too weak to hold them. A few were the ones Noah gave him—skies, trees, strange glowing stones.
The wallpaper was the same, too.
Faded yellow, floral patterns curling along the walls like dried veins. He had always meant to replace it.
To the right, through the archway, he could see the edge of the dining room table. Still dusty. Still intact. Still there.
Near the door, the clock ticked softly—just out of rhythm, always lagging by a minute, no matter how often he rewound it.
And against the small side table near the coat rack sat the candle—eternally burning, never melting—and the broken radio beside it. Static-only. No signal. Never played anything, even when it should've.
Unpacked boxes were still stacked in the corner.
Just like home.
Exactly like home.
Too much like home.
He hadn't walked into the palace.
He'd walked into a memory.
Or something trying to recreate one.
And he wasn't sure which was worse.
He walked up to the table.
The candle still burned, exactly like it always did.
Evodil narrowed his eyes.
Then pushed it off.
It fell in silence, hit the floor, and—
Wasn't there anymore.
Back on the table. Same flame. Same spot. Like nothing happened.
He stared at it, unimpressed.
"Cheap knockoff," he muttered under his breath. "Couldn't even fake gravity right."
This wasn't home.
It was the palace, still.
Dressed in nostalgia. Painted with stolen comfort. Just another lie wrapped in white light and impossible symmetry.
He stepped into the living room next.
It looked exactly the same.
Same oversized table. Eight seats, even though he never invited anyone to dinner. Even though he never sat in any of them. But they were always there.
Always eight.
To the right: the archway leading to the hallway.
To the left: the stairs, and the familiar curve of the kitchen entrance behind them.
For a moment, he thought about walking toward the kitchen.
The coffee machine was probably there.
Working. Clean. Waiting.
But he didn't.
He walked up the stairs.
He didn't stop at the library. Didn't even glance toward it.
He climbed all the way to the top—his boots tapping gently against the warped wood—until he reached the room that had always been his.
The observatory.
The place where thoughts didn't have to be spoken. Where no one asked questions. Where the sky didn't argue.
He placed a hand on the doorknob.
It felt warm.
He opened the door.
And stopped.
It wasn't the observatory.
Not anymore.
It looked like purgatory.
The floor was white marble—still palace-true—but it was cracked. Deep fractures split through the stone like something massive had slammed down. A hammer. A blade. A choice.
Flames surrounded the edge of the room.
Not orange.
Not blue.
White and black.
Like his coat.
Like his skin.
The flames didn't move like fire. They twisted slowly, heavy, coiling upward without heat. They didn't burn. They existed.
He stepped forward.
More shapes appeared.
Ruins.
Stone columns and arches, half-collapsed, broken in the same pattern as the ones in the underground district. The same ancient structure. The same shattered dome.
The one that had looked too much like the White Palace to be a coincidence.
His boots tapped gently against fractured marble as he moved to the center.
And there it was.
Not a relic.
Not a flame.
Not a mirror.
A mask.
Floating just above the cracked center.
It didn't hover. It didn't pulse. It just was.
Horns curled back from the top—sharp and asymmetrical. Small spikes lined the brow, like thorns forged from bone. It had four eye holes, too wide for a human face. The bottom half was missing, cut off in a sharp curve—somewhere between a masquerade mask and a war helm.
But it wasn't elegant.
It wasn't pretty.
It looked like something meant to be worn by nothing that could lie.
Evodil stepped closer.
And the room didn't move.
It waited.
He walked straight up to the mask.
No hesitation.
No reverence.
And kicked it.
Hard.
The mask flipped midair, clattering once against nothing before hovering upright again—exactly where it had been.
Evodil stood below it, eyes burning.
"Not a chance," he growled. "There is no way in hell I'm becoming what you want me to be."
His voice echoed off the cracked dome.
"You think you can mock me? Drag me through my own memories, parade your fake little palace and then offer me this? This—thing?!"
The flames didn't move.
The ruins didn't shift.
But the mask did.
Tendrils erupted from its sides—thin, ink-black ribbons like strands of thought made solid. They snapped forward and wrapped around his limbs in a blink, slamming him onto the marble floor.
He struggled—arms pinned, breath knocked from his lungs—but the mask drifted closer, slow and steady.
Then it dropped.
Right onto his face.
No flash.
No ceremony.
Just impact.
It latched to him like it had been waiting.
He screamed, hands flying up, trying to tear it off—but it was already too late. It didn't just bind to his skin. It clung to something deeper. Something written into him.
It fused to his being.
"Get it OFF!"
He thrashed.
Kicked.
Clawed at his own face, fingernails scraping along the sharp bone edges—but it wouldn't move. Wouldn't bend. Wouldn't even shift.
His mind spun.
His body burned.
And then—
One idea.
One instinct.
If this realm wanted to force him into a role—he'd force it to listen.
He reached deep, snapped his hand outward, and summoned Crypt Blade.
The weight returned instantly.
He flipped it, reversed his grip, and pointed it at his own throat.
The blade remained at his neck.
Steady.
The realm didn't react.
No flames flinched.
No whispers came.
No tendrils tried to stop him.
And Evodil didn't care.
Whether he died here or not—
He would not be a joke in someone else's performance.
He would not wear the mask just because some cursed light decided he looked good in it.
He was The Joker because he made the rules.
Not because he followed them.
So he slit his own throat.
The sound was clean.
No scream. No gasp.
Only silence.
Blood didn't pour out.
Instead, a thick black ichor drifted up from the wound, floating like it was underwater, refusing to fall. It shimmered faintly in the white flames, curling like smoke, rising in spirals.
His body dropped to the floor.
Arms limp.
The mask remained fixed to his face, burning cold.
He couldn't stand.
Could barely breathe.
But he could still speak.
And so he did.
Voice low.
Each word pressed into the floor like a scar.
"I am not a poet."
"I am not a soldier."
"I am a king of destiny that is mine alone."
His vision blurred.
"I will never let this realm control my actions."
He coughed once—more ichor rising from his lips.
"And if this is my last breath… so be it."
His voice thinned to a whisper.
"I am the man destined to be forgotten."
"Not by allies."
"But by fate."
Silence.
For the first time since he stepped into the palace—
No lies.
No illusions.
No questions.
No flames whispering along the edge of memory.
Just quiet.
The kind of peace only possible after death.
The incarnation of chaos had fallen.
And for a moment… the concept fell with him.
The fire kept burning. The shattered dome remained.
But the realm began to shrink.
Slow at first. Then faster.
The ruins folded inward. The marble collapsed into itself, erasing like chalk on glass. The flames pulled back, curling into pinpricks of white and black before blinking out completely.
The world receded.
Until only Evodil remained.
Evodil—and the mask.
They floated in a perfect circle of white light, suspended over a void that stretched forever in every direction.
Evodil didn't move.
He couldn't.
His body was still. His chest didn't rise. His limbs didn't twitch.
He was dead.
But the mask wasn't.
It hovered for a second longer—four eyes dim, unreadable.
Then it began to dissolve.
Not into ash. Not into shadow.
It melted inward—folding into itself, streamlining into pure thought, pure purpose, and then—
It pressed into him.
Not onto his face. Not as an object.
Into his skin.
Into his essence.
It sank beneath the surface, disappearing without mark or glow.
And then—
The cut on his throat sealed shut.
Not fast.
Not magically clean.
Slowly.
Like the body remembered what it meant to heal.
The ichor that had risen began to reverse course, returning to where it belonged. Color flushed into his skin. His limbs twitched. His breath returned in short, stuttering gasps.
He was alive.
Again.
But not quite the same.
Evodil stood slowly.
Every muscle ached like he'd been hit by James' warhammer.
Again.
Twice, maybe.
He blinked hard, breath catching as the dizziness faded. His vision cleared—white stone, quiet air, and the familiar circle of columns.
He wasn't in the observatory.
Or the purgatory.
Or whatever that place was.
He was standing just outside the archway leading back into the courtyard. The same spot he entered from. As if the palace had thrown him out like a drunk who overstayed his welcome.
His hands trembled faintly.
But only for a second.
He flexed his fingers, checking his body. No wound. No ichor. Nothing left of the slit throat or the screaming.
He was whole again.
Sort of.
The only thing he remembered clearly was the collapsed dome.
And something inside it—
But it slipped away like a dream already fading.
Of course it did.
No time to reflect.
He heard it before he saw them.
Footsteps.
Two sets.
Approaching from the far hallway.
He didn't need to turn.
He already knew.
Iris. Dolorus.
Returning.
Which meant only one thing.
The game was back on.
Evodil stood up, brushing the dust from his coat as he moved.
He stepped onto the black wood table, walking its length without hesitation, boots tapping evenly until he reached the far end—his seat.
The throne with the six-pointed star.
He glanced at the headrest, at the strange script etched beneath the symbol. It had always been unreadable. Decorative noise. Something to make the seat look important.
But not now.
Now he could read it.
Clear as anything.
The Fallen.
He stared at it for a second longer than he meant to.
No time to think.
No time to wonder who named it that—or why.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
He dropped into the seat in one smooth motion, adjusting his posture, right leg crossed, hand resting on his chin as if nothing had happened.
Just as Iris and Dolorus entered the courtyard, still mid-conversation.
They stepped into the courtyard, still talking.
Dolorus had his hands clasped behind his back, walking with the quiet posture of someone deep in analysis. Iris matched his pace, her tone lighter, but her eyes focused—still scanning the space like it might shift again.
"I saw the southern wing," she said, voice steady. "Three doors, no windows. The third one opened to a cliff."
Dolorus nodded. "Mine changed halfway through. Started like the old Brinehold archives, then shifted. I don't know if it was real or reconstructed from memory."
"Did it say anything?" she asked.
"Only what I already knew. Or maybe only what I thought I knew." He glanced up at the high marble arches. "I don't think it's meant to teach. Just… reflect."
She gave a thoughtful hum, eyes tracing the throne at the end of the table.
Evodil hadn't moved.
He sat like he'd been there the whole time, unmoved, undisturbed. The same folded posture. The same calm presence. No trace of exhaustion. No sign of what had actually happened.
Iris gave him a small nod as she returned to her seat.
Dolorus followed, sitting down with quiet composure.
"Joker," Iris said softly.
Dolorus mirrored her. "Joker."
Evodil gave the faintest nod in return, eyes unreadable.
Evodil let the silence settle for a few seconds longer.
Then, casually—
"So," he said, voice smooth, fingers loosely interlocked in front of him. "What did you learn from your walk through my palace?"
Dolorus answered first.
His posture didn't change. Eyes still fixed on the far side of the courtyard, but his voice had softened.
"I saw Brinehold again. Not as it was… but as I wanted to remember it."
Evodil nodded, saying nothing.
"It showed me my old archives," Dolorus continued. "Some of them intact. Others... not. I don't know if they were real memories or reconstructions. But it felt like I was being asked to accept something. To stop searching for a version of the past that never existed."
He paused, then glanced at Evodil.
"I don't know if that's what you intended."
Evodil gave a vague smile. "Interpretation is the soul of meaning."
Dolorus nodded once, thoughtful.
Still suspicious.
But no longer hostile.
Then Iris spoke.
"I saw my family's castle," she said. "Caerost. As it'll be in ten years if I do nothing."
Her voice didn't tremble—but it carried weight.
"Golden halls, velvet thrones, my father sitting on a high seat. The Cathedral banners everywhere. His smile frozen."
She folded her hands. "It made me feel like an heir to something dead."
Evodil raised an eyebrow.
She continued, unwavering. "I'm going to become the strongest ruler Caerost has ever seen. I'll tear down the old rites. I'll burn the robes. And when I ascend, I'll do it not under a crown—"
Her eyes met his.
"—but under fire."
The words rang clean in the courtyard.
Dolorus didn't interrupt.
Evodil watched her for a moment, then nodded slowly.
"Well," he said, "seems the palace gave you what you needed."
He looked between them both. "Goals. Reflections. Resolve."
"I commend you both."
They nodded in return—small, formal gestures, but meaningful.
But inside, Evodil didn't feel right.
Something inside him was off.
Like his skin didn't fit anymore.
Like he wasn't the only one sitting in his body.
Like something else had taken a seat inside him the moment the mask disappeared.
He didn't show it.
Didn't twitch.
Didn't blink.
He just stood slowly, smoothing out his coat.
The others stood with him.
Dolorus bowed faintly. "Until next time… Joker."
Iris mirrored the gesture. "Until next time… Joker."
Evodil nodded.
"Queen of Clubs."
"Full House."
He adjusted his collar and tapped two fingers lightly against the table.
"Next meeting. Sunday. Five o'clock."
They nodded once more, and turned to leave.
The moment they stepped away, the Joker card in his pocket pulsed with light.
A single blink—soft, but bright enough to glow through the coat.
And in a flash of distortion—
He was gone.