Four months had passed since the laughter.
Since Seris.
The palace of Lydia had learned how to move again — not forward, just… on.
The bells still rang at dawn. The priests still prayed. The markets still buzzed with laughter that felt slightly off-beat, slightly delayed, like an echo of something genuine.
And in the underground cell, time had stopped.
Nhilly sat where he always did, back against the wall, eyes fixed on the faint band of light bleeding through the bars. The candle beside him had long burned down to wax and smoke. The damp walls hummed softly with the distant sound of gears — the city's mechanical heartbeat.
He hadn't moved in days.
The guards had stopped speaking to him altogether. They treated him like a ghost — something to be seen from the corner of the eye but never acknowledged.
Tonight, though, was different.
The steps outside were heavier. Purposeful.
The door creaked open, and a familiar voice drifted through the gloom.
"Hero Nhilly," said one of the guards, his tone flat. "Orders from above. You're to be released."
Nhilly didn't move. "Now?"
"The war is nearing," the guard replied. "Two weeks. The northern front's falling apart. The court wants all heroes prepared."
Nhilly's gaze flicked to the side. "And the others?"
"Still upstairs. They'll be briefed tomorrow." The man hesitated, his voice lowering. "For what it's worth… be careful out there. I might kill you if you get too close."
The words weren't said with malice.
They were said with something worse — fatigue.
Nhilly gave a faint laugh, dry and bitter. "You'd be doing me a favour."
The guard unlocked the gate and stepped back quickly, not looking him in the eye. The door clanged open, metal against metal.
Nhilly didn't stand.
He stared at the open doorway for a long moment, then leaned his head against the wall.
"I'm not leaving," he said quietly.
The guard blinked. "What?"
"I said I'm staying."
The man frowned, uncertain whether to argue or walk away. "Suit yourself. The gods want you on the field. If you defy them…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
He left.
Nhilly sat in the silence that followed, the door open but the air still feeling like a cage.
Then the flame of the candle — one that should have already died — flared back to life.
It burned blue.
The air thickened.
And the voices came.
Not from outside. From everywhere.
"The play falters."
"The constellations grow restless."
"A finale is owed."
"The show must go on."
The words weren't sound. They were pressure. The space around him bent, vibrating with something divine and wrong.
Nhilly's teeth clenched. His nails dug into his palms.
He'd heard them before — the same playful, cruel tones that had laughed when Seris died.
"Do not displease us, Hero."
"Tragedy demands its actors."
"Let them die beautifully."
Nhilly trembled. His chest rose and fell sharply, breath catching halfway.
He knew what they wanted.
They'd already written the script.
The heroes would march to war.
They'd fight bravely.
They'd die gloriously — protecting their fake kingdom, under a painted sky, while the Constellations applauded above.
It would be perfect.
The tragic end.
He bit down hard on his lip until he tasted iron. Blood ran down his chin.
And then — he laughed.
Not the bitter kind. Not the quiet, broken exhale he'd learned to hide behind.
A full, genuine laugh — sharp, cutting, unrestrained.
He smiled until his cheeks hurt, eyes closing as his shoulders trembled.
"Of course," he whispered. "Wouldn't want to ruin the ending."
He stood, brushing the dust from his coat, and stepped through the open doorway.
The candle flame bent toward him one last time — blue fading to gold — before snuffing out completely.
The cell was empty.
But the sound of laughter lingered, faint as an echo, long after he was gone.
The walk back through the palace was eerily quiet.
It was past midnight; the torches burned low, and the hallways shimmered faintly with that same false glow — golden, perfect, lifeless.
Nhilly's footsteps echoed off the marble floor, a lonely rhythm that seemed to fill the entire corridor.
Every statue he passed was smiling.
Every painting seemed to watch him.
And somewhere in the walls, faint laughter hummed — polite, distant, like an audience waiting for the next act.
He didn't bother avoiding it anymore.
He'd learned that pretending not to hear only made them louder.
When he reached his quarters, the guards at the door looked startled.
He gave them a single glance, and they stepped aside without a word.
The room was just as he'd left it months ago.
The bed neatly made, the window locked, his sword resting on the stand beside the bath.
Everything preserved, untouched — like a stage set waiting for its actor to return.
He stripped off his coat and stepped into the bath.
The water was warm — too warm, almost scalding. He sank into it slowly, letting the heat crawl over his skin.
For a long time, he just sat there — motionless, staring at the ripples as they spread and broke against the edge of the tub.
Then, softly, he spoke.
"Right," he muttered. "The prodigal hero returns."
He leaned back, arms draped lazily over the edges. "Tragic survivor. Haunted eyes. The quiet one with a mysterious past."
He smiled faintly, closing his eyes. "They'll love that."
He tilted his head toward the ceiling. "You hear that?"
The air didn't answer.
He chuckled under his breath. "No audience feedback? Rough crowd tonight."
He inhaled deeply, holding it until his chest hurt, then let it out in a long exhale that rippled the surface of the water.
"They want a performance," he whispered. "So let's give them one."
His voice grew softer. "Nhilly Major — the reluctant hero, dragged back from despair to save the world. A real tear-jerker."
He laughed again — quietly this time, a broken little sound that trembled against the stillness.
"I should thank them, really. They've given me a purpose again."
His eyes opened — pitch-black against the dim candlelight.
"But maybe they forgot something…"
He leaned forward slightly, the faintest hint of a smirk curving his lips.
"Actors die on stage all the time. But sometimes… so do directors."
The bathwater rippled again — gently, but unnaturally, as if gravity itself bowed around him for a moment before settling.
He leaned back once more, expression blank now, the moment of humour gone.
"Five days," he murmured. "That's how long it'll take them to march. Two weeks until the finale."
He closed his eyes again, letting the heat lull him into a shallow calm.
"I can play my part until then."
Outside, the palace bells chimed once — a hollow, distant sound that echoed through the still corridors.
Nhilly didn't move.
He just whispered, so softly it almost drowned in the sound of the water:
"Curtain's up."