Andras had been wielding the sword of light for hours. His muscles screamed, his skin slick with sweat as if he had bathed in it. Fatigue gnawed at him, the radiant blade growing heavier with each swing. Black ichor clung to his skin, reeking of decay and corruption.
The sarcophagus remained sealed, yet the chamber throbbed with clicks and the furious thrashing from within. Enemies lurked everywhere—crawling across walls, clinging to the ceiling, creeping from the shadows. His bloodshot eyes darted from shape to shape, vision blurring as each breath became shallower.
He exhaled sharply, his crimson gaze sweeping across the dim chaos. More demons surged forward—their footfalls thunderous, their shrieks piercing, their grotesque bodies crashing into one another in their frenzy to reach him.
No time to hesitate.
Andras bolted toward the sarcophagus. The sword dissolved into molten gold, coiling around his battered frame like living flame. The horde closed in, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.
"O lux solis, obstrue hostem tuum."
The incantation fell from his lips like a whispered plea. Then—light.
Radiance burst forth, blinding and pure. As the demons breached the archway, they screamed, their forms melting like wax beneath the searing glow. Some resisted longer, stumbling forward in blind desperation—only to combust upon crossing the threshold, consumed by divine fire.
Still, they came.
Unmindful of pain, ignorant of death, they stampeded over one another—driven by madness and the scent of flesh, their hunger for Andras' blood overriding all sense.
They were moths drawn to a flame. But for Andras, the nightmare had just begun.
Tentacles lashed out and flung him against the wall like a ragdoll. Yet these weren't the limbs of some grotesque beast—they were human intestines, blackened and pulsing with veins swollen with vile ichor.
Pain exploded through him as transparent slime hissed against his skin, eating away at flesh and cloth alike. His body swelled, the fluid mixing with his blood, seeping deep. It was agony unlike any other—burning from the outside, gnawed from within. Thousands of phantom teeth tore into him, like ants or maggots devouring his very being.
The twisted entrails coiled around his torso, wrapping tighter. Others seized his neck, binding his wrists and ankles. Then, something immense rose before him—sudden, silent, ravenous.
He was suspended in the air, dangling above a vast crevice and the rib-like protrusions of this grotesque entity.
It had a stomach—of sorts—a mass of flesh beneath a skeletal frame, its bulging veins throbbing like it lived. Yet it had no eyes. No voice. No breath.
It was animation without life. A thing that simply was.
Like the demons. Like the slime. Like the whispers that had long slithered into Andras' mind—words that never quite sounded like his own.
Despair gripped him, stronger than the coils that bound him. Once, he had boasted of his will, forged from a bloodline close to both abyss and heaven. But now? Now he doubted. Perhaps that blood had long since been diluted—tainted by filth. And perhaps these were the true limits of a mortal man.
***
「Abode of the Stars, Ouranos」
Above Gaia, in the heavens adorned with celestial splendor, lay the sacred realm of Ouranos—a land graced with divine fertility and the breath of the stars. There, a single blade of grass could mend the gravest mortal affliction, and the softest drop of morning dew held power to cleanse even the most wicked poison.
It shimmered beneath the embrace of the sun's warm light, rejoiced in the passing rains, and slumbered beneath the silver gaze of the moon. This was the golden age of Ouranos—before the Eclipse that dared to come before the Dawn.
In time, the sun that once blessed turned cruel. It scorched the Abode of the Stars, laying waste to the living breath of the land. The soil fractured into a thousand veins, dry and lifeless. Waters withered, and where blossoms once bloomed, now only blood spilled. The songs of birds fell to silence, a silence that screamed.
Through this ruined sanctum, he came—dragging the lifeless behind him from a distant conquest. With no more reverence than one casts away a cloak, he flung the body upon a mound of the fallen, a heap that dared to rise and kiss the sea of clouds. Blood painted the floor like a brush upon parchment, pooling, staining, consecrating.
His skin, cloaked in layers of both dried and fresh ichor, bore the hue of old war. His hair, like scorched thread, hung dry and wild. He walked across the marble, blistered by the sun's fury, and though his flesh sizzled, not a cry escaped him. For he was the son and sovereign of all gods—of those above and those who dared dwell beneath.
"Is there yet judgment to be wrought by mine hand," he spoke, voice like thunder draped in velvet, "or have the betrayers of my blood all fallen by mine own wrath?"
Behind him, a figure knelt—a guard adorned in regal garb, followed by others in equal reverence, their heads bowed in awe and dread.
"Most Highest Sovereign. We have beheld the betrothed of Boreon, descendant of Geralt, champion anointed by Kratos, lady born of Isdottir's line, Master of the Eastern Yellow Phoenix, Monarch of the Fire-Breathing Beasts, and the Elf whose wisdom once guided the radiance of Helios—"
Before the breath of his name could be uttered, the god raised his hand, and in an instant, a blade obeyed, flying into his grasp with divine swiftness.
"Where now dwelleth the beloved of Boreon, he who hath fallen in defeat?"
***
"Ah, fuck."
He stared at the vomit before him, splattered across the grass and scattered leaves. This was the castle's entrance—he had walked here once, from noon until dawn.
Andras lifted his head and extended his hand without hesitation.
A flicker of electricity danced at his fingertips. He ignored it at first, intent on studying the intricate spell etched in the air—but the current surged violently, leaping from his hand to his mind. His eyes widened as pain jolted through him, and he instinctively pulled back.
A sharp yelp escaped his lips, followed by ragged breaths. As he steadied himself, he noticed fresh, thin lines tracing along his veins, glowing with an unnatural onyx hue. He turned—perhaps to scan his surroundings, or simply to check that no one had witnessed his moment of carelessness.
"Venatoris."
He collected himself, stepping carefully away from the invisible barrier. "Venatoris?" he repeated, his voice uncertain as he addressed the empty air.
A frown tugged at his brow.
His horse had vanished.
That, in itself, was alarming. A noble steed like Venatoris would never stray—tied or untied.
He reached for his sword. Nothing met his fingers.
"Oh, how fortunate I am," he muttered, offering a crooked smile. He almost laughed at the absurdity.
He continued into the forest, every step measured. Still, there were no signs of life—not a rustling animal, not a thriving plant. The deeper he went, the more convinced he became: this flora was a poorly woven illusion, a mimicry of nature stripped of its breath.
Above, the moon had risen, and stars began to reclaim their place in the sky. He followed the constellations with his eyes, confirming he remained in the same land—though not precisely in the same time.
If only it were just the night sky he saw. He wouldn't have frozen.
Smoke.
A long, winding plume in the distance, rising from Ailva—or perhaps from what came before it: Tinavel.
Was he seeing things? He tried to convince himself so, over and over. But no matter how vast the libraries of Thrasocorvus, no book could explain this. He was a prince, and he was baffled.
Was this magic? A mirage? Hallucination from battle fatigue? Poisoned mushrooms? Smoke-induced visions?
"Is this the past?" he whispered.
He turned—and saw no castle standing against the cliffside.
He could have stood there, thinking, searching for a path home. But instead—
He ran.
He ran toward Tinavel.
The blaze grew as he approached. Fire devoured broken homes, rising higher with each gust. It moved like a monster, consuming everything—but fire wasn't alive, was it?
Andras felt something shift within him.
He wished to be faster—and suddenly, he was. His speed doubled.
A dream then. A place where I live the past.
And that thought became a vow he etched into his mind.
.
.
.
Drunken songs and raucous cheers bled through the night air, spilling from the tavern like a sickness. The people of Tinavel laughed as if nothing was wrong—though behind them, homes burned quietly, their bones crumbling into ash. The fire was real. The joy was not. Andras could not make sense of it, not in one sitting, not with a clear mind. But perhaps a night soaked in horse piss would blur the edges enough to forget.
He stepped into the tavern. Warm light flickered on warped faces. No one turned. No one blinked. He moved to the counter, fumbled for his pouch, tried to call out for a drink—but the alewife didn't look up. A man took the seat he thought he'd claimed, and Andras watched in frozen horror as he passed right through him.
His breath hitched. He reached for the alewife's arm—his hand slid through her like smoke. Panic began to scrape at him. He staggered from patron to patron, grasping, pleading, but nothing met his touch. The room was full, yet he was utterly alone.
This wasn't real. It couldn't be.
A memory, perhaps—but not his.
Whose dream, then? Whose vision could see beyond Tinavel, past its burning homes, past the walls, into the whispering forest that waited like a breath held too long?
He stumbled back out into the night. The moment his boots met the dirt, the ground trembled. He tripped over the edge of the wooden plank marking the threshold between tavern and world, crashing hard onto the cold earth. "This is no longer amusing," he growled, breath shallow as he pushed himself up, brushing dust from his clothes with shaking hands.
"A castle… aye, 'tis a castle, ain't it now?" A whisper broke the stillness.
Andras' gaze drifted to the young man, his eyes fixed on the sky. Curiosity tugged at him, and he followed the youth's gaze upward, discovering a castle descending through the sea of clouds.
He watched, spellbound, as a massive hand pushed the structure toward the earth with effortless grace. The sight was awe-inspiring, yet the people around him were already praying to their gods, seeking protection. Perhaps it was just him, but something told him this castle was more than it seemed—perhaps the key to something far greater than their mortal lives.
"Call it the Handborne Keep, why don't ye?" a bard appeared from the crowd, his finger pointed skyward as he clapped his hands, pleased with his own idea.
Another man, standing not far off, shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. "Nay, nay!"
The bard turned, brow furrowed, his hands settling on his hips. "What bright idea have ye, ye stultus?" he mocked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
The man grinned, his laughter carrying a sense of conviction. "Thesan's Veil, aye! That's Thesan's Veil, it is, it surely is!"
The bard's face soured, a flicker of anger in his eyes. "Thesan's Veil?" he scoffed, shaking his head. "Ye call a holy place such a thing? Foolishness, it is! It was brought down by a hand, can't ye see? Are ye blind, man? Does it even have a veil? Not a maid ye can bed and marry, stultus!"
Andras dismissed the heated exchange, his mind still whirling, and turned to make his way back to the forest. Perhaps there, he would find some answer to the strange events unfolding around him.
"Where does your path lead, mortal?" a voice called out, its tone smooth but laced with something unsettling.
"To the damn castle," he muttered, his patience thinning.
His eyes widened at the sound of the feminine voice, and instinctively, he whipped his head toward it. Standing before him was a red-haired woman—strangely familiar, like the young girl who had saved him not long ago.
"Who—"