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.