The Moon Palace was not a place mortals were meant to enter. That was precisely why he walked in without hesitation.
Moonlight did not merely illuminate the palace. It flowed from it, spilling across steps carved from starlit quartz. Each step whispered beneath his boots, reacting to a presence it was not meant to hold.
The sound was a thin, crystalline murmur that slid through the air and vanished before anyone could decide if it had been real. Its silvery sheen reflected a cold, unyielding splendor, and the hall itself reeked of power beyond mortal reckoning.
He kept walking. His cloak trailed behind him, brushing against drifting strands of soul-light that hung in the air like suspended dust.
Those strands moved with a slowness that suggested age and deliberation; they curved and eddied as if making room around him. Every step carried weight. Every inhalation drew the thin, cold air of the hall into his lungs, a clarity that hurt in its brightness.
The doors to the great hall opened without sound, as if expecting him. They parted like slow, patient things, and a draft of moonlight rolled out to meet him. Pillars of pale stone leaned inward slightly, not from wear but from design, as though architecture itself were bowing.
At the far end, sitting cross-legged atop a crescent-shaped throne, the Goddess of Souls waited. She was as precise as a clock, as controlled as a scalpel. Her presence was curious before it was kind. Her eyes glimmered with quiet inquiry rather than warmth, and her hair flowed upward like moonlight caught in a reversed rain, strands lifting and meeting the palace light with a hush.
When she saw him, her gaze lingered. She did not rise or gesture. She simply inclined her head slightly, the faintest ripple of interest passing through her posture, like a stone barely wobbling before settling again.
"You come far," she said, voice light but measured, almost teasing in its cadence. "I wonder… why do you walk through a place no one else dares?"
He stopped ten steps away, posture unyielding, expression unreadable. He let the palace look him over, let its souls whisper and weigh, and he kept his features even, as if he had trained them to be a calm mask against whatever the hall might do.
"I am here to gamble," he said calmly.
The words were small in the vaulted space, but they landed. Delight and amusement flickered across her otherwise inscrutable features. The subtle shift in her mouth was almost imperceptible, then clearer like a candle flame finding air.
She descended from her crescent throne, not by the opaque, physical steps that lined the hall, but on slivers of moonlight that coalesced beneath her feet, forming delicate platforms that carried her downward. The platforms shimmered and receded like holograms trailing in water.
The movement was effortless, showy, unnecessary. Everything she did could have been done without flourish, and yet she chose flourish, as if to remind a crowd that even gentleness could be a form of dominion. The motion was meant to impress, perhaps intimidate. It did both in the same sweep.
She clapped once. The sound cut through the air and settled into the stones. The floor beneath them seemed to dissolve, a ripple passing across marble as though the ground were remembering it had ever been anything else.
In its place rose a marble gazebo whose walls were small arches and whose benches were carved with scenes that did not belong to any single life. A table occupied the center, broad and opulent. The faint, comforting scent of tea drifted upward, curling through the hall like smoke that refused to dissipate.
"Tell me," the goddess said, voice curious yet measured, leaning slightly over the table, "what is it you wish to gamble?"
"My soul," came the curt reply, almost impertinent in its brevity.
The maroon-haired man let his hair fall to the floor, thick strands unfurling fully, framing him like a crimson curtain. There was no flourish in the movement, no attempt at vanity. It was simply matter-of-fact, the quiet confidence of someone who understood exactly what he was offering.
The goddess regarded him closely. Her dark, inquisitive eyes traced the line of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the calm in his stance. Those eyes noted the way his fingers flexed, the way the cloak pooled behind him.
"And what is the name of the mortal who dares to intrude upon my palace, so far from the world most of your kind inhabit? It is impolite to play a game without knowing the player's name. And in return, I shall of course tell you mine."
"I am Psychē, Goddess of Souls, though I imagine you already knew, given that you came to gamble your soul of all things," she said, her eyes gleaming with a cold, amused light. She could almost bring herself to admire the foolhardiness with which he carried himself. Almost.
"You may call me Acheron," the man said with distinction, yet not arrogance. That was all. One sentence was sufficient. He saw no need for more.
Psychē did not take kindly to the curt reply. Yet she made no move to show her annoyance. She stored it as a detail to be used later, like an instrument on a table.
"And what is it that you wish to gamble your soul for? It is always the same with humans. You seek wealth, status, power, even though it is quite unfortunate that—"
Her words were cut short by a single sentence from Acheron that immediately drew her full attention.
"My soul… in exchange for a replica of the template you use to craft new souls," he said evenly, unflinching.
Psychē remained silent. Acheron interpreted this not as judgment but as stunned consideration. No one had ever gambled for that before. Mortals might ask for gold or vengeance or even long life.
"It is an exchange of equal value, with full equilibrium, is it not? Or rather, this favors you. You gain my soul if you win, but all I gain if I win is a simple replica of your soul template. Not even the actual thing," Acheron continued, his voice steady, untinged by emotion, as though discussing an ordinary transaction.
Psychē's eyes narrowed, a glimmer of calculation in their depths. She leaned forward, resting her elbows lightly on the marble table, the ghostlight of the hall reflecting in her gaze.
"You are… audacious," she murmured, voice soft but deliberate. "No mortal, nor any of the divine-adjacent I have observed, has ever attempted such a gamble. To wager your very soul for… what is, by design, a fragment of what you seek. It is unusual."
Acheron's expression remained unreadable. He leaned back just enough to let his hair fall freely over his shoulders, the maroon strands catching the pale glow of the palace. His violet eyes met hers steadily, unshaken.
"I am not concerned with the ordinary," he said simply.
Psychē's fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the table, measured, as though weighing not just his words but the soul behind them.
"You speak as though the stakes I am accustomed to are irrelevant to you," she said, teasing yet probing.
"They are irrelevant," he replied evenly, voice smooth, precise, void of emotion.
Psychē smiled in a way that was not a smile. "Very well then," she sighed. "Since the odds are so very much in my favor and you gain hardly anything in comparison of what you are losing, I'll be as gracious as to allow you to choose in which way we attempt this gamble."
She expected an elaborate game, one very much suited to the mortal in front of her, and completely unfair toward her. She would win. She would bend rules until a loophole crawled out and begged for mercy. She always did. Nothing could prepare her for what he said next. No, not in a million years.
"A coin flip."