Altair glanced at the swirling black cloud filled with drifting eyeballs. "Sir, could you clarify what you mean?"
The eyes shifted all at once, turning to fix on him; it was a deeply unnerving sight.
"I forgot that you are also a first-time guest in his great hall. There isn't much for me to say except a warning: never lie in front of him."
The black cloud spoke without a voice, its countless eyes fixed on the main attendant who had summoned Hunter. The fog twisted and swirled around the floating eyeballs, as if they were suspended in a water-filled glass jar.
As if a sign, he closed his golden pocket watch and walked up to the attendant, walking up on the staircase unbothered by the trail of blood.
So Hunter is also dead now. He didn't know exactly what to feel; he wasn't close to him, it was actually the opposite.
But now, he was alone.
Surrounded by nothing but Fog Entities that could effortlessly trample him, he realized he was in dire need of information before he was inevitably called for.
Or maybe he would be lucky enough not to get called, but that felt unlikely.
Still, not putting his life on blind chance, he slowly made his way through the crowd, attempting to extract any useful information from the attendants and even some of the guests.
No matter who he asked or how he phrased his questions, the answer was always the same:
"Never lie to him."
But that wasn't enough.
So, lacking in options, he decided to walk up to Lady Eleanor, who already had a playful smirk playing on the human side of her face when she saw him approach.
"Let me guess, you want to hear something more than, 'Never lie to him, ' don't you?"
"If possible? Yes."
"There isn't much to tell; he is going to see through you right away. He never does anything without reason, but anger him and you will end up like them." With a stifled laugh, she pointed at the staircase.
It was another attendant, diligently cleaning up the bloody mess on the stairs.
His black suit drenched in red, blood oozing out of his no longer existing orifices.
Hunter.
Altair recognized him instantly. He knew that the things he heard were not empty warnings, but seeing Hunter like that pushed that warning even deeper into his consciousness.
Slipping up didn't just simply end with death; no, it was something worse.
"I understand."
"Good." The wraith side of her face winked playfully at him. "You will be fine then… Probably."
Another figure emerged on the stairs—the Fog Entity, its head a swirling black mist, descending leisurely while reaching for one of the silver trays, grabbing a glass of wine.
As the previous guest left the staircase, the faceless attendant approached Lady Eleanore, but instead of leading her up, his blank face turned to Altair.
"Esteemed guest, please follow me, his Majesty is waiting. We shouldn't make him wait any longer."
Already anticipating his turn, Altair was prepared—even if the sudden invitation, which seemed to be for Lady Eleanore, caught him by surprise.
"Gladly."
The faceless attendant politely bowed, gesturing towards the golden staircase where the faceless body of Hunter was still cleaning up his own blood.
"Break a leg." The wraith part of Lady Eleanor's face was the only one laughing delightfully; her 'human face' was devoid of emotion.
On the side, the black cloud raised his glass, his eyes gazing at Altair while floating in the cloud.
Are they taunting me?
Stepping onto the red carpet, Altair heard a faint squelch; the fabric was still soaked in Hunter's blood.
The faceless convict offered what seemed like a smile, but it twisted into nothing more than a haunting reminder of his death.
And if he were to make a wrong move, also his own.
Steadily ascending on the golden staircase, he was met with an even grander hall than the one that the guests stood in.
Stone pillars inlaid with gold stood throughout the massive hall, the red carpet stretching up to the throne at the far end. Its color was that of tarnished bronze—or rust.
On the throne, a towering figure sat in a comfortable position, wearing the same rust-colored jagged crown.
He wore a long, shabby robe, torn from years of use and abuse; the rest of his outfit was just as unfitting to the golden villa he lived in.
Gracefully bowing, Altair offered his greeting to the king in front of him. "Greetings, your majesty."
"Welcome to the doorsteps of the second world, Highlander."
Altair barely saw the facial features of the King, but his intently watching grey eyes were easy to notice. The ruler of these halls were waiting for a proper introduction.
Make a single wrong move, tell a single lie, and he was to end up like Hunter. He couldn't lie… so he had to admit a painful memory, a reminder of who he no longer was.
"My name is Cale Hall, your majesty. I come from the flying city of Nostra."
All of a sudden, Cale felt the very air sucked out of his lungs, the world around him coming to a standstill.
Seated before him, the towering figure of the disheveled king rose to his feet, looming at twice Cale's height.
"You speak the truth, but even this truth of yours is nothing but falsehoods stacked on each other."
In that moment, Cale felt his death approaching; he was a mere ant in front of this presence. If the decision to kill him was borne, he was all but powerless to deny his own sentence.
Yet, that wasn't his biggest concern.
"I wasn't lying. I never did."
"Fascinating."
He heard the king murmur to himself, the same suffocating feeling slightly letting up, yet still at his throat.
"Wear a mask for long enough and you won't recognize your face. But that's not exactly the case for you, is it?"
"No, no. Why would it be?" Every word uttered by the king made his skin crawl; he didn't want to hear it.
"Cale? Altair? Even you have no idea. Wearing all those masks erased your real face long ago."
Stop talking, just stop talking.
"I asked you to speak the truth, but after a life of lies. Even your truth rings hollow."
Those grey eyes were staring straight into Altair's soul, or Cale's, even he wasn't sure anymore, he closed his eyes shut.
"But you aren't despairing… no, you are trying, but there is nothing behind those eyes. You think you want to live, so you made a makeshift reason to fight for it. But even you don't believe it."
His words carried a weight behind them; every word caused Altair to flinch, but the more he spoke, the less Altair reacted.
As his eyes opened, his eyes didn't show fear.
They didn't show anger or hatred towards the king.
No.
There was nothing behind his eyes.
In the king's hand, a massive metal hammer materialized, resting against his shoulder as he knelt before Altair, bringing them face to face at last.
"So… what do you think is going to happen to you now, little liar?"
"Nothing. Nothing will happen to me." As Altair spoke, his tone didn't carry any emotion.
The king just ripped away the masks, leaving this shell of a person behind.
The true Cale, the true Altair.
"Hoh? And why do you think that is?" The grey eyes of the king glinted.
"Because you wouldn't have brought me here in the first place. That crack in the shepherd's domain, that couldn't have possibly led to here. Yet you made it so. When the person appearing here wasn't the one you expected, you made an example out of him."
"You had to make it so that I get here all the same. That Wolf could have killed me, but it didn't. I wasn't strong enough to survive the Dead Waters either. I was supposed to die there, too. But I didn't."
"You brought me all the way here. You won't kill me." As Altair finished speaking, his face remained unreadable—no relief, no fear, nothing at all.
The ruler facing Altair didn't say a word for a while before he burst into laughter. "It really won't get much better than that." Underneath the dirty rag he wore, floated out a purely white Droplet.
It radiated a blinding white light, forcing Altair to shield his eyes.
"Then, there is no more need for me to beat around the bush." With a flick of his wrist, the white Droplet shot at Altair's chest.
"You don't need to bother resisting or welcoming this Droplet; this isn't one that you can just borrow power from."
"Well then, Altair, Cale or whatever… You didn't even know what name to use. Let me at least tell you mine."
As he spoke, the air around him splintered—thin, spiderweb-like cracks of white spreading outward, slowly breaking apart until a rift began to form in the center of the throne room.
Without working up a sweat, the towering figure opened a crack in front of him.
"My name is Gilran, King of Hollows. And you, my nameless friend, will either become my heir—or die like a stray mutt in the streets, with no one to know your name, let alone weep for you."
"You are the perfect blank sheet of paper, but that won't be enough."
The white light pushed even deeper into Altair's chest before Gilran pushed him into the crack.
"Can you be molded into the shape of a ruler, or will you break as a nobody?"