"Ah… damn, this body is a mess."
Remy collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud. The magnificent clothes he'd worn only moments ago rescinded into drifting smoke, folding back into the tattered rags from before.
The frogs croaked in the darkness. The night chill spread, and the twin moons slid out from behind their veil, a single star clinging close to them. Their silver light spilled across the earth, casting tall, skeletal shadows that swayed and danced as though they were alive.
"Ah… fuck… What happened to me?" Remy groaned, his voice raw. His skull throbbed with a splitting pain, as though it might tear free from his shoulders.
"My body… it's a wreck. Why does it hurt all over?"
As he forced his thoughts into order, the vivid memory of what had happened came flooding back—the slaughter, the unnatural strength, the smoke, the possession.
He narrowed his eyes, scanning the gloom, and a small relief passed over him—it was a place he knew. With effort, he pushed himself upright and limped toward the door.
"What's this… why's the handle sticky?" He murmured, raising his hand to the moonlight.
"Ma…? Ma, are you here?"
He moved toward the paraffin lamp, finding the matchbox by touch. The scratch of the match flared in the dark, briefly illuminating his face before he lit the lamp. The sharp scent of paraffin spread instantly through the air.
And there it was—blood. A dark trail smeared across the floorboards, glistening faintly in the lamplight. The wood was gouged, scratched, and chipped—signs of a desperate struggle.
"Ma… Ma!" he called again, but the silence was unbroken.
He pushed deeper into the shack. Pots lay overturned. The small dining table was broken clean in half. Blood was splattered in sweeping arcs, trailing like a grotesque, badly drawn piece of art.
"No… no… no…" His voice shook as his eyes darted from wall to floor to doorway. But there was no sign of her. She was gone.
"Hey—answer me!" He roared to the entity within. "Do you know what happened here?"
Silence.
"Hey! What happened?" His voice cracked with fury, but still nothing answered.
"Iyah!"
He hurled the lamp to the ground. Glass shattered, and fire rushed outward like a tide consuming the shore. The flames spread hungrily, smoke curling upward as if the shack itself were exhaling its last breath. A strange madness crept into his eyes, and the fire reflected in them like molten gold.
From outside, a voice came—low, cool, and unfamiliar.
"What then? Are you just going to kill yourself? What justice will that bring?"
The speaker emerged from the darkness—a man, perhaps in his early thirties. His hair was brown like polished oak; his eyes, an unnatural green, glinted with a faint crimson in the firelight. A long, dark coat hung from his shoulders, over a flecked shirt with puffy sleeves and a loosely knotted scarf. A single monocle perched upon his gaunt, pale face—skin so thin he seemed almost cadaverous.
"You know, fire is a beautiful thing," the man said, stepping closer. "It was born to give life, to keep us warm in the bitter cold, to cook our food. But humans… humans twisted it—corrupted its nature and forged it into a weapon to destroy one another."
He stepped over leaves and dead twigs without a sound, his movement unnerving, almost as if he were not truly there.
"Who are you? And what do you want?" Remy's voice rang through the night.
"Now, now… no need to be angry with me," the stranger replied. "I'm not the one who took your mother away. In fact… I'm on your side. And I'd like to offer you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."
Remy stared at him, thoughts racing.
Yeah, right. The last 'opportunity' I got landed me on death row.
"Oh… haha, it's written all over your face," the man chuckled softly. "Some shady son of a bitch comes offering you something—you'd be a fool not to be suspicious."
"Well… you can decide after you hear me out, Remy—Son of Winter."
At the name, Remy froze. This man knew. About him. About his mother.
"Who are you?" Remy asked again, his curiosity now sharpened to a point.
"Oh my… Forgive my manners." The man dipped into a slight bow. "My name is Tear—the Lonely Jester."
Tear moved with an enigmatic grace, each step deliberate, as though he danced to a tune known only to him. Though he stepped through leaves and twigs, they made no sound, almost as though he hadn't even been there.
"So…" Tear extended his pale, bony hand toward him. "What will it be, Son of Winter? Take my hand, and I will show you the world… or stay here, and burn with the shack behind you."
Remy hesitated, the fire's glow flickering across his face. Then, slowly, he stretched out his hand.
"You tell me everything you know about my mother," he said, voice low and dangerous, "and I'll consider joining you. But if I find out you're lying—" his gaze locked with Tear's, cold and sharp as a drawn blade—"I will kill you."
"Oooh… scary," Tear chuckled, the sound light and mocking.
"Don't worry," he said with a lopsided grin. "If I ever deceive you, I'll gladly hand you my head on a silver platter. But for now… follow me—before they find us."
He turned away from the burning shack, stepping toward the shadowed woods. From the distance came the baying of hounds, their cries slicing through the night. Torchlight flickered between the trees, closing in like the eyes of predators.
They ran. Branches clawed at their clothes; roots rose like hidden traps beneath their feet.
"Careful," Tear called over his shoulder, laughter curling around his words, "there are plenty of uprooted trees here. Best not to trip." His tone was almost… playful, as though the danger thrilled him.
"Ow!" Remy yelped as a low branch whipped across his face. Tear only laughed again, the sound needling under his skin.
How could he move like that in the dark? His stride never faltered, his steps almost dancing. He didn't even seem to tire—annoying, yet strangely… captivating.
At last, the forest broke, and a dark silhouette rose before them. An old mansion loomed in the moonlight, its spires clawing toward the sky, ancient and magnificent.