No sunlight touched the marble.
The corridor stretched endlessly, a throat of stone and shadow. The only light came from candles—hundreds of them—lined along the walls like silent watchers. Their wax dripped slowly, pooling like melted bone. The air was heavy and still, too quiet for the living.
King Gemma walked barefoot through it, the silk hem of his white robe brushing the cold floor. His crown was gone. His steps made no sound, yet each one echoed through the dark.
Ahead of him moved a figure—fragile, familiar. The Empress.
Lyrika Darkdorm.
Her form shimmered like mist. Her long golden hair dragged behind her in damp strands. Blood streamed from her eyes in thin black-red trails that gleamed under the flickering light.
Gemma no longer reached for her. He had tried before—once. His hand had passed through her, and something inside him had cracked, frozen.
Now, he only followed.
But tonight was different.
When he reached for her, his trembling fingers touched her arm—and she did not vanish. Her skin was cold and slick, wet with something he couldn't name. He gripped her, desperate, but she kept walking, her body moving like a puppet pulled by invisible strings.
The corridor opened into a hall.
No light lived here—only a hazy glow that seemed to breathe. The marble and obsidian floor had decayed into jagged ruin. Shards of stone jutted up, glinting under the weak candlelight that refused to die.
There stood the statue. The one that had haunted him for fifteen years.
A knight in rusted armor, sword sheathed, frozen in silent watch.
Gemma winced with every step, the sharp stone cutting into his feet, blood pooling behind him. But she walked unharmed—her flesh tearing open, her blood falling freely, her face blank and calm.
Then came the skittering.
Tiny, chittering creatures crawled from the cracks—things half rat, half insect, their slick bodies glistening. Their claws scraped the stone, leaving trails of blood.
The air reeked of rot.
One leapt and clung to the Empress's leg, its round mouth pulsing with teeth as it drank. Gemma froze. He tried to move toward her, but she didn't react. Her eyes stared ahead, unblinking.
More creatures poured from the floor, a crawling sea of black bodies and clicking jaws. They swarmed around her, climbing her torn robe, feeding from her pale flesh.
Gemma followed through the agony, every step burning.
Then he saw it.
At the center of the hall hung a body.
It was chained in midair, pierced through by spikes that rose from the floor. Blood stained every blade. The young man's head hung low, his hair hiding his face. His torn body twitched, healing and breaking again as the creatures fed on him.
They crawled in and out his mouth —drank greedily, their small mouths latched to the wounds that never stayed closed. Each bite made the body shudder—dead veins glowing faintly beneath the skin.
No cry. No breath. Only the soft drip of blood.
Around him stood tall candles, their flames bending, the wax melting in long fingers that reached toward him.
Behind the body, deep in the wall, loomed the Clock of Realms.
It was vast and ancient, forged of black brass and silver veins. Dozens of hands spun at once—some broken, some racing, some crawling backward. Their ticking filled the air with a terrible harmony, each one marking a time that didn't belong to this world.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The Empress stopped.
She always stopped here—just a few feet from the hanging body, where the smell of blood was thickest and the beasts were loudest.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
They crawled to her feet and bit. Blood opened on her legs like red flowers. She didn't move.
Her head tilted up, her lips trembling. Blood ran from her eyes again, sliding down her face like tears of ruby.
Then she raised her hand—slowly, solemnly—and her voice broke through the hall, soft but filled with sorrow and command:
"Give me my son."
The clocks froze.
For a single heartbeat, time itself stopped.
Then—tick.
The sound returned, sharper than before.
Gemma watched her—her trembling hand reaching for the body that would never answer, her lips shaping the same words again and again.
"Give me my son."
The hall knew those words. The candles dimmed. The creatures paused. The air grew cold enough to steal breath.
Gemma stood still, helpless, guilt burning in his chest. He wanted to reach her, to stop her—but she would only repeat it again.
And that was when he always woke.
The candles. The flesh. The clock. All vanished into darkness.
He gasped awake, his body drenched in sweat. The royal chamber surrounded him, silent and vast. The fire had died. The air smelled of ash.
He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling for a wound that wasn't there. His breath trembled. His eyes stared into nothing.
Just another night.
The same nightmare. The same hall. The same words.
He had been haunted ever since that day—
the day his Empress gave birth to their son, the crown prince; the day her hand went still in his.
He remembered two sounds— a child's first cry, and a queen's last breath.
And ever since, when he closed his eyes, he saw them— the body in relentless torture who he had began to recognise —his son, bound in chains and spikes; his wife, still reaching,
forever whispering the same plea to the hall:
"Give me my son."
TBC...