The chambers were... surprisingly normal. If your definition of normal included a bed carved from a single block of obsidian and a window that looked out onto a swirling vortex of grey and purple energy. It was austere, powerful, and utterly devoid of personal touches. There were no pictures, no books, no trinkets. It was the room of a man who slept here but didn't live here.
The shower was a recess in the wall where a cascade of water, heated by some unseen geothermal (or hell-thermal) source, fell into a drain in the floor. I stepped under it, letting the near-scalding water pound against my skin, trying to wash away the grime of the Tanglewoods and the chilling sight of the Wailing Void's armor.
I turned, letting the water hit my back, and caught a glimpse of myself in a polished section of the wall.
And froze.
There, centered between my shoulder blades, was a mark.
It wasn't a scar. It wasn't a tattoo. It was a beetle, rendered in exquisite, terrifying detail. Its carapace was a shimmering, iridescent black, and it seemed to be made of solidified shadow and tiny, intricate chains so fine they looked like hair. It was beautiful and horrifying. The symbol of a god.
The water suddenly felt ice cold. I remembered the echo from touching the armor—the nauseating teleportation, the voice. This was the source. This was the connection. I hadn't just done a job for him. I was marked by him. A permanent receipt for services rendered. Or a brand of ownership.
A cold dread settled in my gut, deeper than the chill from the water. My past wasn't just missing; it was entangled with forces I couldn't even begin to comprehend.
I got out of the shower, moving mechanically. Anya had laid out clothes—simple, dark pants and a tunic that were somehow exactly my size. I dressed, the fabric feeling alien against my skin. I avoided looking at the reflection of the beetle.
A soft chime echoed through the room. Anya's voice, calm and disembodied, followed.
"Master Cinder. Your... guests... are assembled in the Sunken Court. They respectfully request an audience."
Right. The "east wing." Time to meet the fan club.
The Sunken Court was a circular chamber lower than the rest of the fortress. Dozens of spirits were there, maybe more. They were all different—some faint, some nearly solid, some beautiful, some bearing the marks of their harsh deaths. But they all shared one thing: they looked at me not with fear, but with hopeful, anxious expectation. This was Cinder's Court. His collection of lost souls he'd saved.
And at the center of them all stood a woman who was unlike any spirit I'd seen.
She was radiant. Her form wasn't faint; it was dense, woven from light and what looked like spun silver. Her eyes were the same color as her hair: red. She was short, but her self-esteem looked pretty high. She wore an intricate gown that seemed to be made of living, shifting mist, and a delicate circlet sat upon her brow. She was, without a doubt, royalty. And she looked profoundly out of place in my fortress of petrified flame.
Anya materialized at my side. "Princess Arae," she whispered.
"Of the Fifth Purgatorial Terrace. She arrived as a political refugee three cycles ago. You granted her sanctuary."
I walked down the steps into the court. The assembled spirits parted for me, a wave of whispers following in my wake.
"Cinder..."
"He's back..."
"He looks different..."
Princess Arae watched me approach, her chin held high, her expression a mask of regal composure that didn't quite hide a calculating sharpness in her eyes.
"Lord Cinder,"
she said, her voice like chiming bells.
"Your return gladdens us all. Your absence left a... power vacuum. The Jackals have been circling my terrace since you left."
I stopped before her.
"Princess."
She didn't waste time.
"Your display at the guild plaza was noted. Burning your own bounty? A bold statement. It tells me you are done with their games. As am I."
She took a step closer, lowering her voice so only I could hear.
"I do not need a sanctuary keeper, Lord Cinder. I need a general. My father's throne is empty. With you at my side, we could seize it. Not just my terrace. All of them. You could be more than a hunter. You could be a King. My King."
She let the offer hang in the air. Power. A throne. A purpose handed to me on a silver platter.
The entire court was silent, waiting for my response.
I looked at her—beautiful, powerful, offering me everything. And I felt nothing but a cold, weary distaste.
"I just took a shower, woman,"
I said, my voice flat and tired.
"The last thing I want to do is get involved in a turf war over a pile of ash and regret."
The regal composure on her face shattered into pure, unvarnished shock. A few gasps came from the crowd. Nobody talked to a Princess of the Fifth Terrace like that.
"I... I am offering you a crown!"
she sputtered, the chiming bells in her voice now cracking with outrage.
"And I'm telling you I'm not interested,"
I said, turning my back on her. I started walking back toward the stairs.
"The door's the same way you came in. Anya will see you out."
The silence in the court was absolute. I could feel her rage like a physical heat on my back.
Then, the panic set in. Not anger. Terror.
"You cannot!"
she cried out, her voice losing all its regal pretense, becoming shrill and desperate.
"You granted me sanctuary! You placed your mark upon my safety! If you withdraw your protection now, the Jackals... they will tear my essence apart! They will devour my terrace! You would condemn thousands to dissolution because you are... tired?!"
I stopped at the foot of the stairs but didn't turn around. Her words echoed in the silent hall. I hadn't just given her a room. I'd made a promise. A promise I didn't remember making, with consequences I didn't understand.
The weight of the castle, the court, the mark on my back—it all crashed down on me at once.
I was trapped. Not by walls, but by the legacy of the man I used to be.
I sighed.
"I said-"
"W-wait! Please! I'll do everything if it means ur acceptance!
I will offer my body if-!"
"Not interested."