Claw… hiss… swoosh… The black mist tore at their heels as Leon and Sera sprinted the final stretch.
Ahead, the palace gates rose like the jaws of a colossal beast—black marble veined with white quartz, weeping slow, frozen tears. Each droplet hung suspended in mid-drip, catching pale light like suspended diamonds.
Eirik waited beneath the arch, sword planted point-down, arms crossed over the hilt. White hair whipped violently in the wind; his grin was sharp, like fractured glass.
"Took you long enough," he called. "Thought the mist might claim your little light show."
Leon said nothing. He grabbed Sera's hand, pulling her across the threshold. The temperature shifted immediately—colder outside, warmer inside—but the warmth carried weight, oppressive as breathing through wet wool.
SLAM! The gates closed behind them. A thunderclap rolled through bone and stone. Snow and mist recoiled from the marble, as though scorched.
A voice whispered in their ears, intimate, intimate as breath:
The palace remembers.
Bear witness to three sorrows, or become the fourth.
Ash-like motes drifted in the still air—gray flakes that shimmered with fleeting images: a laughing child, a lover's hand slipping away, a crown falling in slow motion.
Eirik pushed off his sword and stepped deeper. "Welcome home," he said. "Try not to bleed on the carpets."
The grand atrium stretched endlessly—vast enough to swallow cathedrals. Chandeliers of ice hung shattered from the vaulted ceiling, crystals frozen mid-fall. Courtiers in ancient finery danced eternally, hands outstretched, faces frozen between joy and horror. Pools of blood lay preserved beneath glass-smooth frost: black, red, gold.
Clang… echo… Their footsteps rang too loudly. Sera stayed close to Leon. Her light was faint now but still enough to push back oppressive gloom. Eirik strode ahead, humming a tuneless, violent tune.
"Three of us," he said without turning. "One to scout, one to heal, one to kill. Might even survive the first sorrow."
Leon's grip tightened on his sword. "We're not your tools."
Eirik glanced back, eyes bright. "Everything here is a tool, shade-boy. Even the palace. Even the grief."
They reached the atrium's center—a circular mosaic of the weeping king surrounded by twenty-two hooded figures. The instant all three stepped upon it, lights dimmed.
The room darkened until only silhouettes remained. Then the vision began.
Whisper… groan… sigh…
Ghostly figures materialized—translucent but more real than stone. A long table laden with a feast. The king at its head, crown heavy, eyes already wet with unshed tears. Advisors—twenty-two in hooded robes—raised goblets in toast.
The poison was poured with smiles.
The king drank.
Gurgle… chhhk… He clutched his throat; black tears spilled as he fell. The advisors did not move. One by one, hoods fell—faces shifting: strangers, then painfully familiar.
For Leon, they were Mara, Kell, little Jey—turning away in the basement, leaving him to freeze alone.
For Sera, her family—mother, father, brother—walking backward into the blizzard that claimed them, never looking back.
For Eirik, comrades on a battlefield, shoving him forward to take the fatal blow while they retreated laughing.
The vision bled into reality. Thin cuts opened across their bodies—black, gold, red.
Leon staggered. Sera gasped. Eirik laughed, sharp, broken.
Fssh… crack… The ghosts dissolved. Light returned.
The mosaic beneath them glowed briefly, then dimmed.
Aspect resonance deepened. Shadows coiled around Leon's hands, blades flickering into existence for a heartbeat before vanishing. Sera's light steadied; when she touched Leon's arm, bleeding slowed, though golden blood traced from her eyes like tears. Eirik's wounds scabbed over into crimson plates.
Silence. Heavy. Tick… tick…
"First sorrow done. Betrayal. Always fun," Eirik said.
They moved on.
Corridors shifted when unobserved. Murals wept real blood that steamed in warmer air. Whispers followed:
You were never enough.
You left them.
You enjoyed the kill.
Memory Wraiths peeled from walls—twisted versions of themselves. Leon's hollow-eyed, mouth sewn shut with shadow thread. Sera's, a golden corpse still trying to smile. Eirik's, bleeding endlessly from a thousand cuts.
Clang… fshhh… Each fight short, brutal, intimate. Steel, shadow, and light against regret made solid. Every victory left them raw.
They found refuge in a chamber lined with shattered mirrors. Sera leaned against a wall, breathing shallow. Eirik cleaned his sword methodically. Leon listened to the palace breathe.
"Before the Spell took me…" Sera whispered. "…I dreamed of the Saint. She called my name. Said I was needed to remember something."
Eirik snorted. "Dreams are whispers from the outer ones. Ignore them."
Leon touched the locket beneath his coat. It burned now, branding skin.
They pressed deeper.
The second sorrow waited in a flooded antechamber. Water suspended mid-crash; at its center, a queen's broken statue, face obliterated, a locket identical to Leon's hanging at her neck.
The vision came without warning.
The queen alone on a balcony, black shadows pouring from the sky, drinking stars. Below, the king dying. She clutched the locket, whispered a name too soft to hear, then drove a dagger into her heart.
The frozen wave shattered. Black water rushed in—cold, corrosive. Where it touched skin, Aspects flickered, frayed.
Leon cast shadows to build bridges; Sera's light burned patches pure, steam rising. Eirik waded forward, fury hardening his blood into armor, shattering ice barriers with roaring blows.
They reached the statue as water rose to their chests. Sera touched the empty pedestal. Golden light flared, revealing hidden steps—upward through the flood's surface.
The cost came all at once.
Leon felt a memory rip entirely—his mother's lullaby, gone. The hollow inside widened. Sera's hair bleached at the temples. Eirik's eyes flared red, rage surging, teeth bared, sword raised before catching himself.
They emerged onto a sealed balcony overlooking the palace's heart.
Below, the throne room stretched vast and terrible. White stone throne cracked down the middle. Before it stood the Forgotten Saint—colossal, aurora-lit armor, long hair like starfire, spear planted in marble, head bowed in endless mourning.
The locket around Leon's neck snapped open. Faint etched names glowed: Mueor… beneath it, half-erased, sharpening heartbeat by heartbeat—Leon.
Eirik saw it. Grin faltered. "Well… that changes things."
Rumble… DONG… DONG… Eleven bells tolled, cracking stone.
Far below, the Forgotten Saint lifted its head. Eyes swirled with shattered-sky colors. It raised the spear. Each step split marble like thunder.
The voice spoke one last time:
The Saint comes to silence witnesses.
Face the third sorrow, or join the king in unbroken mourning.
Corridors sealed behind them with grinding stone. Only one path remained—down the grand staircase, straight to the throne room. Toward the Saint.
Eirik raised his sword, grin returning, edged with madness. "Come on. Let's watch a king die."
Sera reached for Leon's hand. Fingers cold, but light still burned.
Leon closed the locket. The hollow inside resonated, matching the palace's grief—beat for beat.
Wail… wail… The crying grew louder, closer, like their own hearts breaking.
And from the depths, the Saint's footsteps answered.