Danger announced itself before sight ever could.
A single drop fell.
Plik.
Another followed, slower, heavier.
Plik.
Her breath sounded wrong in the space—too loud, too uneven, as if the air itself resisted being drawn in. Somewhere ahead, metal shifted. Not enough to be movement, not enough to be freedom—just the faint, agonizing clink of chains responding to strain that never ended.
The terror in the chamber was not violent.
It was patient.
Her boots met gravel beneath the stone floor, the crunch of each step echoing far longer than it should have, reverberating through the hollow depths like a verdict pronounced too slowly. Seraphine felt as though the ruin itself was listening.
'This is what the end sounds like', she thought dimly.
Only after sound fully claimed her attention did her sense of smell catch up.
It struck her spine first.
A stale, ancient scent—thick and suffocating—like air sealed away from the world for epochs. Beneath it lay something sharper. Dry. Metallic. The unmistakable ghost of blood.
And yet… not blood.
It was close enough to fool instinct but wrong enough to make her stomach tighten. Like something that had learned to mimic death but was never meant to die.
Her skin prickled.
She swallowed, forcing herself to take another step forward.
Only then did her eyes begin to adjust.
At first, there was nothing.
Pure darkness—unfiltered, oppressive, as though light itself had been forbidden entry. It swallowed distance, erased depth, made her feel disembodied, unanchored. For a moment, she feared she had stepped into something infinite.
Then—quietly—it changed.
A dim glow bled into the chamber from nowhere she could see. No torch. No crystal. No sigil. Just a soft, ambient illumination, like the memory of light rather than its presence.
The red mist at the edge of her vision now fully filled the room, it seemed to be the source of the glow.
And in that glow—
She saw it.
A tall, cocooned humanoid shape loomed at the center of the chamber.
It was not flesh.
It was not stone.
Strange metals fused with jagged rock encased the form, layered and uneven, etched with runic markings she did not recognize—runes that bent the eye when stared at too long, as if refusing to be understood. The figure knelt, suspended just above the ground in a forced posture of reverence or punishment.
Chains.
Massive, brutal chains.
They pierced into the construct at multiple points—arms, legs, shoulders—each link thicker than her forearm, each spike driven with merciless intent. The largest of them were embedded where the eyes should have been, crossing through the head like a blasphemous crown.
Another, thicker still, was driven straight into the center of the chest.
For a heartbeat, she thought it was a statue.
Some ancient, grotesque monument meant to warn rather than restrain.
Then something fell.
Plik.
A droplet struck the stone beneath it.
Her gaze followed the trail upward.
Blood.
Dark red. Too dark. Polluted, almost oil-thick, as if something had corrupted it long ago. It slid down the surface of the cocoon slowly, deliberately, before evaporating into a thin red mist upon contact with the air.
Her breath caught.
Evaporating…?
Red mist.
'That mist again...'
The thought barely finished forming before the hum she had heard earlier—steady, distant—rose in intensity. The vibration deepened, pressing against her ribs, her bones, her teeth.
Then—
A sound.
A massive exhale.
Long. Deep. As if someone had been holding their breath for centuries and only now remembered how to release it.
It came from the kneeling figure.
Her body locked.
The construct shifted—only slightly—but the chains answered immediately, tightening, grinding, screaming softly in protest.
Then it spoke.
"Take a step closer," the voice resonated.
It was deep, echoing through the chamber like a struck bell.
And yet—
Youthful.
Unsettlingly so.
"I can barely tell you're there."
Every instinct she possessed screamed at her to stay still.
She stepped forward anyway.
The movement revealed more of her cloaked form in the faint light, her silhouette now unmistakably human, fragile, out of place. The distance between them shrank, though the figure remained impossibly vast.
"Good," the being said, its tone almost… amused. "Now then."
A pause.
"What is a kid like you doing all the way down here?"
The way it said kid carried weight—ancient familiarity, like an old man peering down at a child standing in ruins older than both of them.
Her mouth felt dry.
Stiffly, she managed, "A-are you… the Zenith of the Axiar?"
Silence answered her.
The hum continued.
The chains remained still.
Panic flared briefly in her chest. Had she offended him? She hadn't even introduced herself—
"I'm sorry," she rushed out, bowing her head slightly despite herself. "That was rude. My name is Seraphine. Seraphine Eclispsia Mythoria."
Still nothing.
Her heart pounded.
Then—
A chuckle.
Low. Soft. Almost human.
"I suppose that is what they call me," the being said at last. "Though back then, most people used my name."
Another pause, contemplative.
"I wonder… what other names they've burdened me with."
Relief loosened her chest enough for her to speak. "You are known by many titles," she said carefully. "But your name has been lost to the ages. Some of the more common ones are… Ruin Incarnate. Death of Stories. Hope's True Demise."
Laughter echoed through the chamber.
Not cruel.
Not angry.
"They do have a flair for drama," the being mused. "I find them almost endearing."
Something about the lightness of his tone unsettled her more than rage ever could. For a fleeting moment, he reminded her of one of her sisters—teasing, tired, dangerous only when pushed.
Maybe… she thought, a dangerous hope blooming. Maybe the prophecy exaggerated. Maybe he can be reasoned with.
The laughter faded.
The chains creaked.
"Alright, kid," the Zenith said plainly. "I appreciate the reminder and all, but I doubt you—or whoever you brought with you—came all this way just to flatter a corpse in chains."
Her spine straightened.
"Yes," she said, the weight of the moment crashing back down on her. "I'm here for a reason."
Her nerves screamed, but she forced herself to meet the faceless gaze of the imprisoned being.
"I wish to make a contract with you," Seraphine declared, voice trembling but resolute. "Zenith of the Axiar—help me. Help Mythraion. Help us engage the Seventh Crusade… and reach the Last Word."
The chamber fell utterly silent.
The silence stretched for a good several seconds..
It pressed against Seraphine's ears, against her chest, until it felt heavier than the chains binding the thing before her. Thoughts raced through her mind—too many, too fast—but she knew none of them mattered now. She had already spoken the words. She had already crossed the line.
All that remained was the answer.
Then the Zenith laughed.
It was sudden and sharp, echoing off stone and metal alike. "That's a genuinely funny joke, kid," he said, amusement dripping from every syllable. "You should really consider a career as a jester. You'd hit it big."
Her heart sank.
He wasn't taking her seriously.
"Alright," the Zenith continued, the laughter tapering off into something far more casual. "Let's be serious now. What are you really here for, child?"
Seraphine's brows drew together. Her fingers tightened at her sides. "I already told you," she said, repeating herself, though a tremor creeping into her voice despite her effort to suppress it. "I wish to make a contract. I need your help."
The moment the words left her mouth—
Everything stopped.
The dripping ceased.
The chains fell silent.
Even the deep, ever-present hum vanished, as though the world itself had been muted.
The absence was suffocating.
"Leave."
The single word struck harder than any shout.
Seraphine froze. "W-what?"
"Leave," the Zenith repeated, his voice stripped of all levity, all warmth. It was cold now. Flat. "You have some nerve coming here and making such an imbecilic statement to my face. The sheer stupidity of it is insulting."
Her chest tightened. "Please—listen to me—"
"I don't have to listen to bullshit, kid," he snapped, fury flaring hot and sudden. "You fucks had the gall to trap me here for over a fucking decade, and now you want my help? Fuck off."
A decade?
The words struck her like a hammer.
"A… decade?" she repeated faintly.
That wasn't right.
Everything she had learned—everything recorded—said he had been sealed since the First Crusade. Since the dawn of Chapters themselves. And yet…
His voice and manner of speaking—when it cracked with rage—no longer sounded ancient.
It sounded young.
Raw.
Not even that far from her age.
"Well?" the Zenith snarled. "What the hell are you waiting for? Leave. You're not getting any help here. Especially not from me."
Her legs felt weak.
She couldn't leave. Not now. Not after everything she had done to get here. So many laws were broken. The trust of those in the Alcove shattered. If she returned empty-handed—
It would all have been for nothing.
"Please," she said, bowing her head instinctively. "Sir. I don't know your full history. I don't know your past. But we need you. Truly. You are our only chance."
Her voice wavered, but she forced herself onward. "I know the prophecy. I know what you represent. I won't ask for anything else. Just—just help us end this hunt. Please."
The Zenith let out a harsh laugh. "Why would I give a shit about your so-called fucking hunt?" he spat. "It'd be in my best interest for all of you to be wiped off the face of existence."
"But it would destroy everything," she argued desperately. "Even you."
"So what?" he shot back. "Do you see me? Do I look like I'm living a life worth preserving?"
The words cut deeper than she expected.
"But… there must be something," she insisted weakly. "Something you care about. Something you want to protect."
A pause.
Then—cold, final—
"Kid, I've got nothing left to care about," the Zenith said. "Nothing left to protect. You can take that hopeful little suggestion and shove it up your ass."
Her throat tightened.
She couldn't reach him.
His hatred—no, his resentment—ran too deep. This wasn't the rage of a monster yearning to destroy. It was the bitterness of someone who had already lost everything worth saving.
She had expected bargaining. Devils' contracts. Twisted compromises. She had been ready to lose. Ready to offer parts of herself—her future, her essence, even her identity.
But there was no deal to be made.
Freedom? she thought wildly.
But even that would doom Mythraion whether he helped or not—and worse, she didn't know if he even wanted it.
Her frustration boiled over.
She clenched her fists so tightly her nails tore skin.
Black-and-white blood welled and spilled between her fingers, dripping onto the stone below.
Plik.
Plik.
'Why am I so frustrated? This isn't like me...'
Seraphine was the last person you would call calm and collected especially with how timid and cowardly she acted, but frustration was not one of the emotions she tended to have.
'I don't get why I'm acting like this. It's like this place is making me angry...'
Drop.
She didn't realize she was crying until her vision blurred.
"Don't even think about crying to squeeze sympathy out of me," the Zenith snapped. "That crying child shit only works on fools. Now leave."
Her breath hitched.
Not even that, she thought numbly.
He wouldn't even let her cry.
She wanted to scream at him. To curse him. To rage against the injustice of it all.
But what would that do?
This was the Zenith of the Axiar. The Star's herald. The End of Stories.
What could her anger possibly threaten him with?
Her tears fell silently.
"…What do you want?" she asked at last, her voice breaking completely. "What do I have to give you?"
The Zenith was silent.
So she kept going.
"I'll give you anything," she said hoarsely. "My face. My name. My future. I'll abandon the Alcove. I'll erase myself from history if that's what it takes. I'll abadon everything. I'll sell my body, my mind, my soul—whatever you want."
Her shoulders shook.
"I don't care what happens to me," she whispered. "Just… don't let everything end like this. Just don't let everyone else end like this. Please."
The chains creaked softly.
When the Zenith spoke again, his voice had changed.
The anger wasn't gone—but it had cooled, dulled into something heavier. Exhausted.
"…You're absolutely pitiful," he said quietly. Not cruelly. Just… honestly.
"And I mean that in the most literal sense."
Seraphine flinched.
"I've seen people like you before," he continued. "Throwing themselves into the jaws of death, convinced their suffering and 'noble' sacrifice will magically make things better. It doesn't."
A pause.
"You think that you are doing the world a favor by selling yourself off, but it doesn't care. Not about you, not about me, not about anyone. It never had."
The Zenith's voice carried a heavy conviction, like he truly believed his words.
"You are trying to salvage a world that has long forsaken you, and do you know how that make you look? Pitifully desperate."
"You don't even value yourself enough to hesitate bargaining," he added. "That's not conviction. That's desperation."
"It almost makes me feel bad."
Her lips trembled.
"But even so," the Zenith went on, firm once more, "the answer is no. I won't help you. I won't take your offer. And I sure as won't help this godforsaken world."
Her heart cracked.
Before she could respond, he spoke again, already dismissing her. "Go. Tell that your superior waiting at the stairs that my answer is final."
She froze.
"…My superior?" she echoed.
The words sent ice down her spine.
"I came alone," she said slowly. "There's no one with me."
Silence.
Then—
"…Then who," the Zenith asked calmly, "is standing at the door behind you?"
Her blood ran cold.
Slowly—far too slowly—Seraphine turned around.
Her gaze piercing through the red mist towards the door.
And at the presence waiting in the threshold.