Turmoil.
Strife.
Chaos.
They crashed into Seraphine all at once, a tidal convergence of instinct and dread, the moment her eyes found the figure standing at the threshold of the chamber. Her breath caught—not in a gasp, but in a slow, strangled halt, as though her body itself had decided that breathing was a luxury it could no longer afford.
The thing at the door did not arrive.
It simply was.
It stood tall and wrong, its form sleek yet jagged, like a sculpture carved from obsidian and bone and then left unfinished by a trembling hand. Its body bore no garments, not from shamelessness but from irrelevance—it had nothing to conceal, nothing that resembled the vulnerable anatomy of mortals.
Long, spindled limbs hung at its sides, arms stretching a fraction too far, joints bending at angles that suggested a careless disregard for symmetry. Its frame was humanoid only in the loosest, most mocking sense, as if the idea of a human shape had been described to it secondhand and poorly translated.
Its surface was monochrome—black bleeding into white, white bleeding into black—like ink spilled across a pristine canvas and then smeared by a panicked artist trying desperately to undo a mistake. The colors did not merely rest upon its form; they warred across it, lines and patches shifting subtly, as though reality itself could not decide where one ended and the other began.
And then there was its head.
Smooth. Featureless. A stark white oval devoid of eyes, ears, nose, or mouth.
At least, it had been—until a thin, ink-black line slowly carved itself across the lower half of its face.
The line widened.
Stretched.
Split open.
A mouth unfurled where no mouth should exist, opening far too wide, revealing nothing but a yawning abyss of absolute blackness. It did not display teeth, nor tongue, nor throat—only depth. Endless, light-devouring depth. The grin was grotesquely joyful, frozen in an expression of unrestrained delight, as though the creature were savoring a private joke that only it understood.
Seraphine's heart stuttered.
A Conflict.
The word did not pass through her mind so much as imprint itself upon her soul.
Agents of Discord.
Children of the Backend—the metaphysical antipode to Mythraion, a realm that existed not beside reality but beneath it, layered like rot under skin. A realm forged not by geography or matter, but by a singular, absolute principle.
Conflict.
No one truly knew when the Conflicts had first manifested. Records placed their earliest appearances in the First Chapter, at the dawn of Mythraion's recorded existence, as if the world itself had drawn its first breath and immediately exhaled an enemy.
Wherever the story of Mythraion was written, the Conflicts were its antagonistic inkblots—corruptions, distortions, living contradictions to order and continuity.
They were the sworn enemies of the Arisen.
And more than that, their mirrors.
Both sought the same impossible prize. Both hunted the same metaphysical inevitability.
The Last Word.
Seraphine felt something coil painfully in her chest as she stared at the being. She was not unacquainted with Conflicts—far from it. Like all Arisen-in-training, she and her sisters had been conditioned from childhood to recognize their forms, their auras, their methods.
She had seen many fight them.
Seen them die.
Seen them laugh as they did like it was merely a joke.
No—this was not fear born of unfamiliarity.
It was the context that shattered her composure.
Why was it here?
Why was it following her?
And perhaps most unsettling of all—
Why was it doing nothing?
Conflicts were many things, but subtlety was rarely among them. They were not mindless, but they were singularly obsessed, their existence orbiting around the provocation and escalation of chaos.
In the presence of an Arisen, even a rather half-baked one like her, restraint was almost unheard of. Violence was not merely common—it was inevitable.
Yet this one stood silently, its impossibly wide smile unbroken, watching.
Waiting.
As Seraphine wrestled with the growing knot of unease in her gut, a voice cut through the thick crimson mist.
High-pitched.
Soft.
Almost… cheerful.
It was impossible to tell whether it belonged to a little boy or a little girl.
"The rumors and tales of your profoundness truly do you justice, Greatest Zenith."
The words slithered into the chamber, polite and reverent, and they sent a wave of nausea rippling through Seraphine's stomach.
The Zenith of the Axiar responded immediately, his voice sharp and unamused.
"Save your ass-kissing for someone who's interested. Just because that dumb kid couldn't tell you were tailing her since she stepped foot in this fucking prison doesn't make you some master sneak. It was way too obvious."
The words struck Seraphine like a slap.
Her jaw tightened, heat rising to her cheeks—not anger, but shame. He was right. If the Zenith hadn't pointed it out, she would never have known. The thought gnawed at her pride, what little of it ever existed in the first place.
The Conflict tilted its head slowly to the side, the motion exaggerated, almost theatrical. Then it giggled—a light, childish sound entirely at odds with the cavernous horror of its form.
"You are very right, Greatest Zenith," it said pleasantly. "I would never claim stealth as one of my defining virtues. Still…"
Its head straightened. "To discern my presence from such a distance, despite those filthy bonds restraining you—ah, it truly is a marvel."
The word filthy was laced with unmistakable disdain, a subtle barb flung in the Zenith's favor.
For a moment, the Zenith said nothing.
Then: "Come a little closer."
The chains rattled faintly as the red mist pulsed.
"I can already tell you're ugly," the Zenith continued, voice dry with contempt, "but I want to confirm it. You might be catfishing me for all I know. Though I guess that'd require the possibility of being uglier than you already are."
The Conflict's smile did not falter. It lifted its long arms in a mockingly gentle shrug.
"I would love nothing more than to comply with the Greatest Zenith's request," it replied, "but I fear my safety in the presence of your mist is… uncertain."
Seraphine blinked.
The mist?
Her awareness snapped inward. The crimson fog that filled the chamber—thick, oppressive, ever-present—had long since faded into the background of her senses. She had accepted it as part of the prison, another cruelty layered atop the Zenith's confinement.
But now, under the Conflict's words, it felt… different.
Heavier.
She remembered how quickly her resolve had unraveled. How easily her courage had crumbled into desperation and tears despite the weeks—no, months—she had spent preparing herself for this moment.
She had thought it was her simply succumbing to the pressure. The Zenith's presence.
Her own inadequacy as a useless Arisen.
But what if it wasn't?
"After all," the Conflict continued, voice lilting, "it is quite evident—from how effortlessly you agitated and toyed with the little half-breed—that your mist carries some manner of mind-altering influence. At the very least."
Half-breed.
The word struck, sharp and precise.
Seraphine's fingers twitched at her sides as understanding finally settled into place. She was meek, yes—more so than her sisters, more so than most Arisen—but this… this had been unnatural.
Her emotional unraveling had been a bit too swift, a bit too easy.
She wanted—desperately—to leave the mist. To retreat, to put distance between herself and the oppressive haze that now felt like invisible hands pressing against her thoughts.
But the only exit stood behind the Conflict.
And that thought froze her in place.
The Zenith exhaled slowly.
"I'll continue this conversation," he said, "once you step closer. I'm not talking to someone whose face I can't fully appreciate. For all I know, you're lying about how hideous you are."
A pause.
"Though again, I'm still not sure how that'd be possible."
The Conflict remained still, its gaping smile unwavering. The silence stretched, thick and deliberate, until even the chains seemed to hold their breath.
Then—
"Very well," the Conflict said softly. "I do hope this demonstrates our sincerity, Greatest Zenith."
It moved.
Not with a step, nor a stride, but a smooth, gliding advance, its long limbs barely seeming to interact with the ground. The red mist parted around it as it entered fully into the chamber, the air itself recoiling from its presence.
It stopped only a short distance from Seraphine.
Close enough that she could feel it now—not heat, not cold, but a crawling pressure against her skin, like the prelude to a storm that never quite breaks.
The Conflict stood smiling.
Watching.
Waiting.
And the chamber, heavy with mist and malice, seemed to lean inward, as though the story itself were holding its breath.
The Zenith let out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a weary sigh.
"See?" he said, voice dripping with irreverent ease. "Nothing to be worried about. Well—except your ugly ass looks. Seriously, stop smiling like that. You look like you put children to sleep and molest them."
The chains gave a faint clink as he shifted, the red mist pulsing lazily around him.
"Unless that's something you're into," he added, tone casual, almost conversational, "in which case, hey, I am the last one to be judging."
The sheer contrast in his demeanor struck Seraphine harder than any insult he had hurled at her moments ago. This—this was different. The Zenith spoke to the Conflict not as an inconvenience, not as a nuisance, but as something closer to an equal annoyance.
Someone worth acknowledging at least. Worth engaging.
Not a child to be dismissed.
Her chest tightened with a knot of emotions she didn't have the luxury to untangle—resentment, humiliation, relief, dread. She forced herself to remain silent.
This conversation was no longer hers to steer, and any attempt to insert herself would only make her a liability.
The Conflict, as always, ignored the jab at its appearance. If anything, its impossible grin seemed… pleased.
"And your Greatness," it replied smoothly, that small, childish voice carrying an unsettling warmth, "is truly magnanimous in not altering my perception. Such restraint is admirable."
The Zenith snorted. "Yeah, yeah. Spare me."
Then, without ceremony, his tone sharpened.
"Since you're not here with that crying kid over there, I'm guessing you've got your own agenda. So let's speed this up. And do me a favor—make sure it's not some stupid-ass proposition about saving something."
Seraphine flinched despite herself. The sting was brief, dulled quickly by the weight of what followed.
The Conflict inclined its head—another deliberate tilt, another irritating habit.
"I have come with a proposition as well," it said. "One we are certain your Greatness will find… profitable."
Seraphine's breath hitched, her lungs locking as though the air itself had suddenly turned hostile. No. Whatever this was, if it came from the Conflicts, it could only be worse than her own plea.
"We," the Conflict continued, voice carrying a faint reverence now, "the Architects of True Progression, under the edict of the Original One, extend a contract to you—the Zenith of the Axiar."
The chamber seemed to grow smaller as the words spilled forth.
"Full conditions on your release and freedom. Unrestricted access to the vastest resources at our disposal. And the complete backing of the entire Backend."
Seraphine felt dizzy.
The Backend was not merely another realm—it was a counterweight to Mythraion itself. A reality so expansive and layered that even the combined dominions of gods and mortals paled beside it. Its resources were functionally infinite. Its forces… unspeakable.
And they were offering all of it.
"All," the Conflict concluded softly, "in exchange for one request."
For a heartbeat, Seraphine dared to hope the Zenith would laugh. Scoff. Tear the proposition apart out of sheer spite.
Instead, his voice came calm and measured.
"And what's this request?" he asked. Not impressed. Not dazzled. Merely cautious.
The Conflict's head tilted again.
"To wreak," it said carefully, "absolute havoc across all of Mythraion."
The words slammed into Seraphine like a physical blow.
Across all of Mythraion.
Her thoughts spiraled. From everything she had gathered—from his rage, his bitterness, his utter disdain—the Zenith despised Mythraion and its people. This wasn't a cost. It was a perk. An indulgence.
She looked at him, heart pounding, silently begging him to refuse.
The Zenith fell silent.
Chains creaked faintly as he shifted, the red mist rolling in slow, lazy currents. He seemed to be considering it—not with moral conflict, but with pragmatic interest.
Seraphine's stomach sank.
Why would he deny it? He gained freedom. Power. Vengeance. And all at the expense of a world he already loathed.
Then he spoke again.
"And under whose authority are you making this offer?" he asked. "No—better question. How do you even plan on getting me out of here?"
His tone sharpened, skeptical now.
"Last I checked, breaking this seal isn't something you just decide to do. It requires a very specific kind of Contract. And you haven't shown me you're capable of that. Right now, you just look like some grunt talking big."
The Conflict did not bristle. Did not recoil.
Its head tilted once more.
"I am certain your Greatness is already aware," it said patiently, "but the seal binding you is the strongest ever devised. Created through the efforts of that False Witness itself—the Archtext."
Seraphine's blood ran cold at the name.
"It is vast. Absolute. And there is only one way to undo it—an Origin Contract. One formed between a being who possesses the key to the seal and you, the Zenith of the Axiar."
The Conflict raised a long, thin finger.
"And only five categories of beings are capable of forming such a contract. This limitation was enacted to ensure your release would never be… convenient."
It began to list them, each name heavier than the last.
"My Lord, the Original One. That False Witness, the Archtext. The combined might of the 12 Aeons. The Head Saintess of the Alcove of Tales—or her direct descendants."
Its finger shifted.
"And those blessed by the Twelth Path."
It turned, slowly, and pointed directly at Seraphine.
"Two of which," it added cheerfully, "apply to this half-breed."
Seraphine's heart lurched.
She had already begun backing away, instinct screaming at her to flee, when the Conflict's voice caught her movement.
"Ah. There you are."
She froze.
Her face burned, fury and fear twisting together. Half-breed. Again. Deliberate. Cruel.
"And the key?" the Zenith asked, his gaze now fixed on her, sharp and probing. "I don't sense it on you."
"That," the Conflict replied lightly, "has been handled by the half-breed herself."
Seraphine's hand tightened instinctively around the concealed object at her side.
"It would have been… inconvenient," the Conflict continued, "to steal the key from the Alcove. But who could have anticipated that the Third Crown Princess of the Alcove of Tales would bring it here of her own volition?"
The words echoed.
Crown Princess.
Seraphine felt the Zenith's attention fully settle on her now—heavy, surprised, calculating. She swallowed hard. She was trapped. Running would mean death. Staying meant being stripped of the key.
The Zenith let out a low hum.
"So your 'lord' is one of the few who can actually open the seal," he said. "That means he's here."
The Conflict shook its head.
"The Original One cannot descend freely at present," it said. "However, he has devised a method to remotely conduct the necessary procedures. I was sent as his instrument."
Silence stretched.
Then the Zenith asked, almost lazily, "And that's it? All you want is havoc?"
The Conflict's smile somehow widened.
"Truly," it said, voice brimming with delight, "the more chaos and carnage, the better."
It leaned forward, just slightly.
"So," it asked, "what do you say, Greatest Zenith?"
The answer came swiftly.
"I agree."
The words shattered something inside Seraphine.
She didn't think. She didn't hesitate.
She ran.
Two steps—that was all she managed.
A blur of motion. A sudden pressure.
Her world snapped violently as sleek, bony fingers closed around her neck, lifting her off the ground with terrifying ease. The Conflict's arm had elongated unnaturally, stretching across the chamber in an instant.
Her hood slipped free, falling to the floor.
Air fled her lungs as she was dragged closer, her feet barely brushing the stone.
The Conflict's grin loomed inches from her face.