[Nicholas Anstalionah.]
My sin ran deep, carved into the marrow of my being like an eroded scar across the fabric of creation.
When I called upon its strength, sleep began to wrap around me, not gentle or kind but heavy, consuming.
The Sky trembled and broke, its once-boundless reach shattering like glass beneath the strain of our fury.
We fell through the ruin together, Harlequin and I, descending into the Darkness, locked in combat that knew no end and no mercy.
Every strike met flesh, every parry sparked against the bones of the void.
With each clash, the echo of our struggle grew louder, until even the silence screamed.
Our blades moved faster than thought, our breath turned to mist, our hearts to iron.
I could feel his limits uncoiling, as if the fight itself tore away the restraints that had bound him for centuries.
The deeper we fell, the more he grew. The more I was forced to match him.
Soon the Darkness began to unravel beneath our feet, unable to contain us.
Our strikes carved through the emptiness itself, tearing rifts into the walls of dream and nightmare.
"Nicholas!" Harlequin's voice tore through the chaos, raw and breaking. "You will never forgive me! But at least… at least I can say this!"
He lunged, his blade singing a death that was meant for both of us.
The Darkness could bear no more. It spat us out, hurling our broken forms into the Void.
And there, in that infinite expanse of nothing, we continued.
No words, only the rhythm of metal, the rattle of exhausted lungs, the dull, unending ache of two beings too stubborn to die.
Our blades collided again and again, each impact sending ripples that devoured worlds below us.
Dreams shuddered and collapsed. Mortal lives ended without knowing why.
Our duel became the pulse of annihilation.
It was so vile, so absolute, that Heaven's light reached across eternity to witness it.
Hell opened its gates, its fire dimmed by curiosity.
Even the angels turned their faces away, for the purity of our hatred burned brighter than any divine flame.
And so, we fell.
Abandoning the Void, abandoning the stars, we descended into Hell.
It was a place without shape, a realm of black stone and endless whispers, where every sound echoed like regret.
The air itself was heavy with the scent of sin and the ashes of all who had fallen before.
We landed amidst it, broken but unbowed, and continued.
Harlequin came at me like a storm of memory.
His movements were sharp, deliberate, too practiced to be rage.
My blade met his in silence, sparks trailing through the thick dark like stars dying one by one.
Every step sent shivers through the ash-covered ground, every swing left scars that refused to heal.
I felt my strength falter.
My breath came uneven, my eyes burned with exhaustion that reached past flesh into the soul.
The will to fight began to fade, to wither like a candle under endless rain.
He saw it. And he took it.
His blade struck through mine, the sound of breaking steel echoing like thunder through Hell.
For a moment, it was as though we had both lost.
Then I heard the voice, his disgustingly lazy voice made clear.
[Did you see it, Nicholas? The fall of Mirabel. How cruel of you… not to care.]
I laughed, a hollow, aching sound that scraped against my throat. His sword twisted in my chest, but I no longer felt pain. Only release.
"You are forgiven, Harlequin," I whispered. "You are forgiven."
The words left me slowly, like a final breath shared between dying gods.
And then, Hell froze.
Under my gaze, the inferno stilled.
The rivers of flame turned to glass, and the cries of the damned grew quiet.
The realm of endless torment wept beneath the weight of my tears, and for the first time since its creation, Hell knew sorrow.
Harlequin fell to his knees, his strength undone, his hatred burned away by despair.
I closed my eyes.
In the dark behind my lids, I saw Mirabel, her laughter, her warmth, her light, and I realized that sleep was not an escape but a return.
As I drifted into it, my feet began to move.
Even in sleep, I walked.
The motion was mechanical, stripped of purpose.
My body rose on instinct alone, shattering Harlequin's blade with a single, careless swing.
Around us, the demons that had gathered in silent awe scattered into the dark, but their escape was futile.
They died before they could run far, their forms dissolving into ash that clung to my breath.
Harlequin tried to rise.
His steps faltered, his hands scrabbled against the boundless black ground that spread like a mirror of despair.
It was solid, yes, but it offered no comfort. Nothing did.
He crawled, not in fear, but in rejection. Even here, even now, he refused to accept me.
[In that moment, Nicholas reached enlightenment. His Inheritance bore fruit, and his mark changed.]
I looked down at my hands and saw it forming, two fingers, one black and one white, reaching toward each other.
The black finger twisted in fury, its expression bitter, livid, accusing.
The white one reached back half-heartedly, its movement sluggish, unwilling, its gaze heavy with indifference.
I understood it immediately.
The angry one was everything that still believed in me. The other… was what I had become.
I lifted my eyes and saw Sotergramma burning high above, runes weaving in and out of existence like faint breaths.
I sighed. The sound felt too alive for me.
Raising my arm, I plucked the light from the sky as if snatching away a burden I never asked to carry.
Then I looked down again, and the words left me before I could stop them.
"I am nothing. And now… I have lost all my worth. He lied to me, you know. That greater version of me, the one that promised purpose."
Harlequin began to weep. It was not dramatic, not desperate.
It was the quiet, exhausted crying of someone who no longer knew what forgiveness meant.
"You are a terrible person," he said softly, voice breaking. "And I still cry for you."
I aimed my sword toward him, my grip loose, my heart already somewhere else.
"Dragons," I said, the word leaving my mouth like a curse. "
The lot of them. They will pay. But I can't be bothered to pick and choose between innocents anymore."
His eyes widened, not out of fear, but pity. "You know," he murmured, "your father was also a lazy man."
That made me laugh. A small, bitter sound.
"Yes. I suppose I'm following in his footsteps. For now and evermore. The concept of dragons… well, it no longer exists."
And just like that, he vanished.
His grace, his admiration, all gone, erased like ink spilled on black paper.
I dropped to my knees, the sound echoing through the hollow realm.
My sword fell, forgotten, and I pressed my hands against my stomach.
Blood trickled down my hair, mixing with the ash, staining everything.
When I turned my body, the sky was crying.
Rain fell from the unseen heavens above, trying to wash her blood from the earth. Trying, and failing.
I couldn't move. Or rather, I didn't want to.
The thought of motion felt meaningless, like defying gravity only to fall again. So I stayed.
I sat there, basking in the warmth of her death. Basking in the silence she left behind.
She was dead.
And death… death is strange. It is cruel, indifferent, almost gentle in its honesty. It is a mirror I cannot look away from.
Because it is also me.
I am death, just as I am nothing. Just as I am the void that devours what little I love.
The world, in all its irony, made me into something I could never forgive.
It made me into someone who hates himself, so deeply, so endlessly, that not even death could offer peace.
So becasue of this, I would stay.
[Nicholas, it was clear, he would never leave this place. You would never leave this place. I would never leave this place.]
I chuckled. "It would take God himself to move me."