The air did not come first.
It was the smell.
Old.
Damp.
Trapped between rotten wood and exposed stone, as if that place had been abandoned… but never left.
The sound came with it.
Low.
Irregular.
Small claws scraping against rough surfaces, moving inside the walls, beneath the floor, through gaps that no longer closed.
Minimal life.
Persistent.
The count remained still before the door.
His gaze fixed.
Measuring.
Nothing in that space reacted as before.
But even so… it existed.
"Tell me… do you still recognize this place?"
The voice came from beside him.
Firm.
Controlled.
There was no haste in it.
No hesitation.
The count had already moved before the sentence ended.
His arm cut the air in a dry arc, claws tearing through the space where he should be—
Nothing.
Empty.
The strike met no resistance.
There was no sound of flesh.
No rupture.
Only air.
Silent.
Behind him—
"Then it was not forgotten."
The same voice.
Closer now.
Unchanged.
The count did not respond.
His body turned a minimal degree.
Precise.
Enough to reposition.
Enough not to repeat the mistake.
Then came the sound.
Slow.
Dragging.
The wood gave with a dry, deep creak, as if the structure itself resisted the movement.
The door began to open.
Without touch.
Without haste.
The count turned toward the already open door.
There was no form inside.
The darkness was dense, whole — not absence of light, but presence.
Something that persisted.
His gaze held there for a moment longer.
Measuring.
"Nika… how long do you intend to sustain this charade?"
The voice came steady.
Cold.
Carrying restrained authority.
A short laugh echoed behind him.
Low.
Controlled.
Without warmth.
"Caeté… it seems you still do not understand where you are."
There was no immediate reaction.
The count did not turn.
"One of the districts abandoned after the rise of the gods."
The answer came without hesitation.
As if the name were enough.
His gaze remained pinned to the darkness ahead.
"You are mistaken."
The voice did not move now.
It simply was.
"I do not refer to these ruins… but to the place to which you were brought."
Silence.
Brief.
Sufficient.
"Still… that matters little."
The pause was measured.
"Soon, you will understand for yourself."
The contact came without warning.
Dry.
Direct.
The force was not enough to bring him down — only to displace.
But the space responded before he did.
His body crossed the threshold.
And the darkness received him.
There was no transition.
The absence broke into a faint, irregular light filtered through poorly sealed cracks. The interior of the house formed around him — worn wood, marked walls, dense air.
The count breathed.
His eyes opened.
Red.
His vision found the ground first.
A girl.
Small.
Motionless.
The weight of her own body kept her against the floor.
The blood no longer flowed.
Beside—
A boy.
Six years, perhaps.
Disheveled black hair.
Black eyes fixed on him.
There were no tears.
There was no hesitation.
Only void.
For an instant, nothing moved.
Then the boy advanced.
Fast.
Direct.
The short blade rose from below, without warning — precise enough to pierce the count's left eye before any reaction could form.
The scream tore through the space.
Raw.
Instinctive.
His hand rose, late, trying to contain what had already been done.
"Protect the lord!"
Steel answered.
One of the guards advanced without hesitation, the sword coming down in a clean cut that struck the boy and drove him into the ground before he could repeat the motion.
Another was already at the count's side, holding him firmly, pulling him away from the girl's body.
"My lord, rise."
The voice was firm.
Controlled.
The count was lifted.
Even against his own balance.
Blood ran between his fingers, warm, constant.
"There is a healer ahead. If we move now, we can still save you."
The man adjusted his support under his arm.
Without tremor.
Without doubt.
They moved.
Fast.
The door was left behind.
And then—
It closed.
The dry sound echoed short.
The light gave way.
Everything darkened.
The count fell to his knees.
His breathing failed.
Irregular.
Then the voices came.
First low.
Then clear.
Contained laughter that did not seek to hide.
"Look at him…"
"Still trying to hold himself up…"
"I wonder… how he will react to the next."
The laughter came with it.
Spread.
Without fixed origin.
The count raised his head.
And saw.
Éreon.
Still before him.
The blade came down.
There was no resistance.
There was no time.
The world gave way—
And returned.
The count was seated.
Rough wood beneath the weight of his body.
Before him, the pyre raised.
Intact.
The wood still clean, stacked with excessive precision.
Prepared.
Around it, stakes.
New ropes, still rigid.
The space open, too silent to be empty.
The single eye swept the environment.
Slow.
Measuring.
"They will arrive soon."
The voice came from beside him.
The count turned his gaze to the man.
An instant only.
Then forward again.
The sound came before the sight.
Dragging.
Irregular.
Weight dragged across dry earth.
The count did not move.
The single eye remained forward.
Then she appeared.
Her arms bound by rough rope that marked the skin.
One of the guards led her carelessly, pulling her by the tether as if she were just another body to be delivered.
The nudity was not exposure.It was imposition.
Without dignity.
Without choice.
Golden hair fell in waves to her waist, dirty in parts, stuck to the skin where the blood had already dried. Her eyes, light green, held a strange shine — not strength, not defiance… something that endured even there.
The count watched.
Without looking away.
The marks on her body were recent.
Shallow cuts.
Others deeper.
None treated.
All visible.
The guard took her to the center.
Without ceremony.
Without word.
The wood of the pyre awaited her.
The ropes were adjusted.
The tension pulled her arms even further.
Her body was lifted and fixed against the structure.
Firm.
Immobile.
Around, the civilians.
Crowded.
Faces marked by hunger, by exhaustion… by expectation.
Some cried.
Low.
Contained.
Others laughed.
Dry.
Without joy.
Most simply watched.
The count faced her in silence.
The single eye fixed.
Immobile.
"My lord… we await the order."
The voice came from beside him.
Low.
Contained.
The count turned his gaze to the guard.
An instant only.
Then he stood.
Without haste.
His presence imposed itself before his voice.
"Diana… you can still avoid what will come."
The sound carried through the space.
"Tell me where the boy's body is… and I will grant you a softer end."
She did not hesitate.
"After what you did to my daughter… and what you took from my son… you still believe I would hand over their bodies?"
Her voice remained firm.
"So you can display them as trophies? Reduce them to warning?"
The count brought his hand to the band over his left eye.
The touch was brief.
"His mistake… was touching me."
The voice dropped.
Cold.
"Tearing him to pieces would be little."
His gaze passed through the crowd.
"So that no doubt would remain."
A short smile touched Diana's lips.
Tired.
But firm.
"So this is what remains of you."
She held his gaze.
"The man who swore to protect… and sold everything at the first opportunity."
The count watched her.
Without haste.
"Curious to hear that… from one who saw the fall."
He indicated the space around.
"You saw what descended from the heavens. What rose above all of us."
His gaze returned to her.
"And still chose to resist."
A breath of laughter.
Contained.
"Look around you, Diana."
The crowd remained.
Distant.
"They called you a saint."
"They placed in you what they lacked."
The pause came.
"And now?"
No step forward.
No voice rose.
"No one places themselves between you… and this."
Silence answered.
The count inclined his head slightly.
"It was for them that you chose to fall."
The voice remained low.
"And none of them chooses to fall at your side."
"Caeté… if I fall, another will come. And after him, another."
Her voice did not fail.
Even bound, even exposed, it remained firm.
"You are not fighting me… but something that does not end."
The count faced her.
In silence.
The single eye fixed on her for a few seconds.
Then he raised his hand.
The gesture was minimal.
Sufficient.
Two knights advanced, torches lit in their hands.
The fire trembled low, contained by the weak wind.
"This is your last chance."
The voice came cold.
Without rise.
Diana smiled.
Small.
Tired.
"I would say I would still see you again…"
The pause was brief.
"But I believe that, when you reach your end, your soul will find no rest."
Her eyes did not waver.
"It will remain."
The count did not react.
There was no answer.
His hand dropped.
"Do it."
The torches touched the wood.
The fire did not explode.
It rose.
Slow.
Consistent.
Finding space between the dry planks.
Taking form.
The heat began to distort the air around.
Diana did not look at him.
Her gaze moved through the crowd.
Passing over the faces.
Those who cried.
Those who laughed.
Until it stopped.
A child.
Hidden under a cloak.
Still.
Watching.
Diana smiled.
This time, without weight.
Almost light.
"Your turn, Nika."
The girl did not answer.
She simply turned.
And disappeared into the crowd.
The fire continued to rise.
The smoke rose.
Dense.
Heavy.
Taking the space without haste, but without fail.
Swallowing the pyre.
The crowd.
The sounds.
Everything.
The count remained standing for a moment longer.
His eye fixed on the fire.
Then it closed.
When it opened again—
The world had changed.
Cold ground beneath his knees.
Silence.
No wind.
No echo.
Ahead—
A throne.
Black.
Irregular.
As if it had been shaped, not built.
And upon it—
A boy.
Pale skin, with a sheen that did not belong to light.
Black hair, short, broken by longer strands that fell to the nape, disordered.
The eyes—
Black.
Deep.
Fixed on him.
The count did not move.
But he felt.
First faint.
Then clear.
Something crawling over his skin.
Climbing.
Slow.
As if seeking entry.
His breath failed.
The air did not answer.
His chest expanded—
Empty.
Sinking.
As if he were drowning in something he could not see.
His gaze steadied on the figure.
"What, exactly, are you?"
The voice came out low.
Controlled.
But now there was contempt.
"You wear the form of a child…"
The pause came short.
Cutting.
"…but you fool no one."
The boy did not move.
The smile came slowly. Effortless.
The air changed.
Cold.
Not on the skin — deeper.
"That which even the gods… come to fear."
The voice came calm. Certain. Unraised.
The gaze did not waver.
"Tell me, Caeté…"
"did you enjoy seeing again what you tried to forget?"
The count held his gaze.
Even with the air failing.
A short laugh escaped. Dry.
"And that is supposed to break me?"
Silence weighed.
"Was that… all you could do?"
Éreon smiled.
More present now. Almost… satisfied.
"Affect you?"
The word came soft. Too small.
"No."
His fingers rested on the arm of the throne.
Still.
"Consider it… a gesture of gratitude."
The pause came natural.
Unhurried.
"I exist… because of you."
His gaze remained fixed.
Deep.
"And, as you well know…"
A slight tilt of the head.
"The abyss does not take kindly… to those who do not belong to it."
Silence fell.
Heavy.
He watched him for a few seconds.
Without blinking.
"And, it seems…"
The voice dropped a degree.
"you have already begun to pay."
The air vanished.
This time faster.
Deeper.
His chest expanded—
Nothing.
His throat closed.
The body reacted before the mind.
Instinct.
Failed.
The weight increased.
As if something pulled him downward.
No water.
No bottom.
Sinking.
Éreon did not move.
Only watched.
"I could kill you now."
The voice came calm.
Effortless.
"For what you dared to do."
A pause.
Short.
"But there is an agreement."
His fingers slid slightly over the throne.
"And I abide by it."
The slight tilt of the head came as decision, not doubt.
"So I will break you…"
His gaze deepened.
"just enough to leave a mark."
Silence stretched.
Controlled.
"The boy has not yet reached the end that was given to him."
An almost imperceptible breath.
"And you will not take that from him."
The air did not return.
And the smile remained.
The silence did not break. It was interrupted.
Éreon raised his hand, slowly, without effort.
The fingers aligned — and then snapped.
The sound did not echo. It was swallowed.
"Rupture."
The word was not spoken loud, but the space gave way.
The shadows reacted first.
They did not come from outside — they peeled away from the ground, from the walls… from the body itself.
And advanced.
Not like a wave, but like collapse.
The count tried to move.
The body did not respond.
The darkness took him — without weight, without form. Only inevitable.
Then it ceased.
There was no impact.
Only return.
The count opened his single eye.
Ahead: ruin, broken stone, a shattered seat.
And upon it — Éreon.
Seated.
Intact.
As if he had never been touched.
The count was on his knees, a few meters away.
The body still did not respond.
But something moved.
Inside.
Crawling beneath the skin.
Climbing.
He saw.
The marks on Éreon's body closing.
Without effort.
Without flaw.
As if they had never existed.
The count felt it.
A dry breath escaped. Almost a laugh.
"So…"
The voice failed, but did not yield.
"you take from one… to remake another."
His gaze remained steady.