As the morning sun reared its head over the horizon, the most eager of rooster's crowd into the crisp morning air, announcing the start to another day in the city of Mutteroak.
The early risers of the day began to prepare for their day's trade and sales; bakers kneaded today's dough, then set it to rise while waiting for their ovens to heat up from the mornings chill.
While eager merchants rose early to make preparations to receive and store their arriving merchandise, wears or product stocks.
In the still slumbering streets, the steady, uniform steps of the city's guards echoed unbothered by the frigid morning air.
Their patrol routes carried them through the familiar streets of the city; from the city's high walls, through the empty streets through the city's market districts where the voices of haggling merchants and overzealous performers had yet to awaken.
Their path proceeded past the cold and hushed houses in the residential area and over a bridge into the cities northern district, where they passed another patrol near a familiar bakery.
The songs of waking birds began their chorus as the sun warmed their stiff cold feathers its light, before ascending from their nests, singing a cheery tune that wake the street cats and warns the mice that their playtime is running out.
______
As the sun fully rose above the horizon, another, smaller form began to stir awake as its light shone through a gap in high quality curtains and onto a young boy's face.
His soft face features were distorted by a grimace as he was forcefully awoken by the light beaming directly onto his face.
He swiftly turned his body away, opting for more sleep than to bother himself with the headaches the morning would bring.
But just as he was about to be pulled under, the door to his room opened with a soft click, and from it entered Rowena, with several of the palace's maids behind her.
She moved with minimal, practiced movements past the still sleeping Thorsten to the rooms closed curtains—parting them open with a single, strong tug in either direction, and allowing the sun to bath the room in its warm, bright light.
Unwilling to give up his precious sleep, Thorsten swiftly withdrew himself into the darkness provided by the quality linens—still not enough to fully block it out, but just enough for him to feel the much-appreciated lull of sleep.
Rowena's lips curved into a small smile when she heard the rustling and weak groan sounding behind her, she then clapped her hands to signal the maids before moving to the bedside.
She gently shook him awake, and as unwilling as he was to be awake, Thorsten merely left his body to them while they guided him out of the room.
He followed them with half closed eyes, as if to savour the last vestiges of the sleep he flutily resisted fully waking up.
The remaining maids began straightening the room, five of them moving with practised efficiency as they carried out their respective tasks.
Two of them started on making the bed; they dusted off the covers and sheets, then returned them and began straightening their corners and flattening and stray edges. They then fluffed up the velvet pillows before propping them up neatly against the headboard.
Another two maids dusted and wiped down the room's surfaces, clearing away any dust that had accumulated overnight, while also opening the windows to air out and cool the room.
The final maid, Juliet, worked on tidying and sorting anything that was left lying around or out of place in the room.
After neatly shelving the books scattered on the floor back into the room's small bookshelf, she then began working on the mess that was Thorsten's desk, which looked like small tornado had swept over it.
She was a bit surprised to find everything so disorderly, with papers scattered all over to the point where she could not even see the tables surface beneath them—especially because Thorsten had a clean streak with having his belongings placed orderly and neatly.
It was to the point that whenever a maid found themselves cleaning up after his work area, they would mostly be organising and returning the books he had used instead of having to clean anything up.
And even then, most of the books they would be returning to their places were ones that were too high for him to have reached on the shelves on his own.
Juliet found it a little endearing that the youngest master was actually displaying untidy behaviour fitting of someone his age—something that she would definitely bring up when she was chatting later with the other palace maids during her break.
Just as she was about to start organising the scatterd papers, a strong gust of wind blew through the open windows, casing the lose papers to fly off the desk.
She managed to deftly catch a handful of them before they could fly too far but quickly turned her attention to the fountain pen teetering on the edge of the desk.
"Fyew!" A relieved sigh escaper her lips as she rejoiced in preventing a bigger, more annoying mess, as she returned the pen to its holder.
Feeling how her heartbeat during those few moments, she started appreciating how neat and organised Thorsten was with his stationary. Internally chiding herself for thinking he should be otherwise.
Seeing the mess caused by the sudden wind, another one of the maids wiping down one of the windows apologised then began assisting her in collecting the scattered papers.
When the all the scattered papers were finally collected, Juliet was met with a bit of a conundrum that would make sorting them very difficult—all of them were written in a strange, angular script that she could not recognise.
Thinking this was just another language the young master had been learning, she asked a maid more familiar with such matters. But when even she did not recognise it, she found herself at a loss on how to proceed.
There was also the option of just neatly stacking them and giving up, her pride as a maid would not let her surrender without exhausting all her options.
So, she began going through the pages in hopes of finding words she recognised so she could at least create some semblance of order.
One by one, she skimmed through the pages, her brow furrowing as the unfamiliar symbols bore no resemblance to the script she knew.
It wasn't until she was nearly at the bottom of the stack that she noticed a change in the letters written on the pages. Yet instead of the hint she was after, what she found was an odd drop in the quality of the script.
Thorsten had a more unique, almost elegant style of writing that set him apart where each word and letter looked carefully measured against the page.
As if each on had been crafted to fit exactly onto the line instead of simply occupying the space on it.
This unique style of writing was still clear even when he was writing in an entirely unrecognisable language, but that wasn't what stood out to her.
No. It was how the quality of his writing had suddenly taken a noticeable, almost drastic dive in its appearance and eligibility.
To the point where even to her untrained and unfamiliar eyes, Juliet could tell how the words and letters had become mere shells of what she had just seen.
This drop only became increasingly apparent as she flipped over the next pages, where the writing had devolved to the point that it could only be described as pointy scribbles that someone had the decency to at least write on the lines.
As she was about to look at the final page, a faint chill on the back of her neck froze her hands in place
Something instinctual, almost primal, at the very depth of her soul was telling her that what awaited her on the next page was not something she should see,
She had tried to pull her hand away—to listen to that feeling and flee from whatever texts were written on the next page.
But just as she was pulling away, a sudden thought came to her mind: 'Why am I so afraid of words that I can't even understand?'
That single, rational thought drove away the fear in her heart, and she moved her hand to pull out the final page… Only to be met with an even stranger sight.
On this page, the scribbles that were meant to resemble words ended on the third line, and from there, it only devolved into the same, three-stroke symbol filling the rest of the page.
Unable to understand what she was seeing, she turned the page over in hopes of ginning any understanding into what had caused that intense reaction earlier, only to find that it was also filled with the same symbol.
But on this side, they only continued until halfway through the page before ending in scratchy lines that sketched out what looked like three—
Ỵ̵̻̇o̷͈̻̙͔̩͇͍̺̫̮͌̿̏̈́̈͜ư̴̘̭̥̈́͛́͌̔͐̅ ̸͚̳̄͌̾ą̶̨̢̻̰̭͎̞̖̎̍̓̌̍̏ͅr̴͖͇̦̰̪̻̠͐̈̿̇̉̃͆̇͒͘͠ͅe̵͇͕̍̋̓̇͂̑̓̊̄̀ ̶͉͎̼̦̑̒̾̏͑͌̍͑͊̕͜ņ̷̟͙̲̫̰̠̻̿̈̅̄͆̈͘͠o̴̡̧̜͉͚̭̗̯̠͌̈́͆̽̈́̾͂t̴̬̜̬̮̗̼͙͆̈́̓͆̃̆̽͘͜͝͝ ̵̢̙̦̠̬̻̣̭̩̒͋̈́̒̃̆̓̔͛̾͝q̵̛̦͎̜͈̃̀͘͘ứ̴̢̨̡̪̺̞̙͍̔̐̒̈͆̄a̷̠̬͙͓͕̾̀̊̿ͅl̶̙̪͙̝̠̩͓̺̯͒̊i̵̡̪̹̻̹̻͂͜͜f̵͔͎̤͓̝͉̭́͆̚͝ĩ̴̮͉e̴͇̳̣̳̹͗͒̈́͆͌̓͝͝d̶͙̳̜̲̥͚̹̼͈̞̒͛.̵͈́̑̃̆ ̷̢͕̥̖͎̱̖͚̗̻̐̀̆̔̿͆͜I̸̡͖̘̦͎̺̽̈́͘͠ͅn̴̡͍͙̥̦̙̱̘͉̟͙̒͑̉̌̒͝s̸̡̛͎͕̼͌̌̔͠ǫ̷̨̢̤̯̘͇̀͂̍̑͆͗̋̂͝ĺ̵̩̹͑͋́͐ė̵̡̦̜̻̖͙̗̌̃̎̇̋̓͂͘͠n̵̹͇͚͕̺̥̮̳͚̬̼͆̔t̴̰̘͈͉̬̦̍̈́̾͑̓̐̽͌͜ ̵̜͚̈́͒̄͋̎̿̈́̑͝͝͠m̶̡̡̞͖̳͓͔̤͎͕̎͛̋͐̾̌͐̓̈́̎͝ͅö̶̪͔͔̮̦̦͇͕͚́͊͛̓̈́̋̅̔̌͝ř̷̢͙̞̰̠̞̞̘͒͗̏̚ͅt̸͈̩͈̮̞̬̱̰̓̿̄̾̀͑̑̈́̚a̷̡͍̤̩̞̮̠͖̥̓̾͜͝l̷͍͚͔͉͌͛̐̕.̴͉̮̈́͛̋͑̏̓̈̀͠ ̶̖̯̗̱̙̀̉̕͝W̷̢̳͈̭͍͔̩̺̻̜͗͒̉̀͂̒́̚͝͠h̶̤͊̚ę̵͖͎͕͍͓̫͎̯͒̇̍͜r̴̗̹̙͛̐̌ę̵̨̥̥͎͍͗̍̃̔͗͒̉̀́̕ ̵̹͚̣̞̙̜̙͈̬̉̾́̀̐͒͛́̕͜͠i̸̛̜̥̤̩͇͊͒̉͜s̶̢̨̺̟͓̱̞̳͙͒̈́̀̀̿̓͗̔ ̵̧̦̙͖̤͎̥̝͙̟̓̌̒̚t̵̨͉̣̹̫̮̠͉̩̒̇̿͋͂̈́͗̿͜͠͝ḫ̶͚̰̰̀̃̓̈́͑͗̃͘͝e̸̩̼̽̆̂̑̚ ̶̦͍̦͚̦̹̗͕̹̳̹̍̈́̎͘̚͠k̷̯͔͕̞͔̖̪̯̻͎̿́́͐́̕i̷̬̦̹͚̖̔͗͝n̶̲͚̰̙̱͑̄̒͊̎͆̓̆͝g̷̭̝͚͐͝?̵̧͉̠̩̬̼̻̫̭̪͗̀̍̏̆̿̓̕ͅ ̶̡̡̭̳̹̩̑͊̃̄̇͆͊͌͘͝͝ͅH̷̢̪͎͌̋̄͝͝ę̸̢̧̹̻͔̗͆̄̎̍̑̀͗̃ ̸͉̓͋́̽̌̌w̸͎̬̫͚̦͗͑͝ḩ̴̡̢̛̘̦̮̗̪̟̖̍̓̀͊͘ǫ̵̳͉͇̲̱̺̩̬̯̐̃̀̒̍͗́̚ ̶̡̧̗̲̱̲͖̹͓̃̌̀́͌̿͆̕͝͝b̵̲̹̬̘̄̍̈́̈̈́͒̌̕̚͝ẽ̴̩̫̫̥̗̎̆̔͗͠ͅǹ̶̛͎̙̥͕̱̬̺͖͉̓̈̇̆̉̄͝d̸͉̉́͛͂̈͛s̷̡͚͚͙̣͊̓̃̽̄̍̾͠ ̵̧̧̡͔͓͔̰̰͋̿͗̈́͐̐̚͠ť̶̙̜̭̞̘̘̇́̑͜ẖ̶̪̗̲̟̻̪̗͖̀̾͋̐̏e̶̯͔͑̏͌̐̑͌̑̈́̐ ̵̬̬̝̣̞̭̬̟̅̇̚w̶͓̝͈̼͇̅õ̵̡͔̭͓͕̙͓̥͇͋̌͠ř̶̡̰̭̼̲̣l̸̢̨̻̣̰̮̘̥̽̒͋͋͋͂̈́͛̀͂͐d̷̳͓̀̒̄͑ś̵̡̡̩̙̹̯̮̰̹̌̚ ̷̛̺̟̪̱̯̻̻͖͍͇̹̀͛̕w̷̨͕͖̗̦̝͆̈̄͐̈̔͆̒į̸̟͚̩͕͖͔̺̰̼̱̓̀̃͐̋̓͑̍͝ḻ̷̝́l̵̺͙̝̠̺̹̂̈́.̵͚̟͎̪̀̕ ̴̤͈̦̗̱͇̱̗̱͛̏͐͆̊͂͛̈́͝T̸̪̰̬̥̟͓̻̥͉́̂h̴͚̞̪̳̰̖̼̮͈̰̔̆̈́͒͑̌͜͝a̷̰̲̩̮̫͛̇͒́t̵̖͙̺̫̞͚͕̋͊̚ ̷̛̦̟͇̯͔̹̙̜̍̽̿̐̈ì̵̡̜̤̝̤s̷̛̝͇͇͈̻̠͇̩̐́̔̄̎̐̑͌̌̚ͅ ̶̢̢̨̳͓̙̩̟͕̔̽͊̒̈̀̕͘n̷̩̞̚ö̸̗͎̜̺͖́̓͛̌̿̀t̴̡̜͈̲͍̞̟̘͔̞̦̊̌ ̵͇̗͎̫̫͖͚͐͗͐̊͗y̴̦̒́̌̾̈́͠͝͝ȯ̴̧̪͔̣͕̟̻̬̽̓̂̃̾͘͝u̶̡̨̱̅͑͑̀͒̃.̵̺̊̇̔̿͂̊͌̽͝ ̸͕͉͛̐̇̈́͛̽̑͜͝ͅS̷̛̼̬̲̣̜̉͂̉̏u̵͕͔͕͖̗͚̒͘͝ͅͅf̵̺͖̔̊̄f̸̥̎̀̄ë̸͇̤̳̯̿͌̏͊͝r̸̡̘̦̮̤̳͇̟͇̓̋͗̀͜͝ͅ ̸̨̮̠̣̘̥̰͌̀̈́̈́a̴̡̨̖̺̘̹̟̩̫͆̍̅̂̈́̃̃̔͘͜ṡ̴͚͉̰͍̮̞̙̞͉͒̄̂͛̅̔̄ͅ ̷̦͔͈̬̍̿̏̓̋̎̔̀͌r̷͕̯̣̟̩̿͛̈̌̚ͅͅȩ̷͙̩̺̑́̅͒͋́̉̕ͅc̷̢͇͖̫͙̪̞̣̺̣̅̀o̸̭͠m̵̺̩͚̫̳̽̾͗̆̏͜p̵͕̥̲̟̦̮̲̙̝̂̒̔́͛̃̇͘͝ē̵̡̘̻͈̭̘̲͍͋̀͂̊̓̚ń̴̘͖̬͖̒̂͂͒͘s̶̢̲̤̬̯̝͓̘̪̍ͅȩ̷̨̢̛̥̝̻̎̈́̄͆ ̶̧̙͔̰̈̃͒f̶̢͙̉͛̈́̀͘õ̶̧̺͖̟̱̝̓ř̸̡̢̡̧̢̹̬͓̞̦͊̍͌̍̆̀̒ ̷̨̱͎͔͕͕͈͓̱̬̑̐̓̉̋̽̚ͅý̷͈̯̼͝͝õ̶͎̪̯̥̹̦̠̩͒͑̓ư̴̧͖̞͉̖͆̈́̐̎͐̀̊̑̕̚r̴͙͓̼̪͕̬̳̩̹̹̓̇̆́̐ ̷̡̡͚͍̼͔̺̖͕̻̋̎̃̓́̀͠͝ş̶̝̼̳̖̺͙̤̠̂̾̌̉̀̎͝i̴͚̼̮̳̗͚̤͈̺̾̏́̅̈́̍̋̂̍̓̐͜ņ̷͖̱̜̦̦̗̞͌̑̅́̈̾́̃.̸͚̗̙͙͕̠̒͌̏̓͒̊̄͑͘͘
As that image was registered in her mind, a deep, abysmal sound echoed through the very depths of her soul.
'This is it', she realised. The thing that warned her to turn back—to save herself—but now it was already too late.
The moment she had trusted her rationality over [Its] warning her fate was already sealed.
So, whatever awaited her now was a consequence of her own making.
A single tear streamed down her face as the weight of it finally sank in.
Her strength left her all at once, her body going slack as something unseen took hold.
And the last thing she heard were those words—spoken not to her ears, but to something far deep.
B̸̢̡̡̯͉̭̬̱̖̱̳̭͓̝̪̻͕̂̍̾̓̆̀̾̽͆̀̽͛̆̏̚͜͠ę̵̨̛͎̤͕̰̥̊̊͑͝ͅn̶̳̪͉͕͙̼̠̙̟͍͉͚̻͙̝̠̫̣̟̘̰̗͙͐͆͗̀̓̉̿̑̄̂͆̓͗̇̈́̀͜͠ͅê̵̡̢̢̧̛̛̘̥͓͈̼̮͈̣̤͔͚̩̮̖̼͓̩̮̅͂͘͜ȧ̴̡̛̞̲͍̩͕͓̝͈̺̞̃̇̇̏̈͑͌̈́̀̈́́̃̄̀͒̈́̾͒͗̈͌t̸̙͕̰͖̬̘̜̘̳͖͈̋͌͛̿͋̾̇͑̕ͅḩ̶̨̧̙̤͈̫̯̦̫̳͕̲̯̼͕̥̫̲̈́̂͒̊̀́͒̕̚̕͜͠͠ ̸̡̬̞̫̲̳͌͑̎͌̐͆̅̐̕t̶̹̰̻̦͓͚̲͇̳̞̖͈̳̦̣̜͆̋̉̂̿͜h̴̬̮̙̥̾̂͊̉̄͐͂̾̀́̂̌̌̔͒̂̒͂͐̈̓͛͋̑̂ę̷̛̳̙̻͎͕̖̱̠͖̗̤̭̼͓͎̌̂͑̈́̊̃̓̍̒̄̐͛̓̏̀̚̚̚͜͝ ̸̡̡͈̘̙̝͕͇̻̟̞̩͉̪͎̘̰̹͍̩́̀̈̓͂͑̔͌̾́̈́̎̎̿̿̽͋͐̔̎̕̚͜͜͠͝i̸͓͔̮͇̙͍̻͎̤̲̳͂̈́̆̀͂͌̇͠n̶̤͉̞̟̈̂͗̍̾̎́̏̅̾͘̕v̴̢̡̟̼̱̩͕̬̦̰̻͈̔̅͛̓̏̌̄̍̐̓̈́̈́̆͒̽͂̒̿̽̈́͗͗̎ͅͅę̵̨͖̰̟͎̦͎̜͓͈̥̯͔̰̦̏͒̾̽̈́̈́̈́̎̾̕͝ͅr̸̨̠̞̮͙͚̜͔̫̮͉̬͔̖͉͕̞͓̼̻͙̺̥̮̀͗̄̽̄̇̋̄͋̂̈́͊̎̋̔́̊̕͜͝͠͝͝t̶̢̰̘̘̥̜̙̱̟͕̊͒̇̑͑̐̎͒͒̄̊͋͝e̸̡̧̢̙͎̟̱͈͓͌͜͝͝ḑ̵̢̧̢̛͔͚̼̣̬̪͚̬̋̔̃̈́̍̂̊́͋͘͝͠͝͠ ̴̡̞̫͓͓̠̟͉͎̦̬͚͓͇̻̲̖̰͕̖̣̳̠̭̉̊̅̊̐̚̕ͅs̷̰̘̟̰̻̪͈̬̱͚̎̀̎͋̑͛̓̓̿̽̉͊̿̏̉̄̈́́͆͋̊͘͝͝͝ư̸̢̨̡̢͚͓̺͖͈̲̜͔̼͕̳̣̺̟̮͙̱͙̙͐̌̿̂̓̈́͂͑̅̂̈̕̚̕̚͝n̵̡̡͕̭̬̞̻̜͕̜̤̫̫̣̯̤̳̤̗̟̙̐̀͗̃͘ ̵̧̛̫̻̩̩̞͚̬͙̤̜̀̏͛͑̑͐̑̊̔͆́̚͜à̶̧̧̱͓͍͇͔̲͇̳̫̬̟̤͈͙̗̘͊̿̃͛̾̌̀̇̽̐̍̌̏̍̅̔̊͘͘͝͝͠ņ̵͙̲̻̠͓̙̜͈̩̞͚̳̫̳̮̭̳̬͈̦̳̐͛̔̓̄̑͌̾́̊̿̾̈́͒̌̽͑͛͂͋̊̕̕d̵̡̢̹̖̝̫̯̙͇͙̣͎͖͙͓̦̙̦̭̥̅̾̽̿͆̄̂̕͜ ̶̨̨̮̭̜̳̯̼̪̠̝̜̞̣͚̮̝͇̦̝̻̰̊͋̏̎͑̿̐̒̆̉̓͗̃͗̍͒̈̒̊͒͛̐̇͠͝t̸̢̡̛̝̠͓̥̰͖̲̤͇̹̭̙̱̜̳͂̇̎̈̎̽̍̓͑͜͜͠͝ͅh̵̡̢̬̥͈̖͉̝̟̣͙̲̖͓̥̬̳̮͐͜͜ͅr̴̨̨̠̖͔͉̟̭̥̬̫͗͜͜͜ę̸̡̯͖͖͕̹̰̙̪̲͙̣̠̻̝̰̭̠̩̟͑̉͊̇̃̊̎͌̀̔͒̍̃̕͜͝ë̸͍̘̺̔̄͆̈́͊͊̇͌̈́̓͒̒̊̕͘͠ ̴̨̺̘̖̩̭͍͕͓̬͙͙̪̭͈̭̥͕́m̶̧̧̨̨̛͖̦̹͙̗͖̓͊̑̈́͛͋͑̈̈́̑̇̐̌͑̋̒͆̚ͅọ̸̢̱̰̦̳̥̞͆̄̐̂̅̈́͆͂̂͆̔͂̉͒͒̂́͘ȏ̷̡͍̬͖̣̤̩͓̝̟̪͇͔̯͚̮͕̖͈͈̱̙̞̫̏̓́̽̄̂̕n̶̬̝͇̘̙̘̜̤̤̥̤͓͛͑̓̉͊̈́̑͐̏̏̈́͂̓͛͝͝ŝ̷̨̡̨̗͍͔̳̻̙͓̰͚̤͚͍͔͇̺͖̮̙̮̺̈́͊̇̌̏̓͊̾̎̎̃̓͌̀̂̓͆̚͜.̵͇͍̜̺̪̰̖͚͚̜̞̠̜͔̮̗̀ͅͅ ̴̧̢̨̧̛̱̮̪̦̖̮͓̻͙̳̝̠͚̼͖̬͕̞͛͒̋͑̾͛̂͑̌̃̐̈́̍̑͘͝E̸̗̟̼͈̗͙̞̺̬̳͐̿͛̈̊͗̆ī̴̭̥̦͍̤̂́̏̈́̿͑͆̎̀̀͛́̒͆͐̾̾͝͠g̴̛̘̜͕̗̟̜̳̲̾͒̐͆̍̿̄̽̊̔̕͜ḩ̵̘̣̗̈́̂̎̽̅̂͐̃̋̋̊̋̇̃̕͘͘͘̚̚t̷͖͙͚̭͚̮͉͕͎̖̥̹̮́̈͗͐̊͗͑̇̽́͛̿̒̒͊́͒̈́͆͘͘̕̕͜͝͠ ̶̡̡̢̛̛̜͖̦̭͉̣̹̦̲̍̾̋͗̉̉̀͑̑̿̇͛̒̈́́̈́̊͝͝͝͠͝č̴̡͙̭̜͇̭̤͓̭͚̖͈̘͖̭͈̄͜͝ͅṛ̸̨̦͓͎͖̬̗͍͇͕͔̊͛͌̑̿̀̃̇̃̽͗́̕͜͝͠ͅó̶͕̫̰̰̮̭̹̥͕̾́͒̆̀͑̒͆̇̄̉͌̈́̎̅̕͜w̸̢̧̡̥͙͉̼͙͕͍̬̩̯̣̞̪̟͎͋̏̀̇͗̒̂̃̇̈́̈́͛̽̉͘̕̚͝͝n̶͔̗̫̣̾̓͗͑̾͠s̷̛͕̾̀̏͋̏̌͋̓͐̈̇̚͘͠.̶̫̗͂͑̋̓̀͐ ̷̡̘̟̙͇͖̹̯͕̼̫̟̬̰̉͊͑̈́́̊̓̈́̅͆͑͘Ở̵̧̛̠͓̝̥̭͓̻̰͔̝̎̒͋̇̏̾̉̇͜͠n̸̯̤̙͍̞͇̲̎̓͒̏̅́̕͝e̴͉͈̩̞̳̯̦̺͉̺̾͛̍̆̈͐̓͊̈́̂͛͒͝͝ ̷̨͉͕͎̤̣̆́̑́͆͠ẗ̸̨̧̧͉̭͉̮̫̣͓̬̭͇́̾̏͒͊̃̋̐͜͝ͅͅḩ̸̢̗̖͇̣̳͓̱͚̥̀̐̀͗̒̀̅̿̈́̏͘̚͘͝r̷̡̨̺͓̪̱̺̟͖̤̹̼̟͔̓̒̓̑̓̀̏̆͊͊͊̀̎̌̓̄̕̕͝ͅǫ̵̖̗̦̞̬̹̻̩̩̰͊̂͌͊̎̽̈̾n̶̢̫͔̝̠̹͍̬̱̺̦̺̰͚̝̤̪̥̱̺̰͉̻̑̀͒̒̈́̅e̸̜̘͇̣̥̭͎̟̞̯̞̮̼͆͆̓̋̿̎͒͛͗̽́̃̎̊͛̕̚̕.̴̧̲͕̝̱̩̱̹̙̮̖̙͔͇͇̖̫̖̹̻̥͐́̿́͒͆̕̕ͅ ̶̧̛̬̭̟̠̥̗̝̣͚̗͖͇̼͎̠̭͔̍̓̂̔̅́̃͗̎̏̽̏͋̒̃̊̏̏̃̇̾͘ͅ
Juliet could not tell how she knew, but there was a shift in its tone—an almost childlike glee.
One utterly unbefitting for the being she was being drawn into.