The decay welcomed him home.
Seth landed in his realm with a low thrum rippling through the withered air — half confusion, half cruel satisfaction lingering on his lips. Fernir was gone. Erased. Unmade.
Yet the boy…
The boy's disappearance gnawed at him.
Nythrael stretched beneath his feet like a corpse too stubborn to stay dead — a realm trapped between decay and time. Here, moments didn't move forward; they rotted, collapsing into themselves with every breath.
The skies above were neither night nor day — a dim, bruised eternity where stars flickered like dying embers drowning slowly in tar.
The air reeked of rust, wet stone, and rain that never fell.
Mountains sagged beneath their own age, bones of fallen giants jutting out like fractured monuments.
Rivers halted mid-current — gray, thick as congealed glass, their waters frozen eternally in their last dying motion.
Every sound traveled like an exhausted memory.
Every whisper echoed centuries late.
A perfect throne for the God of Withering Time.
Seth walked forward, the chains on his arms rattling like dead tongues whispering prayers.
Two guards stood before the Citadel gates — half-decayed creatures molded in Seth's own image. Their skin sagged from bones on one side, the other side unnaturally preserved, eyes glazed and hollow as if stuck between life and erasure. When they saw him, both collapsed to their knees.
"Welcome home… Your Majesty…"
Their voices dragged like they were being spoken through water.
The gates groaned open — not because of machinery, but because the chains themselves moved. Each link embedded in the walls quivered, pulling apart with the shriek of dying metal.
The Citadel of Chains
It was no palace.
It was a cathedral-tomb.
A monolith wrestled from rusted time itself. Spires twisted upward like metal being forced to remember its birth. Black fire burned in cold braziers, their flames flickering without heat. The floor was petrified ash — crushed remains of forgotten gods made into stone.
And at its center…
The Throne of Silence.
A throne carved from fossilized hearts still faintly beating.
Seth's trophies.
Seth stepped inside — and the moment he crossed the threshold, every minister present rose at once, bowing so deeply their foreheads nearly kissed the stone.
Seth didn't acknowledge them.
He walked slowly — each step echoing as though the memory of the step arrived before the actual movement itself. Whispers brushed along the walls, faint, raspy:
help me…
end me…
your majesty…
Echoes of the last words of gods Seth had erased.
He ascended the throne.
One leg crossed over the other.
Hands resting on the fossilized hearts.
Head lowered, chin propped casually against his knuckles.
He stared into the void — deep in thought.
His wound stung sharply, a thin line burning across his cheek. Dried blood cracked along the cut. He touched it, irritation flaring.
"I still can't figure out how that boy disappeared…"
A slow, irritated exhale.
"Fucking strange…"
He kept staring blankly into nothing, lost in thought. Until—
"You. Come forward."
One of his ministers stiffened, fear rippling through his half-decayed frame. He hurried toward Seth, bowing again once he reached the first step of the throne.
"Yes, my lord?"
Seth leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to a near whisper — dangerous, low.
He narrated everything.
Every detail of the slaughter at Selanyth and Kaerion's land.
The chains.
The storm.
The rot.
The moment Aelior scratched him.
The moment the chains passed through the boy like mist.
And the moment the child vanished.
"…and that boy killed Fernir," Seth finished, lips curling. "But when I swung my chains, they passed through him — like he wasn't even there. He vanished. I know how it sounds, but you have to believe me."
The minister nodded quickly.
"Yes, Your Majesty. I—"
His eyes widened.
"Oh my… how did you get that cut?"
Seth froze for half a second — caught off guard.
His fingers traced the wound again, the pain stinging like a reminder he didn't want.
"Hm… I don't even know. But a sword — a flying sword — came at me at lightning speed and struck my face. Then vanished just like the boy."
The minister swallowed, horrified.
"A… sword? In the realm of gods?"
"I believe it belongs to the boy," Seth muttered. "Wherever the boy is… that sword has gone there. But that is not important right now."
His eyes sharpened.
"For now, I need rest. You need to find that boy."
The minister bowed so fast it nearly snapped his spine.
"Yes, your majesty!"
He scurried out, trembling.
The chamber dimmed as Seth leaned back, deep in thought, the whispers of fossilized hearts pulsing around him like dying prayers.
Meanwhile — in the Dungeon of Fragments
Dozens of creatures slithered forward, circling Aelior like vultures waiting for the pulse of death.
But something inside him had changed.
His fear melted—slowly—becoming something sharper.
Darker.
Alive.
He lifted the sword again. Its glow carved gold across his face.
"This," Aelior murmured, lips curling into a smirk, "is going to be fun."
"Yes, indeed."
Aelior jolted.
"WHO WAS THAT!?"
His heart hammered as he spun around. The creatures hissed, but none of them had spoken.
Then—
A louder voice, firm, urgent:
"DUCK!"
"What!?" Aelior yelped.
Rapid footsteps thundered behind him.
Instinct kicked in.
He ducked.
A massive creature lunged where his head had just been, crashing into the stone pillar with a deafening shriek.
"Phew— that was close…" Aelior breathed.
He turned—
And his blood froze.
Before him stood not dozens.
Not hundreds.
But thousands of creatures, layered in shadows, crawling, slithering, charging slowly toward him in a sea of gnashing teeth.
"Stay back!" he shouted.
They didn't.
"N-no, no… thi—this can't be happening…"
His voice cracked. His legs trembled. He backed away, breath collapsing in his chest.
And then—
"Master."
Aelior froze.
The sword spoke again — calm, focused, commanding.
"Take a big jump. Strike the ground with all your might."
"Huh?!"
"Just do it."
Aelior hesitated—
But the creatures didn't.
They charged — shrieking, stomping, claws scraping the stone.
He had no choice.
His heart pounded.
The sword glowed like a newborn star.
He bent his knees—
And jumped.
The air cracked around him.
And with all the strength he had—
He brought the sword down.
BOOM.
But it wasn't light.
It was darkness.
A shockwave erupted outward — thick, heavy, pitch-black — swallowing the dungeon whole. Shadows rippled out like liquid night, consuming creatures in an instant. Their screams died before they formed. Their bodies vanished as though unmade.
The darkness spread further — a devouring void, silent and absolute — leaving nothing behind but the echo of Aelior's breath.
And when the darkness cleared—
The dungeon had changed.
And Aelior was no longer alone.