Gilgamesh woke with a sharp gasp.
The breath he drew tasted of ash and salt, like the scent of old battles long buried.
His body was slick with sweat, golden hair clinging to his forehead, heart pounding as if it had fought a war without him.
He turned his head slowly. Arthuria lay beside him, her face turned toward him in sleep, her hair spread like moonlight across the pillow. Peaceful. Beautiful.
Untouched by the horror that had torn through his sleep.
Quietly, he slid from the bed and dressed. He moved like a ghost through their chambers, down the halls of the palace, until the living world faded—and another opened to him.
The mist of the underworld wrapped around his boots as he stepped across the invisible threshold.
She was waiting.
Ereshkigal.
Her dark veil shimmered with starlight and midnight winds, her gaze cool and ancient.
Her voice echoed in the emptiness.
"If my nephew weren't your son-in-law, I would've taken you prisoner for trespassing, Gilgamesh."
He didn't flinch.
"You know why I'm here," he said.
She raised a brow. "Do I?"
"You sent me the dream," he accused, stepping forward, gold-lined cloak trailing behind him.
But Ereshkigal simply turned away, shadows dancing at her heels.
"I am the Lady of the Dead," she said without turning back. "I don't send dreams."
He didn't hesitate.
"Every god has a purpose—and a pleasure. Your purpose is to ferry the dead. Your pleasure is to ease their pain… before they go."
That made her pause. Just long enough.
She finally looked back at him—and without another word, beckoned him to follow.
They traveled in silence, through ancient tunnels etched with the names of kings and queens long forgotten.
Down and down, beyond the known halls of death, until they reached a chamber cloaked in absolute silence.
Here, no soul had ever walked but Ereshkigal.
In the center of the room, she raised her spear—older than memory—and stabbed it into the obsidian floor.
The impact rippled outward.
And then the visions came.
Gilgamesh watched his life flicker before him in golden light.
A young king, wild and glorious.
Arthuria's laugh echoes down castle corridors.
A newborn Artizea, held in his arms for the first time.
Arthur, swinging a wooden sword, giggled as he bested him.
The whole family gathered—laughing, fighting, living.
A celebration. A coronation. The throne passed down.
His grandchildren, running beneath moonlight.
And then—
fire.
Screaming.
He saw Arthuria, broken and screaming, as blood soaked the palace floors.
Eugene, broken and battered against rubble.
Arthur and Artizea—, his fiercest—children
fallen in grief, breathless in the shadow of an empty throne.
Rhyssand takes the children as they scream their mother's name.
Elaine, her mouth parted in silent fear, was in his arms.
He fell to his knees, choking back a cry that threatened to tear the underworld apart.
"Why?" he rasped. "What did I do wrong?"
Ereshkigal stepped forward. Her eyes, for once, were full of something like pity.
"It is not for me to say."
"Then tell me something. Anything." His voice was raw. "Please. Not once have I asked a thing of a god. I am begging you."
She extended her hand.
A moment passed—and the ground shifted.
A forked path appeared in the stone beneath them, both roads coiling outward into nothingness.
"You have a choice before you, Gil."
One path was heavy with grief, but a peace waited at its end.
The other was empty. Lonely. But gilded in joy—brief, bright joy.
"Both carry pain," she said. "But one… leads to happiness."
He looked at both roads. At the future.
At everything, he was bound to lose.
"So there's still a chance?" he whispered. "Still time?"
"Everyone has a choice, Gil. But time… time waits for no one. Not even you."