Another knock at the door.
"What-?" He boasted, though he cut himself short once he saw who was behind it.
Upon its opening, he was greeted with Elior.
His face was covered by nothing except shadow — the dim glow of the night from Nephyrs window scattering and fading across his face.
It provided just enough light to make out his expression, which was that of lingering death. He chose not to smile, only to have a straight face laced with hints of malice.
As he looked at him, the slight girl of his brow gave him chills. He clearly wasn't calm, yet he appeared that way. The mask was taking effect.
"Follow me," he commanded, voice low and firm.
Nephyr didn't respond — only nodded.
Stepping out of the room, his vision met with the shadowy hall, once again reformed into a grim, demonic appearance. The smoke from the long-extinguished sconces lingered in the air, smoke masking his vision as he followed Elior.
Reaching the main tavern room, which lingered with the scent of roasting food Nephyr took no part in consuming, the cryptic appearance of seeing it without any form of lighting struck him as odd. Elior crept his way around the counter, passing a side glance towards Nephyr as they walked.
Much to his surprise, there appeared to be a door behind the counter. Previously masked by a partially ripped white cloth draping from atop the frame, it now towered menacingly over the boy. Its wooden covering appeared ancient in nature, resembling a construct that hadn't been touched in a millenia.
With a hefty push, the man knocked the entire paneling back before sliding it to the side. He gripped a small golden tray, lighting a small candle which sat quietly atop. Through the whisps of its flame, it revealed a descending staircase through the darkness.
"Come now," Elior murmured, voice slightly muffled from him covering his mouth with a small handkerchief, "Don't delay much longer."
As he stepped further in, the dust coating the stairs shot up with disturbing fury. Nephyr was cautious to follow, words being reminded of what Patches had mentioned only moments before.
'It's up to you if you want the same fate. If you feel like you don't, then don't go to the basement. No matter what."
While he didn't know the true meaning behind her words, he knew he couldn't stop now. He was determined to live. To regain his lost life.
As they reached the bottom, the room was so dark he could barely see his own arm stretched out before him.
The man, with the flick of a metallic switch followed by a crunch of a hidden mechanism, gave a slight smile.
Surrounding the walls of the room, sconces of light started to burn, one by one. The room was circular — made only of rock and steel. Many etchings were engraved into the walls, all in a language unfamiliar to the boy.
Composing towards the center was an altar. Still too dark to see, he failed to make out any notable features.
The man stepped towards the boy, candle held high up to his face. He raised two fingers, swirling them around in a circle before clenching his fist — so tight you could hear the bones in his hand begin to creak.
And as if on command, Nephyr collapsed.
Elior raised a glass pendant tied to his neck — an ornate glass jewel shining in its center. Rising from the boy's mouth was a stream of golden light, resembling that of the shimmer of gold, twinkling through the dark room and being absorbed straight into the pendant.
The jewel, previously dark and lifeless, soon began to glow the same color, pairing with the one of green right beside it. There were two necklaces.
Nephyr could only watch as the man lifted his limp body, not even being able to move or blink his eyes. By the time he was placed on the altar, they began to burn an undesirable pain.
And yet, with his back placed to the altar surface, he could tell it was for no ordinary purpose. He could feel not a flat platform, but rather several bars of what felt like metal against his cloth shirt, holding him up.
Then, without much more of a word, the man slit his wrist. The blood, tasting of iron and salt, drizzled into the boy's gaping mouth, slowly trailing its way down his throat and into his stomach.
As if feeling amused with himself, he gripped a small match, striking it against a small stone and tossing it beneath the boy.
And he began to burn.
Helpless — being completely unable to do anything but stare at the ceiling — he felt like he was being thrown into an active volcano.
Unfurled in the man's hand was the very set of willowtree cloth Nephyr gathered only moments prior. He didn't hesitate to toss it into the flame, making the stacks of fire billow up like the breath of a dragon.
By now, his entire body was consumed by flame. And yet, he wasn't dying.
The tips of his fingers began to glow a terrifying red, the rest of his body transitioning into a heartless pink. The tips of his hair bleached into a solitary white, eventually spreading all the way down to the roots of his head.
The only thing which remained uniquely himself was his eyes — remaining a striking orange, though now glowing with the intensity of a thousand fires.
It came to a point where his own body began to awaken from the state of immobility. His arms curled to his head, eyes grew bloodshot. His mouth was hanging open, and from deep within came a blood-curdling scream.
The pain he felt was near insufferable. Comparable to dying millions of times over in the span of only a few minutes.
And yet, the man only gave a smile.
"Yes..." He spewed, a slight chuckle coming from deep within him, "This is perfect. You're perfect..."
His laughter turned maniacal, arms stretched to the ceiling in complete disbelief, "You will be the star of my life-! The star of my show! You are everything to me, you understand? You are the future-!"
The man cut himself off, briefly shaking his head before correcting himself. "No... you are Nephyr. You're my Nephyr."