Dark truths pulse at the edge of understanding.
Kynar lies sprawled across the cold cell floor, his gaze fixed on the void above. Pinpricks of vermillion light blink in and out of existence where the invisible ceiling ends—the Balah.
Trapped in a box-shaped cage.
His breath is unlabored. His pale skin, unbroken. And yet, he is injured—poisoned by an illness that stains his Zarath with patches of midnight corruption. Torment presses against his mind, a discordant symphony that sets his teeth on edge.
It—the pain—the song speaks of emptiness, of spaces between spaces where something ancient dwells.
The metallic wall of his prison ripples.
Kynar sits up, his torq rattling against his throat. Defunct. Bound.
The wall dissolves, its geometric patterns folding inward like intricate wings. Titus Ragnos steps through, his platinum hair aflame with flickering light. The air hums faintly, charged with the weight of his presence—repelled, perhaps, by the authority he exudes.
"Titus," Kynar greets, standing. A kennel of joy kindles at the sight of his old friend, but it sputters then dies under the wrath that burns in the Dularch's gaze. "What's wrong?"
Titus's expression hardens. "What's wrong?"
"Yes," Kynar replies, tilting his head. "I've rarely seen your face marred by such contentiousness."
"Where are we?"
"What? I don't—"
"Where do we stand?" Titus gestures around him.
Kynar blinks, his gaze drifting to the walls and the Balah above—the pinprick universes blooming and dying in their endless cycle. Horror claws at his thoughts as realization dawns.
The Necropolis.
The city of ruin beneath Malkiel, where the most damned criminals are held. Kynar takes a halting step back. Shame girdles his breast.
Titus's voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts. "You tried to murder me," he says, cold and measured. "Why?"
No. No. No.
Kynar's back presses against the wall. His breath catches.
He tries to focus on Titus's face, but his vision blurs.
Something within shatters, and memories burst through like jagged shards: clouds torn apart by his Vritraha's passage; energy cannons charging, their glass muzzles warping reality; screams swallowed by the splintering of light and shadow.
Titus's lips move, but Kynar cannot hear the words.
The only sound is the mewling of something alien—the song rising from the depths of his mind. It has been there all along, whispering, cooing, and now it surges.
The melody consumes him, filling his skull with impossible harmonies—notes that should not exist. His legs buckle, and he crashes to the floor, his body spasming. The inner corruption spreads, dark spots stretching across a living thread.
"Forgive me, my Qilin," Kynar whispers. He blinks back tears, his gaze fixed on the swirling Balah. "It is only now I understand. Once, you spoke to me about the box. Do you remember?"
Titus steps closer, his expression unreadable, his voice steady. "I remember."
"You said we are all born and die in a box." A hollow chuckle slips from Kynar's lips, ragged and uneven. "For us Malkielites, our box is a cube. A hyper-dimensional cube, but a box nonetheless."
Titus's voice sharpens. "What does this have to do with anything?"
Kynar's laugh builds, unsteady and bitter. "Tradition. History. These are our walls—the bars of our gilded cage. Honor. Duty. Merely the locks that keep us confined."
Titus tilts his head, a flicker of something—confusion, perhaps curiosity—crossing his gaze.
Tears spill freely now as Kynar's laugh shifts into something darker, wilder. "You think me mad, don't you, cousin? I see it in your eyes. But you're wrong. Madness is what optimates fear. We are Eidolons—things even the Hells cannot touch."
Titus's voice hardens. "Is it not madness to repeat truths already known? To drape yourself in riddles as if they are revelations?"
Kynar's tone drops, soft and dangerous. "You don't understand, Titus. I stand outside. Outside the box." He takes a halting step forward. "You once asked me to fathom what that would mean. And now I am your answer, made flesh."
Titus's breath catches, a faint crack in his controlled exterior. He turns sharply, his back to Kynar, his shoulders rigid.
"I am the Autarch!" Kynar's voice rises, a crescendo of defiance and despair. "I am the Nihil!"
Titus does not look back, but his steps falter as he nears the dissolving doorway. The faint hum of the Balah grows louder, lashing air like wild and murderous winds, drowning the moment in its bizarre rhythm.
Kynar stares after him, trembling, straining against a sense of overwhelming pleasure.
As the walls ripple closed behind Titus, Kynar's voice cuts through the rising hum, a broken canticle.
"Prepare yourself, my Qilin. Doom approaches."