That night was heavy with the scent of iron and rain.
Jack's workshop, once bright with the sound of chisels and laughter, now sat in eerie silence. Shadows pulsed against the stone walls like living things, drawn toward the dim orange glow of the cauldron at the room's center. The air shimmered faintly with something ancient and wrong.
Jack's hands moved on their own. His eyes usually so full of warmth were glassy, lifeless, reflecting the swirling, black-red liquid that boiled before him. His lips murmured words he did not know, syllables from a forgotten age that clawed at the edges of existence itself.
Humaia slept back in the mansion, unaware that her husband's soul was being unwoven thread by thread.
Behind him, the sound of soft laughter slithered through the air. A woman's voice, honeyed and poisonous. From the darkness stepped out—Rhea Scourge, or perhaps, Ghira, before the world came to know her as a legend of ruin. Her eyes gleamed like liquid mercury; her body draped in cloth that seemed spun from moonlight and shadow. She moved with the grace of temptation itself.
"Sweet Jack," she whispered, tracing a finger along his jaw, "you always had the hands of a creator. Let me show you what they can truly make."
He tried to speak—tried to resist but her presence seeped into his thoughts like ink into water. A parasite wearing beauty as a veil. She leaned close, pressing her lips near his ear. "Just one creation…. one masterpiece, for me."
The cauldron hissed, the liquid turned darker, denser like the blood of gods. Symbols formed in the steam above it, twisting and reshaping, whispering.
Ghira smiled, her expression shifting for just a moment. Something else flickering behind her eyes. A deeper consciousness, vast and alien, puppeteering even her. The parasite had been parasited.
The truth was ghastly and silent, unfolded in the room: Ghira herself was under control. A fragment of a far older being, feeding on her will, whispering desires she believed were hers.
The cauldron overflowed. The black liquid spilled onto the floor, burning through stone. Jack's body convulsed; his veins glowed like molten glass.
....
The day arrived like any other festival in Dael Kayef. Bright silk banners danced in the wind, golden ribbons twisted through the streets, and laughter filled the air. The scent of roasted fruit and sweet breads clung to the breeze.
But Humaia noticed something strange in Jack lately. He was distant, gestures slower, smile forced. The night before, he had asked her in a voice not entirely his own,
"You love me, don't you? You'd do anything for me… anything I ask?"
She had laughed it off then, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Of course, my foolish baker. You know I would."
He had only stared at her for a long time, as if trying to remember the meaning of the word love.
Now, in the grand square, crowds gathered. Musicians played the royal anthem; petals rained from the towers above.
The Emperor himself was present, though age had dimmed his once-mighty frame. Beside him, Humaia stood radiant, though her eyes often wandered toward the stage where Jack performed with the festival troupe.
He was dressed as a hero from the old myths, armor of painted leather, a wooden sword glowing faintly with candlelight. There was something off about him. The audience didn't notice. Only she did.
The performance began. An act of love and betrayal, the hero slaying the demon who took his beloved. Jack's movements were perfect, too perfect, as if someone else were pulling the strings. His voice sounded unnaturally, deeper, heavier, almost divine.
"To love," he said on stage, "is to destroy. To give your soul…. and then tear it away."
The crowd cheered, thinking it part of the act.
Humaia was shoved in a well of thoughts. Her chest tightened. That wasn't in the script.
The Emperor leaned forward, uneasy, but before he could speak, Jack turned toward the royal dais. His eyes met Humaia's.
"Would you still do everything for me?" he asked again and his voice so quiet only she could hear.
In the middle of the festival's laughter, the music faltered.
The torches dimmed.
And from Jack's shadow on the stage floor… something began to crawl out.
In the heart of the Shombhasa Empire, the capital's spires gleamed under the Ocean — polished stone towers reaching so high they disappeared into the haze.
Emperor Wactj sat in his throne room, the weight of conquest pressing upon his shoulders. The water itself seemed charged, the smell of molten metal and gunpowder drifting faintly from the underground forges.
Across the samd floor stood his wife, Empress Ghira, her eyes calm but burning with something dangerous, something he had long feared would one day surface. She had come again, dressed in dark velvet, her presence alone commanding silence from every guard in the hall.
"You're planning another assault," she said quietly. "Dael Kayef will not fall to those cheap tricks, Wactj. I've told you before!"
Wactj cut her off with a voice like thunder.
"Enough! I forbid you from taking any action. You will not interfere with this war. I will handle everything."
Her golden eyes narrowed.
"Handle? You mean destroy?"
He rose from his throne. His crown caught the dim light as he stepped down from the dais, his heavy robes dragging like shadow.
"You don't understand. This isn't a battle of men anymore. It's a war of annihilation and we will be the one who writes the end of their history."
Below the palace, in the empire's hidden foundries, his engineers were working day and night laboring over something beyond mortal comprehension. "Project Solis Void." Each weapon was a small sphere, barely the size of a heart, yet capable of birthing a supernova when unleashed. The Emperor called them "stars of judgment." They didn't explode — they erased any substance.
Ghira watched him with silent fury, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her velvet. She had her own secrets, her own powers. But for now, she obeyed or seemed to.
Meanwhile, in the Dael Kayef Empire, Emperor Hamish Kha stood on the balcony of his worn citadel. His once-glorious banners hung faded by sun and war. He had received reports, whispers of a weapon that could erase kingdoms in the blink of an eye.
He knew his time was running short.
That evening, he gave an order that surprised his entire court. The war council expected preparations, strategies, speeches of vengeance. Instead, he told them to prepare a feast.
"If my world must fall too soon," he said, "let us taste wine and laughter one last time."
Night had fallen soft and golden across Dael Kayef, the light of a broken moon trembling over the ripples of the great river.
Fireflies — Jonaki, as the locals called them, floated gently through the trees, their glow like falling stars caught in branches. The forest hummed with quiet music.
Jack and Humaia sat by the riverside, bare feet in the cool current. She wore a white silk robe, her hair tied loose, the wind carrying its ends over Jack's shoulder. He was carving something small from a piece of wood, a pendant in the shape of a rose.
"You're carving again," she smiled softly. "You've been doing that since morning."
Jack grinned, eyes reflecting the moonlight.
"When I make something with my hands, it feels like I still have control over this world. Like I can shape something good out of it."
"You already have," she said, resting her hand on her stomach, the child within her a living secret of love.
The war, the politics, the darkness calling through the city, all of it disappeared. There were only two people, a river, and a thousand fireflies glowing silently.
"Promise me something," Jack said suddenly, setting the carving down. "If anything happens to me, if I'm gone, don't let them make you hate this world."
Humaia frowned.
"Why would you say something like that?"
"Just promise."
"….I promise," she whispered, though her voice trembled.
They sat quietly again, shoulder to shoulder, the sky above scattered with stars.
The moonlight shimmered through her eyes as she looked at him, unaware that this moment, their laughter, their quiet would soon become a wound she'd never heal from.
Hours later, the riverside was silent. The Jonaki were gone. Clouds smothered the moon.
At dawn, soldiers found Jack's body floating near the river bend. His throat was cut, deep and cruel. His hands were stiff, his eyes open as if still searching for something beyond death. The blood had stained the water dark red, spreading into the reeds.
When the news reached Humaia, she didn't scream. She didn't move. She just stood there, hand on her stomach, the same hand that had rested in his days ago. Her lips parted once, as if to say his name, but no sound came.
The entire palace mourned. The Emperor arranged a quiet funeral, attended by nobles and workers alike the commoner who became part of the royal family was now nothing more than burnt papers under a gray sky.
The pyre burned for hours. Humaia knelt in front of it, her were eyes empty, her face pale and dry. She didn't shed a tear until the fire was gone, until nothing but ash remained. Then, she whispered his name, and the first drop fell, a tear that carried everything she'd been holding back.
That night, her nightmares began.
In her sleep, she saw him standing at the river again, but his body was covered in black liquid. His face was gone, just a blank, hollow shape. He would reach out his hand, whispering words she couldn't understand. And then, the scene would betray. She would feel something crawling beneath her skin.
In one dream, something cold tore open her stomach and reached inside, pulling out her unborn child. In another, she was standing in her garden, surrounded by fire, the flowers screaming as they wilted into ash.
Every night, she woke up gasping for breath, hand clutching her belly, whispering Jack's name as if that would keep her sanity intact. But the shadows grew scarier every time.
She stopped going outside. Her smile that used to light the palace halls vanished. The servants began to whisper that the Princess had gone mad with grief, that she spoke to someone invisible at night.