The chamber doors yawned wider, the hinges groaning like an omen.
From within stepped a figure draped in white, its face smooth and blank, its skin pale enough to show the veins glowing faintly beneath. Threads of light dangled from its arms, twitching like the limbs of a puppet yet alive.
Rayon's strings trembled in the air—no longer his own, but pulled. Yanked. Stretched taut.
He clenched his fists, fighting the invisible pull, muscles straining. Impossible. Nothing controls me.
Yet his own fingers twitched against his will. His arm jerked like a marionette's.
Across from him, Alrik, the Whisperblade, had gone silent. His blade lowered, shadows recoiling from the chamber's glow. For the first time, the unflinching killer looked afraid.
"Don't you dare—" Alrik whispered, stepping back. His jaw tightened. "It's awake."
The hall below had gone quiet too. The nobles, still drunk and laughing moments ago, now sat frozen, heads turning toward the stairwell. They didn't see it. They didn't feel it.
But the Sentinels did.
Down below, Veyra, the Iron Saint, stood suddenly, silver gauntlets clenching. Sorin, the Pale Hunter, raised his bow without knowing what he was aiming at. The others bristled like wolves scenting a predator.
Rayon's breath slowed, eyes narrowing. If even the Sentinels are rattled… this thing isn't theirs either.
The faceless figure lifted its hand. A dozen threads of light uncoiled from its palm.
One lashed across the stairwell—crack!—shattering the stone banister as if it were rotten wood. Another coiled around Alrik's arm, yanking him off balance. The Whisperblade's blade dropped, clattering down the stairs.
And three threads latched onto Rayon's chest.
SHHK!
Rayon staggered back. His ribs ached. He could feel it, deep inside—like hooks tugging at his heartbeat, at his very will. His hollow eyes burned.
"…You're not pulling me," he hissed through gritted teeth.
He yanked his own strings, counter-tension, raw force against force. The threads of light sparked where they tangled with his Hollow Strings. The stairwell flickered with glowing lines like a web of fire.
Alrik scrambled back, whispering curses.
Rayon didn't retreat. He stepped forward. Every pull against him made his fury rise sharper.
If it pulls strings, then it's like me.
And if it's like me—
—I'll cut it, or I'll learn from it.
The faceless figure tilted its head, as if studying him. Its hand twitched—sudden, violent—and a flood of memories not his own smashed into Rayon's skull.
He saw cities burning in a lightless void. Strings of fire wrapping around thousands of screaming bodies. A throne—not of stone, not of gold, but of threads.
And a whisper that wasn't a whisper—
"Forsaken."
Rayon's nose bled instantly. His knees nearly buckled. His hands trembled but didn't fall.
He spat blood on the marble floor, staring up at the faceless figure with a grin torn across his lips.
"You picked the wrong fucking puppet."
His Hollow Strings blazed, dark and sharp, wrapping around his fists.
The nobles below finally noticed something was wrong, gasping, screaming as cracks split the stairwell.
Veyra roared, charging up the stairs. Sorin's arrow hissed through the air. Dareth's runes began to glow.
The palace wasn't feasting anymore. It was erupting.
Rayon stood between Sentinels, the faceless figure, and the throne of the kingdom. His chest ached with every pull of alien strings, but his fists clenched harder, his grin wider.
No retreat. Not this time.
He whispered, almost laughing, "Let's see who dances."
And the stairwell exploded in webs of shadow and light.