Chapter 34

**Chapter 2: The Fractured Canvas of Flesh and Flame**

The boy sat in the chair, legs sprawled like a corpse abandoned mid-fall. His fingers tapped against the armrest—a staccato rhythm that matched the fire's hiss. Outside, winter gnawed at the stones of the estate, its teeth grinding through mortar and bone alike. But inside? Inside was warm. Too warm.

*Thirty-eight lives.* 

*Thirty-eight deaths.* 

He rolled the thought around on his tongue, tasting it like spoiled wine. Sweet decay. 

"Infinity," he muttered, voice low enough to drown in the crackling flames. "Just another word for a cage with no bars." 

His gaze flickered to the window. Beyond the frosted glass, shadows moved—servants scurrying like rats beneath a hawk's stare. They didn't know what lived here. What *he* was. To them, he was just another noble brat, soft-cheeked and silver-spooned. A lamb wrapped in silk. 

But lambs don't dream of wolves. 

The door creaked open again. This time, it wasn't Varick. It was her—the woman from last night. Or maybe she'd always been there, lurking in the edges of reality like a stain you can't scrub out. Her cloak pooled at her feet, midnight spilling across the floorboards. 

"You're still alive," she said, lips curling into something between a smile and a sneer. "Impressive. Most mortals would've bled out by now." 

The boy arched an eyebrow. "Bled out of what? My veins or my sanity?" 

She tilted her head, studying him like a butcher sizing up a cut of meat. "Both. Neither. Does it matter?" 

"It does if I'm the one holding the knife." He gestured vaguely toward the dagger tucked under his sleeve. 

Her laugh was sharp, brittle—like glass shattering. "Oh, darling. You think that little toothpick scares me? I've seen gods bleed. Men are just… echoes." 

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And yet, here you are. Talking to an echo." 

Her eyes narrowed, glowing faintly in the dim light. "Don't mistake curiosity for fear, child. You're interesting. Not because of who you are—but because of what you might become." 

"What I *might* become?" He snorted. "Lady, I've already been everything. Warrior. King. Farmer. Father. Lover. Corpse. Take your pick. What's left? Godhood? Eternal boredom?" 

"No." Her voice dropped, venomous and sweet. "Because infinity isn't done with you yet." 

He slapped her hand away when she reached for his cheek. "Get out." 

"You'll regret this," she whispered, stepping back. "The flame burns, and I am its keeper!" 

She vanished, leaving only the scent of smoke in her wake. 

Later that night, the boy wandered the halls of the estate, barefoot and restless. The servants avoided him, their gazes skittering away like cockroaches under sunlight. Good. Let them whisper about the strange lordling who never slept. Who laughed too loud and stared too long. Who carried death in his eyes and fire in his hands. 

He paused outside a door—ajar, light spilling into the corridor. Curiosity tugged at him, cruel and insistent. 

Inside, a girl knelt by the hearth, feeding logs into the flames. She couldn't have been more than sixteen, her face pale and pinched, her dress threadbare. A maid, judging by the apron tied tight around her waist. 

"You shouldn't be up this late," he said, leaning against the doorway. 

She jumped, nearly dropping the log. "M-my lord! I—I was just—" 

"Relax," he interrupted, waving a hand. "I'm not gonna bite. Unless you ask nicely." 

Her cheeks flushed red, but she didn't look away. Brave, for a servant. Foolish, too. 

"What's your name?" he asked, stepping closer. 

"L-Lila, my lord." 

"Lila." He tested the name on his tongue, rolling it like dice. "Pretty. Doesn't suit you." 

She flinched, clutching the poker tighter. "W-what do you mean?" 

"You're scared," he said, circling her slowly. "But not of me. Of something else. Something bigger." 

"I—I didn't tell anyone!" she blurted, panic rising in her voice. "Please, my lord, I swear—" 

"Shh." He pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her. "You did good, Lila. Better than most." 

Her eyes widened, tears pooling but refusing to fall. "My lord…" 

"Now," he murmured, stepping back. "Go to bed. Forget you saw anything. And whatever you do…" He paused, his tone turning razor-sharp. "Don't trust the shadows." 

She fled, leaving him alone with the fire. 

Hours later, the boy stood on the balcony overlooking the garden. Snow blanketed the ground, pristine and untouched. Below, the fountain lay frozen, water trapped mid-flow like a statue caught in amber. 

Behind him, footsteps crunched against the frost. 

"You're playing with fire," the woman said, joining him at the railing. 

He smirked. "Aren't we all?" 

"This isn't a game, boy. That girl—she's marked now. Whether you like it or not." 

"Marked by who? You?" 

"By *it*," she corrected, her voice dropping to a growl. "The Leviathan. The serpent that feeds on souls. It's watching you. Hunting you." 

"Let it try," he shot back, gripping the railing until his knuckles turned white. "I've faced worse." 

"Have you?" She turned to him, her expression unreadable. "Do you even remember half of what you've done? Who you've killed? What you've lost?" 

He froze, memories surging unbidden. Blood-soaked fields. Burning villages. A woman screaming as he drove a blade through her chest. 

"I remember," he whispered, voice hoarse. "Every damn second." 

"Good." She placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch icy but oddly comforting. "Because the Leviathan doesn't care about your past. Only your future." 

"And what's my future?" he asked, bitterness lacing every word. 

"That depends," she said, stepping back. "Will you fight it? Or will you let it consume you?" 

Before he could answer, she vanished, leaving only the scent of smoke in her wake. 

Alone once more, the boy stared into the darkness. Somewhere beyond the trees, something stirred—a shapeless mass writhing in the snow. Its eyes glowed faintly, twin embers burning in the void. 

"Come on, then," he muttered, raising his dagger. "Let's dance." 

The creature lunged, jaws snapping wide. 

And the world exploded into flame. 

As the fire raged, the boy felt it—not pain, but laughter. Deep, guttural, echoing from somewhere deep within. 

*"Welcome home,"* it whispered.