Betrayer

Cypher tilted his head up, locking eyes with the Jester. It was an unfamiliar feeling.

All his life, he had learned to read people from the simplest of gestures. The tiniest twitch of the lips, the smallest flicker of a glance, the subtle tension in the shoulders. It was a necessity—first to survive his parents, then to navigate the cutthroat world of politics, and finally, to endure the brutal chaos of human nature itself.

And yet, as he looked into Corydon's eyes, he saw something he could not immediately decipher. A paradox. A god and a man—a broken man.

It was these people that Cypher had learned to fear the most. The ones who had lost everything. The ones with nothing to ground them, no reason, no anchor. Men like this could lose their grip on reality at any moment. Or perhaps they already had.

But far worse than a man untethered from reason was a man like Corydon, who held power over it. The moment one got too close, it was not him that was disconnected from reality—it was you. Because it was not the Jester who obeyed the rules of this world. It was the world that obeyed him.

To corydon, he was not the clown. Everyone else was.

The Jester bent forward, his knees cracking like splintering glass, his grin widening as he studied Cypher like a specimen beneath a magnifying glass.

"My, my, it's rude to stare, little explorer."

His hand stretched forward, fingers extending unnaturally, creeping across the layers of Cypher's robe. They moved with a deliberate slowness, a teasing cruelty, until they stopped just above the pocket beneath the fabric.

A flicker.

The lights died.

For a moment, the room was swallowed by absolute, suffocating darkness. Then, as suddenly as they had vanished, the golden chandeliers flickered back to life, illuminating the countless masked figures that now loomed over Cypher, their hollow eyes peering down like vultures circling fresh food.

Corydon's fingers drummed against Cypher's chest. His voice, featherlight, crawled into his ear.

"What are you hiding? Don't be shy."

Cypher remained still, his mouth set in a firm, silent line. There was no point in speaking without reason. Words were almost meaningless to a creature like this—a fact Elie had learned far too late.

Corydon's lips twitched.

"Very well. I'll just have to find out myself."

His hand slithered inside the folds of Cypher's robe.

A searing heat.

His breath hitched, eyes widening as his fingers brushed against something impossibly cold and impossibly hot all at once. A sensation that did not belong to this world.

A sharp inhale. A violent exhale.

"I-It can't be."

His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

His fingers clenched, pulling the object free.

A black crystal.

It pulsed in his palm, glowing with sickening vibrance, nearly restored to its full luster. Radiation seeped from it without care, without concern.

Corydon's breath turned ragged. His fingers trembled. Then his entire body.

"Y-You…" His pupils shrank to pinpricks. "How did you get this?"

Before Cypher could react, a backhand struck him with monstrous force.

The impact sent him flying. His body crashed into the golden walls, the sound of breaking bone lost beneath the ringing in his ears. Pain exploded in his skull—a sharp, splintering sensation, as if cracks were forming through the very structure of his mind.

And yet, he remained silent.

Corydon's hands shook with something beyond fury. Beyond madness. He beheld the crystal with the malice of a demon god, his fingers digging into its surface as if he could crush the small marble.

"The ~`BETRAYER'~ was mine to kill!"

His voice was venom, dripping with ancient wrath.

"I promised him suffering beyond death—I promised him the abyss itself. I swore to strip him of everything, to burn his soul until not even oblivion would take him!"

The palace screamed.

With a forceful swing of his arm, the masquerade was ended.

Dancers were ripped limb from limb, their bodies shredded into crimson ribbons. Their masks fell into the pools of blood, splattered with the remains of the revelry. The golden walls warped and twisted, shrieking with the agony of something that should not bleed, and yet bled anyway.

Corydon vanished.

Then—

A foot came crashing down.

Hot pain shot through Cypher's skull as he was pinned to the floor, the force carving cracks into the very foundation of the palace.

"AND YET HERE YOU ARE!" Corydon's voice was a razor against the mind. "BRINGING WITH YOU A FRAGMENT OF HIS SOUL!"

The crystal pulsed as strings lashed out.

A hundred thousand threads of invisible threads tore into Cypher's skin, their razor edges slicing through flesh, through nerves, through bone. His limbs snapped, yanked in opposite directions. He was lifted, his body twisted into unnatural contortions, pulled upright like a grotesque marionette.

White bone jutted from his arm, glistening beneath the golden candlelight.

The pain was immeasurable.

Blood poured down his face, slipping into his mouth, drowning his breath in the taste of iron.

Corydon loomed over him. The crystal pulsed wildly in his grip, betraying the unstable wrath seething beneath his plastic frown.

His voice was cold, final.

"Tell me." His fingers twitched. The strings pulled tighter. "Or I'll deliver you a fate worse than your friend."

Cypher's body screamed.

But his lips curved into a thin line.

Even as his vision blurred, even as his bones shattered like brittle glass, his sickly yellow irises remained fixed on Corydon. A stare without fear. Without reverence. It was a look of rebellion.

His voice was hoarse. Nearly gone.

And yet, still—

"I… I have… nothing to tell."

A mistake.

Corydon didn't like that answer.

"Then you will suffer."

A pale hand reached forward.

A white mask slammed onto Cypher's face.

A sharp snap.

A sudden cold.

The world seemed so far away.

Darkness.

In a quiet space, the sound of rough breathing could be heard.

Cypher blinked. His body lay collapsed on a cold white floor, smooth as ice, without imperfection.

Pain still burned in his nerves and bones—yet his skin bore no wounds.

With aching muscles, he lifted himself, his gaze sweeping across the endless expanse before him.

"Is this what Elie was shown?"

The white stretched forever, no horizon, no walls. Only a black void above that watched in silent indifference.

Something squirmed into his mind. A presence. An infection that spread into every corner of his brain.

His thoughts unraveled slowly. Memories loosened as concepts of self began to slip.

He resisted with all his might.

Though he stood silent, the reality was that he was fighting a war that raged ceaselessly in his mind. A war for control and reason.

Despite the eidetic memory that had aided him all his life, he knew it would eventually fail if he did not escape.

Escape? Why would I leave?

Slap!

A red handprint bloomed on his cheek.

His own hand trembled in the air. He had struck himself.

Why did I do that?

His breath was ragged.

"I've got to get out. I must."

The void whispered to him in a deceptively captivating tune.

Without a sound, a white spotlight shone down on a space ahead of Cypher. It's ethereal glow illuminating a man dancing on the edge of a cliff.

Cypher remembered this man from the painting, though now he was twisted in a way that seemed wrong.

His white hair was ragged, his lips curled into a smile so wide it caused small cuts to open on his lips. In his eyes there was nothing - a dark void. Black and red viscose fluid trailed front the empty sockets all the way down to the floor, pooling onto his uncovered feet and the white floor like rivers.

In Cypher's vision this man was ethereal, a demon dancing in the dark.

He knew who this was. It was the real Corydon, only without the mask.