Parting ways

The contract hovered between them, caught in a slow, weightless drift above the table. It pulsed faintly, as if alive, waiting for the binding to begin. The room was silent, save for the soft crackle of candlelight dancing in the vast hall.

Corydon, of course, was the first to act.

He pressed a hand to his chest, fingers splaying over the silk of his embroidered coat, just above where his heart should be. The gesture was almost theatrical - deliberate, practiced, like a priest conducting an old rite. His lips pulled wider, that false, plastic grin stretching as he spoke.

"|NERVO°LIG∆RE"

The words slithered through the air, their weight pressing against the room like a held breath. Then, his side of the contract erupted into blistering black flames.

The fire did not move like ordinary fire. It writhed, curling around the contract in twisting, hungry shapes. Despite its apparent heat, neither he nor Cypher - no, the thing inside Cypher - flinched. But the room suffered. The engraved metal lining the walls began to sag, liquefying into slow, shimmering rivulets.

Gold, silver, and bronze dripped from the ceiling in sluggish streams, pooling into a radiant, shifting mass on the floor. The colors churned, forming unnatural patterns and colourful puddles of rare metals.

Corydon watched with satisfaction. This fire did not simply burn. It was a force beyond the stars, beyond heat itself—a concept made manifest.

Still smiling, he gestured to the parchment. "Repeat it. Exactly. Mispronounce it, and you'll die."

For a moment, Cypher's body did nothing.

Then, his head tilted upward in a slow, unnatural motion.

"|NERVO°LIG∆RE"

His voice was wrong. It came not from his throat, but from the wall the shadow lurked on, an echo slipping through the cracks of reality.

The reaction was immediate. Black flames roared to life around his side of the contract, mirroring Corydon's, but this time another occurrence made itself known.

A creeping sensation slid over Cypher's skin- not heat, not pain, but a wave of cold, like being doused over and over in frigid water. The feeling soaked into his bones, pooling in the spaces between flesh.

Corydon's fingers twitched. He took felt its effects.

A binding unlike any other. Not just a contract of words, but of being. It wrapped around them and pressing against their forms, preparing for an opportunity to act.

Like gasoline waiting for a spark, it promised to ignite in the same black flames - not passively and without injury, but entirely - if the terms were broken.

Corydon let out a slow exhale, his grin briefly faltering. "Wonderfully done." His voice was smooth, but his gaze was sharp, calculating. "To grasp Dreamspeak so quickly… I must say, you are the fastest I've ever seen."

His smile returned, though thinner now. "I hope, for your sake and your vessel's, that you don't let it get to your head."

Cypher did not respond. His gaze had already drifted past Corydon, locking onto something else.

The shadow clung to the edge of the room, barely distinguishable from the darkness. A figure pressed against the wall, its form flickering between presence and absence. It did not move, but it was there, observing and lingering just at the corner of perception.

Cypher's body shifted. Slowly, methodically, he reached down to his waist and unfastened the bird mask hanging there. He lifted it, pressing it against his face before latching the straps behind his head. Then, he pulled the hood of his robe forward, shrouding himself further in the dim light.

"If we're done here," his voice came at last, steady and distant, "I will leave."

Corydon tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. "In such a rush? What awaits you out there that's more pressing than me?"

His words were light, but there was a hint of curiosity beneath them. He knew little of the world beyond the Well apart from the superficial information he gained from Elie. In this, Cypher had the advantage.

Cypher didn't answer. He merely pulled out the chair, stepping away from the table with slow, heavy movements.

Each step pressed against space itself.

The air around him shuddered, not from force, but a disturbance in the fabric of reality. As he neared the wall, the shadow finally moved.

It raised one long, indistinct finger and pressed it against the surface.

With an almost casual motion, it cut downward.

The wall split like tearing paper. A magenta fissure spread outward from the point of contact, jagged edges gnawing through the once-pristine stone. Sand particles poured from the wound in space, writhing and corroding everything they touched, eating into the cracks. The air itself vibrated with the sound of something vast, something unknowable pressing through.

A portal and a doorway to the space between worlds.

Corydon watched, his expression unreadable. Then, a slow, longing hum slipped from his lips.

"Mmm. How I would love to follow you through."

A thin, black tear bled from the corner of his eye, dragging a stain across his mask. He lifted a hand, reaching toward the portal, only to stop.

His fingers trembled, halted by a rappeling force.

Something pushed against him, repelling his touch. Not like a wall but an inversion. Space itself rejected him, gravity twisting in defiance of his movement. He could no more pass through than step into a world where he did not belong.

His head tilted slightly, but he did not fight it.

Instead, he merely chuckled.

"Ah, well. Some things cannot be helped."

His eyes followed Cypher as he stepped though the crack, dissapearing into the light it produced.

The portal shuddered. Then, in a lightning fast, snapping motion, the wall sealed itself shut like a snake clamping it's jaws, swallowing the magenta light until only silence remained.

Corydon sat back in his chair. He traced the fresh tear on his mask with an absent finger, humming softly to himself.

Then, with an almost wistful sigh, he whispered,

"...For now."

For a few seconds nothing happened.

The jester sat in the empty masquerade room, alone again as he had been for so many years.

The silence pressed against him, thick and unyielding, filling every corner of the hollow space. The candles burned without warmth, their light stretching long shadows across the vacant seats and the lifeless floor. The masquerade had ended long ago. Despite filling the space with dancers and smiling masks, they were fake and empty as the abyss in his soul.

Slowly, he reached into his garments and pulled out an old, square photograph.

The edges were worn, curling inward from years of handling, yet the image itself remained untouched—preserved, stubbornly defying the passage of time. Three figures stood amidst a garden, their silhouettes framed by flowers that shimmered with color.

A man stood at the center, tall and smiling with a happiness that reached his eyes. He wore a crisp white button-up beneath a cream-brown blazer, his long, neatly combed white hair trailing down his back. Even in the stillness of the photo, his pointed ears twitched slightly where small hands tugged at them.

Beside him stood a woman, her beauty outshining even the flowers behind her. She wore an elegant purple wedding dress, its fabric flowing like water down to the garden floor. Her dark hair, slightly messy yet effortlessly graceful, framed her laughing face as she wrapped one arm around the man's waist, drawing him closer. There was warmth in her touch, a silent promise of forever.

And atop the man's shoulders sat a small girl, her face flushed with mischievous delight. She was dressed in a miniature version of the woman's attire, though she bore her father's features—his silver-white hair, his sharp, elfin eyes. With one hand, she tugged his ear; with the other, she pinched his cheek, her laughter frozen in time, brimming with innocent joy.

Corydon said nothing. He only stared.

The masquerade room was cold.

No laughter lived here, no warmth wrapped around his waist. No small hands pulled at his ears, no loving arm anchored him to the world. The only thing that touched him now was the weight of silence and the heavy, aching thing that beat weakly in his chest.

His sharp fingers dug into the surface of the photograph, the paper crumpling slightly beneath his grip. He did not ease his hold.

"I'll fix the world he broke, I promise." His voice was quiet, rasping, and desperate.

"When I find his son, I'll tear out his soul and come back to you both."

His hand clenched harder, his nails pressing deep into the image, as if letting go would mean losing it forever.