A Lurking Name

Mirak hesitated, his breath shallow as he studied the ancient stone door before him. Its surface was smooth, cool to the touch, and lined with faint carvings that swirled like whispered secrets frozen in time. The runic patterns along its edges seemed to hum, not with sound but with a sense of potential, as though they had been crafted from some primordial truth. His gloved hand traced the grooves, and he could feel the pull—an almost magnetic tug on his senses, as if the door itself was alive, calling to him.

Behind him, Angelene's soft laughter echoed through the chamber, light and teasing, yet somehow sharp enough to pierce the heavy silence.

"Is it not beautiful?" she purred, her voice silk and shadows. "You can feel it, can't you? The weight of it? It presses on the edge of your senses, doesn't it? Like a heartbeat, faint but constant."

A shudder ran down Mirak's spine. He tried to suppress the tremor in his hand as he traced the gap where a key would fit. "My friend thinks a dragon sleeps on the other side," he said, his voice tight. Anything to distract her, to turn her focus elsewhere.

Angelene giggled, a sound far too pleased. "Oh, that rumor? Utter nonsense." Her golden curls bounced as she stepped closer, her black silken robes whispering with her movements. "I know what lies beyond this door, Mirak, and I assure you, there are no dragon eggs. What waits here is far more valuable, far more dangerous."

Mirak turned his head slightly, unable to hide the question in his eyes. "What's behind it?" he asked, despite himself.

Her smile widened, her teeth sharp and white in the dim glow of the resin-lined walls. "That," she said, "would be telling. But I'll give you a hint, my curious scholar." Her voice dipped, low and tantalizing. "It holds knowledge. And power. All the power one could wish for. Power enough to topple kings, to create or destroy empires. Power enough to be the new Kingkiller."

The words hit him like a gust of cold wind. Power. Knowledge. Mirak's mind wavered between fear and curiosity. His gaze fell back to the door, his thoughts racing. What could Lancelot want with what lay beyond? Lancelot already wielded Omphalos, bending reality to his will through the Infinite Arcana. Why seek this as well?

Angelene's voice slithered into his thoughts. "Behind that door are truths from Age upon Age, Mirak. Secrets of when dragons ruled the skies, of times when Essence flowed freely and the stars danced on the ground." She paused, stepping closer until her breath tickled his ear. "It is missing a key, you know."

He froze, his hand hovering over the lock. "A key?"

"Yes," Angelene said, leaning against the doorframe as if it were a throne. "A key the Revenant already possess."

Mirak's head snapped toward her, suspicion lighting his gaze. Her smile turned sly, playful even, but her golden eyes gleamed with something far darker. "Without it, I doubt anyone could open that door." She tapped her chin, pretending to think. "Well… except for Akash, of course."

His chest tightened, his heart skipping a beat. "How do you know that name?" His voice was low, sharp, and dangerous.

Angelene's grin spread like poison across her face. "Oh, did I touch a nerve?" she cooed. "How delightful. That sorrowful look suits you so well, Mirak. Truly, it does."

Before he could step back, her hand darted out, soft but unyielding as it cupped his chin and forced him to meet her gaze. Her touch sent a shiver through him, but he refused to look away.

"How little you know," she whispered, her voice dropping into something almost reverent. "I can show you so many things, Mirak. If only you'd let me in."

His breath hitched as the words settled into his ears, a siren's call wrapped in honey and silk.

"How do you know who Akash is?" he demanded again, his voice rough and raw.

Angelene sighed dramatically, her grip loosening as she released him. "Must we dwell on such minor details?" she said, feigning disappointment. "You're such a serious little scholar." She stepped back, her golden eyes never leaving his face. "Why focus on your brother when you could focus on… me?"

Mirak's instincts screamed at him to leave, to flee, but her next words rooted him in place.

"My master has been watching you," Angelene said, her tone casual but edged with something sharp. "The Ten are always searching for new recruits. You'd make a fine addition, Mirak. Imagine what we could uncover together. I could be your right hand."

"No," Mirak said, shaking his head. "I enjoy what I do."

Angelene pouted, her expression turning predatory. "My master doesn't take 'no' for an answer, darling. He has already shown interest in you. Few attract his attention so easily."

"I won't serve the Didacts," Mirak snapped. "I won't bow to them. Or to you."

Her laughter was soft, but it cut like a knife. "The Didacts?" she said mockingly. "Oh, sweet Mirak, you truly have no idea, do you? They are little more than pawns, puppets in a game far greater than they can comprehend. My master has no use for them. But for you? For you, he has plans."

Her voice softened, turning almost tender. "Join me, Mirak. Let me show you the truth. The Omphalos buried deep within your soul. The secrets of the Infinite Arcana. The power to shape worlds. All you have to do is accept."

The words tugged at him, coaxing his curiosity and ambition. But as Angelene stepped closer, her honeyed whispers dripped with something foul. He clenched his fist, forcing the temptation away. "Enough," he said through gritted teeth. "I will not bend the knee."

Her smile didn't waver. "You'll come around," she said lightly, brushing past him. "They always do."

And then she said it. A name. One that reverberated through the room like a crack of thunder.

"My prince is Cthentizc."

The air shifted. It felt as though the walls themselves recoiled at the sound. Shadows writhed and twisted, and from the ether, something began to manifest. Eyes—hundreds of them—opened in the darkness, their gaze unblinking and suffocating. A single massive tentacle, crafted of words and impossible geometry, reached toward Mirak.

It was too much. Mirak's vision blurred as a pressure like a hammer pressed down on his mind. He couldn't move, couldn't think.

And then, something within him snapped.

Atta surged forward, raw and wild, responding to his desperation. He seized control, pouring everything he had into a single burst of light. The room flared in a blinding flash as he executed the only escape technique he had practiced—Flashing.

Mirak didn't stop running until he was back in the upper halls of the Palace, his chest heaving, his legs trembling. The pounding of his boots against the polished floor echoed like thunder in his ears, drowning out the lingering whispers of Angelene's voice. His body screamed at him to stop, but his mind was louder, repeating a single demand: Get away.

When he rounded the last corner, his focus slipped. He barreled into a glass-and-wooden table set against the wall. The table buckled under the impact, shattering into a cascade of jagged shards and splintered wood. The sound was deafening in the otherwise silent hall. Gasps rippled from the nobles nearby, their conversations halting as they turned to stare.

"Mirak!"

The voice came sharp and familiar, cutting through the chaos like a blade. He lifted his head, still dazed, to see Sanni rushing toward him, her violet robes billowing behind her. Her amethyst eyes, usually calm and composed, were wide with something he couldn't quite place—fear? Worry?

She knelt beside him without hesitation, ignoring the gawking nobles. "Are you hurt?" she asked, her tone quiet but insistent. Her gaze darted over him, taking in the blood trickling from small cuts on his arms and the fresh bruises blooming under his glove.

"I'll be fine," Mirak muttered, brushing shards of glass from his gloves. He tried to sit up, but the movement sent a sharp pang through his ribs. Grimacing, he waved her off, embarrassed by his lack of composure. "Just… tripped."

Sanni frowned, her finely arched brows knitting together. "Mirak, what happened?" she pressed, her voice low. The soft concern in her tone caught him off guard.

For a moment, he couldn't speak. His mind replayed the events from the crypt below—the eerie whispers, the impossible creature manifesting in the darkness, Angelene's honeyed voice that coiled around his thoughts like a serpent. He could still feel the way her words lingered, sticky and invasive, filling the cracks of his mind with promises he didn't want to hear.

He clenched his jaw, forcing the images back, trying to steady his breathing. "I… don't want to talk about it," he said finally. His voice was hoarse, the weight of the encounter dragging on every syllable.

Sanni's frown deepened. She glanced toward the direction he had come from, as if she could see whatever had rattled him so badly. But whatever questions she had, she didn't voice them. Not here. Not now.

Her tone softened, but there was a firmness to it as she said, "You're bleeding, Mirak." She reached into the folds of her sleeve and produced a small handkerchief, pressing it gently against one of the deeper cuts on his arm.

"I'm fine," Mirak repeated, though he made no effort to stop her. He hated how weak he must have looked to her. To anyone watching.

Sanni sighed, the sound soft and weary. "You're a terrible liar," she said quietly. Then, after a beat, "I don't need to know what happened. Not yet. But I need you to tell me if you're in danger. Are you?"

Mirak hesitated. He glanced back over his shoulder, toward the winding staircase that led to the depths of the Palace. He half-expected to see Angelene's golden eyes glinting in the shadows, or worse, the thing she served—the entity whose name still scraped at his mind like jagged glass. But the corridor behind him was empty, silent except for the murmurs of distant nobles.

"No," he said finally. "I'm not in danger. It's… it's handled."

Sanni didn't look convinced, but she nodded. "Good." She stood and offered him her hand, a regal gesture that carried no judgment. When he hesitated, she added, her voice softening further, "I'm not your enemy, Mirak. Let me help you."

Her words tugged at something in him. Guilt, maybe, for the way he'd snapped at her earlier. Or perhaps it was something deeper—a flicker of trust he wasn't sure he could afford. Tentatively, he took her hand, and she pulled him to his feet with surprising strength.

As they began walking back toward the inner chambers, her arm brushed against his, steadying him when he faltered. He didn't pull away.

"Let's finish this meeting," Mirak said, his voice low and resolute, though his thoughts were anything but steady.

Sanni glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, her expression unreadable. "We'll finish it," she said, her tone carefully measured. "But afterward, you're going to tell me what's really going on."

Mirak didn't respond, his gaze fixed ahead. He didn't know if he could explain what had happened even if he wanted to. The crypts, the door, Angelene—all of it felt like a fever dream, something better left buried.

As they approached the entrance to the inner chambers, Mirak cast one last glance behind him. The corridor was still empty, but Angelene's voice echoed in his mind like a whisper carried on the wind.

My Prince can offer so much…

Mirak forced the thought away. He didn't have time for this. He was here for answers, not to get caught in the schemes of priestesses and their masters. But as he stepped through the threshold, he couldn't shake the feeling that whatever he had just encountered in the depths of the Palace had not let him go.

"I never want to come back here," he murmured under his breath.

Sanni glanced at him, her brow furrowing, but she didn't comment. Instead, she stayed close, a steady presence in the swirling chaos of the Palace. For the first time, Mirak felt something he didn't expect: gratitude.