Darkness stretched endlessly around them.
Not the darkness of night—but the kind that felt vast, depthless, like standing inside a memory too large to comprehend.
Theresa sat across from Sacrifice, pale hands folded loosely in her lap. A faint light shimmered around her, soft as candle-glow against stone.
There were no walls.
No floor.
Only the suggestion of space.
Theresa's voice was gentle, but tired in a way that felt centuries old.
[Theresa]: I wanted peace. Just that. A place where Sarkaz and the other races could exist without sharpening blades in the dark.
She lowered her gaze.
[Theresa]: Every time… old wounds reopen. The elders remember betrayal. The young inherit hatred. And the ancient ones…
Her fingers tightened slightly.
[Theresa]: They see war as preservation. They believe that if the world will not accept the Sarkaz, then the world must be broken instead.
A pause.
[Theresa]: The past clings to us like chains. And some wear those chains proudly.
Sacrifice watched her.
Listened. Understood the words. Understood the logic. Understood the tragedy.
But it felt distant.
Like reading about someone else's grief in a medical report.
She tilted her head slightly.
[Sacrifice]: That is… unfortunate.
A beat.
She looked around the endless void.
Her tone did not rise. It did not soften.
It simply cut through the atmosphere.
[Sacrifice]: Where are we?
Another pause.
[Sacrifice]: And if this is death, I would appreciate confirmation. I do not recall consenting to it.
Theresa blinked once.
A faint, tired smile touched her lips.
[Sacrifice]: You mentioned Babel.
Her eyes sharpened slightly.
[Sacrifice]: I intended to join them.
A small, clinical frown.
[Sacrifice]: Yet I was shot through the skull. And I am speaking to you instead.
Her gaze fixed on Theresa.
Unwavering.
[Sacrifice]: So I must conclude one of three things.
A measured inhale.
[Sacrifice]: One — I am dead. Two — this is a hallucination caused by traumatic brain injury. Or three — you intervened.
Silence.
Then—
[Theresa]: I do not possess the kind of power you are implying.
She glanced around them.
The endless dark.
The stillness.
[Theresa]: And this place… it was not always this quiet.
Her voice grew softer.
[Theresa]: It used to be full of hatred. Of resentment. Of voices that never forgave.
A small pause.
[Theresa]: Today, it feels… subdued.
Sacrifice observed her carefully.
No visible deception.
No signs of instability.
[Sacrifice]: That does not answer my question.
Theresa lifted her gaze.
The faint light around her flickered slightly.
[Theresa]: We are inside the Black Crown.
The darkness seemed to shift at the name.
[Theresa]: The Sarkaz soul chamber.
A longer pause.
[Theresa]: This is where the ancient Sarkaz kings rest after death.
The space around them felt heavier.
As though something vast lay sleeping beneath the silence.
[Theresa]: Those who wore the crown… do not simply vanish.
Sacrifice absorbed the statement without visible reaction.
Theresa continued.
[Theresa]: It is one of the Sarkaz's many blessings.
A faint, tired smile.
[Theresa]: The memories of past kings remain. Their knowledge. Their strategies. Their triumphs and their failures.
The darkness stirred faintly at the word memories.
[Theresa]: When a new monarch takes the Black Crown, they do not rule alone. They inherit centuries of experience.
A pause.
Her voice lowered.
[Theresa]: But memory is never neutral.
The light around her dimmed slightly.
[Theresa]: Along with wisdom comes resentment. Along with strategy comes paranoia. Along with pride comes humiliation that was never forgiven.
Silence pressed inward.
[Theresa]: The hatred of every fallen king does not fade. It accumulates.
Sacrifice's gaze sharpened.
[Theresa]: With each new ruler added to the crown, the weight grows heavier. The pressure intensifies. The tolerance for other races becomes thinner.
A faint tremor passed through the dark.
[Theresa]: What should have been our greatest advantage…
Her fingers curled slightly.
[Theresa]: …became our greatest curse.
The words lingered.
Theresa's gaze drifted into the void, her expression carrying a sadness too old to measure. Not dramatic. Not fragile.
Just tired.
Truly tired.
Sacrifice watched her in silence.
She stepped forward.
Theresa did not expect the movement.
Sacrifice wrapped her arms around her.
Not tightly.
Not desperately.
Just enough.
Theresa stiffened in surprise.
Then slowly… relaxed.
Sacrifice released her after a moment and gently placed a hand atop Theresa's head.
An awkward gesture.
Unpracticed.
But deliberate.
[Sacrifice]: Rest now.
A pause.
[Sacrifice]: You have endured enough.
Theresa's eyes widened slightly.
Something fragile flickered in them — relief, perhaps.
Or permission.
Her eyelids lowered.
The faint radiance around her softened.
And then—
She was gone.
The candlelight faded.
The Black Crown grew darker.
Sacrifice remained alone.
For a moment, she simply stood there.
Processing.
Then she turned toward the endless void.
Her voice was calm.
Unhurried.
[Sacrifice]: You can stop pretending.
The silence deepened.
[Sacrifice]: Hiding in the dark implies you believe I cannot see you.
A faint shift rippled through the space.
Not movement.
Recognition.
Her gaze did not waver.
[Sacrifice]: I can feel you watching me.
For a moment, nothing answered.
Then—
A single clap echoed through the void.
Slow.
Measured.
Not applause.
Acknowledgment.
From the darkness, something moved.
A figure stepped forward as though the abyss itself parted to let him pass.
He wore armor long past glory — blackened, cracked, scarred by battles no living tongue could name. Two great horns curved from his helm, jagged and asymmetrical, like broken crowns fused to bone.
His eyes were not empty.
They were depthless.
Black so absolute they seemed to drink the faint light around them.
A dark cape hung from his shoulders — heavy, ragged at the edges — fashioned from the pelt of a massive black lion. Even still, it seemed to ripple as though wind moved through a world that had no air.
He stopped a short distance from her.
Not close enough to threaten.
Not far enough to dismiss.
His voice was low.
Layered.
As though other echoes spoke slightly out of sync beneath it.
[Farchaser]: I greet the Oathskeeper.
The title settled in the space between them.
[Farchaser]: My name is Farchaser.
A faint tilt of his head.
[Farchaser]: And I wish only to ask you a few questions.
His gaze sharpened.
The void around them tightened subtly.
[Farchaser]: Oh last of the Diablos.
A pause.
Not dramatic.
Heavy.
[Farchaser]: Spawn of Balor'sača, the Sunwielder.
The darkness pulsed faintly at the name.
[Farchaser]: And Gul'dul the Mason.
Silence followed.
The weight of lineage pressed forward like an unseen tide.
He studied her.
Not with hostility.
Not with reverence.
With curiosity.
[Farchaser]: Tell me…
A faint, almost amused undertone.
[Farchaser]: Do you know what you carry?
[Chapter {She is here} E#D]