His presence was suffocating, like the coiled tension of a snake ready to strike. Gone was the ostentatious oriental armor I had first seen him in, and in its place was something far more subdued—dark, flowing fabrics that clung to his frame with an unnatural weight, as if reality itself bent to accommodate his existence. But it wasn't his attire that held me frozen. It was his eyes—those slitted, piercing irises gleaming with amusement and something deeper, something infinitely more dangerous. And that smile, that wicked, knowing smile, dripping with venom even as it wove words of rich honey.

Vanitas had been waiting for me. The moment I stepped forward, he moved like a specter drawn to fate, his presence enveloping me before I could even consider backing away. His hand landed on my shoulder, a grip like iron, too firm to be casual, too controlled to be desperate. It was as if he was testing something—me, the moment, the air between us. And then, before I could react, before I could even process the weight of his touch…

Smack.

The sharp crack echoed through the space as Barbra's palm collided with Vanitas's cheek. The force of it sent his head snapping to the side, his silver hair momentarily disheveled from the impact. "Down, boy," she said with crisp authority, her tone so flat and final that even I felt the compulsion to obey. She didn't stop there. "Heel. Stay. Good boy."

Vanitas's expression was priceless—utterly aghast, his normally composed face alight with shock and indignation, a flush of red creeping across his pale skin from both the strike and the boiling heat of his own frustration. His lips parted, as if to speak, but for once, no honeyed words came forth.

The silence that followed was almost comical. Vanitas, the ever-composed, ever-smirking enigma, looked positively scandalized. His silver hair, usually immaculate, was ruffled from the sheer force of the slap, and his golden eyes, sharp as knives, blinked in rapid succession as if his mind was struggling to process what had just happened. His mouth opened—then closed. Opened again—then closed once more.

I had never seen him so utterly at a loss.

Barbra, on the other hand, was as unmoved as ever. She stood with one hand on her hip, utterly unimpressed, the weight of her presence making it clear that she wasn't going to entertain any of Vanitas's theatrics. "What? Nothing to say?" she prodded, her voice carrying the subtle edge of a predator playing with its food. "Where's all that charm, that wit? Or did I slap it right out of your mouth?"

Vanitas exhaled sharply through his nose, straightening his posture as he smoothed down his coat with slow, deliberate movements. His expression melted from stunned indignation back into something more familiar—something dangerous. A grin curled at the edges of his lips, though it was tight, restrained, forced into place like a mask hastily donned. He turned his golden gaze to Barbra, tilting his head in a gesture that was almost playful, though the tension in his jaw betrayed the effort it took.

"My dear Lady of Beasts," he purred, voice thick with mock reverence. "I never imagined you'd be the type to play rough without warning."

Barbra's expression didn't shift. If anything, the look she gave him could have made a lesser man wilt. "You're lucky I held back," she said simply.

Vanitas let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Duly noted." Then, finally, he turned back to me, his focus narrowing. Whatever irritation or amusement he had toward Barbra vanished in an instant, and suddenly, all of that heavy, oppressive attention was on me.

"Alexander," he said smoothly, as if nothing had happened. "It has been far too long."

The way he said it sent a prickle down my spine. There was something in his voice—something just beneath the surface, coiled and waiting. It wasn't just the usual honey-laced mischief he carried. No, this was intentional.

I squared my shoulders, keeping my face neutral. "It's only been a few months."

"A lifetime, for some," Vanitas mused, stepping forward. The air around him felt different. Not magic, exactly, but a presence that pressed down on everything like the weight of unseen chains. His sharp eyes flickered over me, taking in everything. My stance. My breathing. My posture. I knew, at that moment, he was testing me.

"Come now, no warm greeting for your dear friend?" he chided, tilting his head with a smirk. "After all, I did go through all this trouble just to see you."

I didn't trust that for a second.

Barbra sighed, stepping between us slightly, her presence a quiet warning. "We don't have time for your games, Vanitas."

"Games?" His grin widened, stretching across his face like a gash carved into porcelain. "Oh, Barbra, my dear, everything is a game. Some of us simply play on a grander scale than others."

His eyes never left mine.

The air between us felt weighted, thick with something unspoken yet tangible. He wasn't speaking to her—not really. Every word, every inflection, was aimed at me. I could feel it pressing against my skin, coiling around my ribs like a living thing.

"You aren't allowed to call me that name, you peasant." Barbra's voice was smooth, devoid of warmth. "You are a servant. You chose the moniker you have, you chose the one to serve."

Her words were a blade of their own, honed to a fine, merciless edge. Yet Vanitas didn't so much as flinch. If anything, his amusement only deepened, curling at the corners of his mouth like a cat toying with a bird too injured to fly.

"He is the second to last in power," she continued, unyielding. "He is the second to last in prestige. But where he stands above all else—the only place he stands above all else—is in his collection of knowledge. None of us come close."

Her gaze flicked to me, a brief acknowledgment before returning to Vanitas, as if measuring my reaction. As if ensuring I was listening.

"But I want you to think for a moment," she pressed, voice steady, deliberate. "Why a bookbinder" the heavy emphasis on the word made me stiffen, "why a bookbinder, of all people, still respects the fang of a tiger, the pounce of a panther, the eyes of the eagle, the talon of the hawk."

Vanitas's expression didn't shift, but something in his posture did—infinitesimal, almost imperceptible.

"Why doesn't he simply challenge me?"

The words hung in the air, dense and suffocating, charged with unspoken history.

Then she moved.

Her body shifted—morphed—in a way that sent a primal shudder through my core. Her hands elongated into razors, sharp enough to part flesh before even making contact. And in the space between one breath and the next, those razors were at Vanitas's throat.

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The strike was too fast to follow. A mere blink, and her claws were buried just beneath the first layer of his skin, a thin rivulet of blood forming where the edge met flesh.

"You should know the one rule for those who have broken past the ninth shell," she murmured.

A loud, visceral crunch shattered the silence.

Vanitas's windpipe collapsed beneath her grip, flesh and cartilage yielding with a sickening squelch. The sound was grotesque, wet and wrong, like overripe fruit splitting apart beneath careless hands.

His body trembled—not in pain. Not in fear.

In delight.

"Power," she whispered, voice smooth, final. "Must respect power."

Vanitas's body dissolved into an ephemeral mist, his form dispersing like ink spilled in water. The crimson stain on Barbra's claws evaporated with him, leaving no trace behind except the tension hanging thick in the air. She exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders as though shedding an invisible weight.

"He just had to break a rule," she muttered, more to herself than to me. "He isn't even a full Lord of the Gate—just one of the servants. And yet he dared. How dare he attempt to lay claim to someone who has already signed a contract with a Lord?"

Her voice dripped with disdain, her razor-like fingers retracting back into human form. "Foolish. Foolish."

I straightened, finally tearing my eyes away from where Vanitas had been standing mere moments ago. The silence was deafening.

A crowd had gathered—far larger than the one that had observed my duel with Crullo. Their faces were a mixture of shock, confusion, and barely concealed fascination. Some murmured to one another in hushed tones, while others simply stared—eyes wide, mouths slightly parted.

To them, I must have seemed an enigma. An outsider who had walked into their domain and, within mere moments, had forced a being like Vanitas into retreat. And worse—without lifting a single finger.

Adevn was among them, watching carefully, calculating. The knight from earlier, Crullo, was rigid, his entire stance tense as though he was struggling to reconcile what he had just seen. They had witnessed power beyond what they understood.

And for the first time, I realized—I had, too.

Barbra was more than she seemed. Far more.

I turned to her, my voice low. "What exactly was he trying to do?"

She gave me a sidelong glance, then smiled, though it held no warmth. "Lay a claim on you, of course."

The words sent a chill down my spine. "Like… a contract?"

"Something worse," she corrected, folding her arms. "You are already bound to another. To try and take you—especially by force—it was a direct violation of the laws that govern us. And yet, he still attempted it."

I clenched my fists. Vanitas. The self-proclaimed trickster, the manipulator, the snake in the tall grass. He had spent so long playing his own games that he had convinced himself he could bend the rules without consequence.

And Barbra had reminded him, quite violently, that he could not.

The weight of the eyes on me grew heavier, but I didn't falter. Instead, I did what I had done earlier—what I had done against Crullo. I stood my ground, unmoving, my face unreadable.

Adevn stepped forward, his expression returning to that ever-polite neutrality. "It seems you draw quite a bit of attention wherever you go, Walker."

I met his gaze, steady. "Not intentionally."

His lips twitched into something resembling amusement. "Perhaps not. But it happens all the same."

Another murmur swept through the gathered spectators, and soon, one by one, they began to disperse. Some lingered a moment longer, casting one last glance my way before vanishing into the crowd. Crullo remained, as did a few others from House Vermillion, their eyes still sharp with curiosity, but they, too, eventually turned away.

Barbra took a step closer, lowering her voice. "You need to be careful."

I exhaled slowly. "I gathered as much."

"No." Her fingers brushed my wrist—just a fleeting touch, but enough to make me still. "Truly careful. The moment you signed that contract, you were marked. There will be those who see you as an opportunity. And there will be those who see you as a threat."

I swallowed hard, forcing my shoulders to relax. This wasn't new. I had already spent my time in Danatallion's Halls knowing that eyes were always on me, that my every move was being measured, weighed. But this was something different. Something more dangerous.

And I knew, without a doubt, that Vanitas was not finished.

"Come," Adevn gestured toward a path leading away from the gathering area. "Let us talk somewhere less… exposed."

I hesitated only for a moment before nodding, falling into step beside him. Barbra remained close, her presence an unspoken warning to anyone who might think of trying something reckless.

As we walked, the murmurs behind us faded, but the feeling of being watched never did.

***

The doors to the throne room swung open with a solemn grace, revealing a chamber unlike any other. This was the Seat of Sorrows, and the name was not given lightly.

The entire hall was a masterpiece of grief, a gallery of lamentation frozen in time. Statues lined the walls—mothers clutching at empty air where their children should have been, fathers kneeling with outstretched hands, warriors collapsed in silent agony. Each sculpted face bore the same expression—desperate, pleading, mourning. They wept stone tears, forever grieving for those lost in battle, forever wishing that fate had chosen another.

The air itself was thick with something intangible—an unshakable weight, a sense of sorrow so deeply woven into the very foundation of the room that even the most hardened of warriors would hesitate to breathe too loudly. It was not just a throne room; it was a monument to loss. And yet, it was also a warning.

A warning that no matter how high one climbed, no matter how mighty a ruler became, war had a cost.

At the heart of this melancholy stood the throne itself—a construct of polished obsidian and silver, adorned with motifs of swirling mist and streaks of lightning. It was an extension of its ruler, much like the room itself. And on that throne sat Lillianne of Bast, Reqdenyet'enen.

The Skydancer.

The Witch of Clouds.

The Lady of Fog.

Her list of titles was long—too long to speak in full without insult. To recite them all in one breath was both an offense and a crime, as though to imply her feats could be condensed into mere words. In her presence, one title was enough.

I stepped forward, aware that all eyes were on me. Every movement in this place carried weight. I could not afford a single misstep.

I knelt, bowing deeply in the Bastian custom, fully aware that I was about to butcher their language.

"This one greets the High Queen, Reqdenyet'enen."

The words left my mouth with careful reverence, but I already knew I had failed.

Lillianne tilted her head ever so slightly, her gaze piercing. The scars on her face twisted as she smiled—not out of kindness, but in amusement.

Her entire body was a map of battlefields. Scars wove across her skin in a chaotic yet deliberate fashion, each one a testament to the wars she had waged, the lives she had taken, and the ones she had nearly lost. She did not wear her history in silk and gold like other rulers. She wore it carved into her very flesh.

She let the silence hang for a moment before speaking.

"You'll need to work on your Bastian, young Walker." Her voice was hoarse, rasped, as though shaped by years of barking orders over the roar of battle. "You must emphasize the space between Reqdenyet and Enen. Instead of calling me 'She Who Dances Above the Clouds,' you have called me 'She Who Drinks From the Clouds.'"

A single, amused breath left her lips. "Not quite the same thing, is it?"

My stomach twisted. I could feel every noble, every warrior, every official in the room staring. Some barely concealed their smirks; others observed with a cold, clinical detachment.

And yet—she forgave it.

She could have had me mocked, punished, dismissed outright. But she let it slide with nothing more than a rasped correction.

I straightened, meeting her gaze.

She had tested me.

And now, it was my turn to answer.

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