130.

Nyx approached the castle gate with an unnatural gait, as though something unseen dragged it forward. It moved erratically, at times crawling, at others appearing to roll, but always unnervingly fast—faster than a galloping horse.

The drawbridge was already lowered, an unwelcome invitation. Nyx crossed without hesitation and began scaling the castle walls, not by stairs or ladders but directly up the stone like an insect clinging to a surface. The grotesque sight made my skin crawl. It had found me again.

At last, Nyx reached the ramparts, pulling its twisted form upright with the unsettling crack of bones. There it stood, its mismatched body framed against the rising sun.

* * *

It had been eleven years, and yet this moment felt both foreign and familiar. Eleven years ago, on this very wall, Nyx had killed me. The memory was visceral, my abdomen twinging as if recalling the mortal wound. The cold fury bubbling up inside me was almost comforting in its familiarity.

But the second thing I noticed about Nyx was how utterly ruined it looked.

The face, once weathered by age, now appeared ancient—an unholy thing far older than the sixty-odd years I remembered. Nyx’s stolen body, however, was not its own. The youthful frame it moved with was disturbingly out of place beneath the wizened head. Its neck connected poorly to the stolen torso, the two parts held together by something tenuous and vile. The sight of it, and the realization of what it meant, stole the breath from my lungs.

Worse still, the clothes that clung to the stolen body were blood-soaked beyond recognition, but the cut and design were unmistakable. They were ceremonial garb, meant for one specific occasion.

“Is that…” My voice cracked.

“The crown prince’s body?”

The words tasted bitter as they left my tongue, but the implication settled quickly. If Nyx’s neck now rested on the shoulders of Billinent, it could only mean one thing: the prince was dead.

A chill ran down my spine as I realized the gods’ indifference. So long as the grand story of Ophelia’s triumph played out, did they care at all who was caught in its destructive currents? The prince had been deemed expendable, nothing more than another sacrifice to the narrative.

Nyx, inspecting its mismatched hands as if noticing them for the first time, murmured to itself.

“Ah… the voice that called me… It was the young prince. Yes, yes. How familiar…”

It chuckled, a sound like brittle bones grinding together.

“What was it he said? Oh, yes… Something about strength. He came to me desperate, didn’t he? Poor child. He struggled so much, I had no choice but to take his head.”

The explanation hit like a punch to the gut. Billinent’s greed, his reckless desire for power, had led him to Nyx’s prison. And now, Nyx wore his body like a grotesque trophy.

“Rodensi.”

It whispered, its eyes flickering between lucidity and madness.

“So like dear Calliphe… I should have severed his neck cleanly. But no, he thrashed too much.”

Nyx rambled like a person caught between worlds, its voice lilting as though recalling a fond memory. The sight of its stolen body and the disjointed recollection of events only added to the horror.

I steadied my breath, pushing aside the sickening thoughts threatening to overwhelm me. There was no turning back now.

“You came for me,” I said, forcing the words out evenly.

“So here I am.”

Nyx paused, tilting its head as if hearing my voice for the first time.

“Ah, yes. I felt it… Ophelia’s power, stirring after so long.”

Its milky, unfocused eyes locked onto me, and I stiffened.

“Aisa McFoy… the thief of that power.”

Its accusation hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Nyx’s gaze was haunting—once a normal brown, its irises were now clouded and white, the pupils flickering erratically as if struggling to focus. It made me nauseous to look at.

The moment shattered as Nyx’s black hand lashed out, aiming for my throat. Reflexively, I reached inward, silently calling out to Ophelia’s power. The hand stopped mere inches from my neck, trembling violently as though held back by an unseen force.

I froze, my eyes darting to the left where the jagged hand hung suspended. It quivered, eager to strike, the tension in the air so thick it felt like suffocating.

If I’d been a moment slower, I would have been decapitated. A cold sweat broke out across my body as I stood paralyzed, staring at the weaponized appendage. My heart thundered in my chest as Nyx’s lips twisted into a smile.

“Yes,” it purred.

“Let’s see how much you can endure.”

As Nyx’s claw failed to slice through my throat, it let out a wailing shriek, stamping its crooked legs in frustration. Its ankle twisted grotesquely, but it seemed impervious to pain, flailing and screeching like a caged beast.

‘At least this confirms it.’

For a fleeting moment, my terror ebbed, replaced by a sliver of relief. My gamble had paid off.

Ophelia’s power reacted when I called for it, desperate and pleading. It seemed her condition for aiding me was tied to moments of mortal peril. What were you thinking when you imposed this rule, Ophelia? Even in absentia, you had a strange penchant for cruelty.

‘Well, then.’

I glanced sideways. Glen remained hidden, resisting the urge to intervene.

It was time to go all in—a single, reckless gamble. Clenching my fists, I squared my shoulders, forcing a crooked smile. Then, with deliberate venom, I mocked the wretched creature writhing before me.

“What’s it like, Nyx? Devouring all of McFoy’s strength, only to be ‘this’ pathetic?”

Nyx froze mid-thrash. Its filmy eyes snapped toward me.

“You can’t even overcome a fraction of Ophelia’s power,” I spat.

“Y-you.”

It snarled, its crumpled face twisting further in rage.

“Aisa… It’s you, you wretched thing!”

Ah, so it finally recognized me. That disfigured expression mirrored the disgust I had felt since the first time we met. Just as I had loathed Nyx on sight, it had undoubtedly despised me in equal measure.

I leaned into the role of villain with relish.

“You never loved Ophelia,” I sneered.

“You envied her power, lusted for it. You’re nothing but a jealous wretch, clinging to what you can’t have.”

I’d always suspected something was off about how Nyx looked at Ophelia. But when I read the details of her story, the depth of its depravity became clear. Its feelings for Ophelia were filthy, twisted beyond repair.

Nyx simultaneously worshiped and envied Ophelia, resenting her as the closest being to the goddess Mehra. Its reverence for her power was laced with jealousy so toxic it had curdled into hatred. That conflict twisted into the delusion that possessing Ophelia would fill its void, would somehow make it worthy of Mehra’s grace.

Its obsession had driven it to madness. The day Nyx climbed the walls of McFoy with crazed desperation, pleading for Ophelia to run away with it, it hadn’t been love. It had been delusion, pure and simple.

How utterly pathetic.

“Your vile fantasies and filthy obsession—because of you, so many people died.”

My voice dropped, laden with scorn.

“You deserve to have your skin flayed off, layer by layer, for what you’ve done.”

Nyx roared, its black claw slashing toward my neck again. But Ophelia’s power repelled it with ease. The distorted features of its aged face twisted in agony, though the sight stirred no pity in me. Only revulsion.

“You’re always cruel, Aisa,” it hissed, its voice trembling with something almost like despair.

“So unlike Ophelia. You’re… you’re truly a wicked thing.”

It sounded as if it were ‘the victim,’ as if I had tormented it for an eternity. The sheer absurdity would have been laughable if it weren’t so grotesque. And still, it mimicked Ophelia’s soft tone, crooning my name—”Aisa, Aisa”—like a parody of kindness. The mockery made my skin crawl.

If it truly believed itself a victim, I would grant it the torment it deserved.

“Don’t mimic Ophelia, you filth!” I roared.

“No matter what you do, you’ll ‘never’ reach Mehra!”

The words struck like a curse. Nyx’s face stiffened unnaturally, and its whole body trembled with an unspeakable fury. It began stalking toward me, step by halting step, like a predator closing in on prey.

But I had no intention of letting it close the gap. As it advanced, I retreated, carefully measuring each backward step. A glance over my shoulder told me the edge of the rampart was near. There was little space left to maneuver.

Another black claw flew toward me, aiming for my throat. This time, the strike deflected more violently than before, a clear testament to Ophelia’s enduring power.

Now was the moment.

‘The gamble begins.’