Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prompts:

Amy Mialee, Flowers, Death

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Her arms crossed her chest, moving in slow steps across the dirt, one person behind another. The silence pressed heavier than anything before this. No one expected it to happen, no one thought he'd do it. But here she was, they all were.

Each person carried something: flowers, trinkets, fragments of memory. Amy’s fingers clutched red roses until their thorns bit her palms, leaving red markings in her skin. There was no body to bury, no armor to rest on his grave. Only a stone cross, placed perfectly on the hill above everything else, shaded by the leaves of a small spruce tree, one of his favorites.

Amy reached the grave. Others had already been here. A salmon carving, its scales carefully etched—Lux’s work. An old iron sword, its edge dulled but had been polished until she could see her own reflection—Asai’s gift. A portrait leaned against the headstone: Diansu and Arathain.

Amy knelt and laid down her roses among the offerings. Their bright petals stood out against the gray stone. For a moment she touched the carving, the sword, the portrait. They whispered stories she hadn’t lived, but felt all the same.

Behind her came soft weeping. Lux stood near, eyes red, arms wrapped tightly around herself. She looked so fragile, Amy thought the wind might break her. She rose and placed a hand on her shoulder. She flinched, then leaned into it.

“Why did it have to be him?” Lux’s voice broke.

Amy’s throat tightened. She thought of the words Arathain had once told her long ago, sayings she’d ignored until now, mostly because she thought they were pointless messages. Maybe Arathain knew this day would one day come, maybe he said it just for this.

“Arathain said something to me once,” Amy began softly. “He said, ‘Death does not judge. He does not care if you are rich or poor, old or young. When your time is up, He will take you to a place better than this one.’”

Lux looked up, blinking tears.

“I used to think it was nonsense,” Amy continued, not quoting him anymore. This came from the heart. “That death was only cruel. But now I think he meant… Death carries us where we can’t walk ourselves. He isn’t gone, Lux. He’s just been taken somewhere safer. Somewhere where he doesn't have to worry anymore, where he can build his own world.”

Lux’s lip trembled. “But what about us? The ones left behind?”

Amy pulled her close. Her friend clung to her, shaking.

“Then we keep walking,” Amy whispered, looking out to the ruins of BonesBurrow. “We carry him with us—his words, jokes, laughter, the way he made this place feel alive. That’s what he would want. Not for us to stay here, broken.”

Lux didn’t answer, but her arms tightened around Amy. The crowd thinned. By dusk, they were alone at the grave. Shadows stretched long, and the sky deepened. Amy brushed dirt from her knees, eyes fixed on the offerings. Flowers would wilt, the sword would rust, the carving crack, even the portrait fade. But memory—that could endure longer than anything.

She touched the roses once more and a single petal lifted on the wind, carried away until it disappeared. Amy watched it vanish, and for the first time that day felt something other than grief. Not peace, not yet, but something quieter: a promise that endings could be beginnings too.

She turned to Lux, who was still staring at the grave. Amy offered her hand. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

Lux hesitated, then took it. Together they walked away.

Behind them, the headstone stood silent, surrounded by their memories of him. Proof that though he was gone, he was not forgotten.

Chapter Text

Prompts:

8onfire, Blood Moon, Gitaly

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The wind blew the clouds across the night sky, whisking through the streets of Gitaly, rattling the shutters and creaking the old panels on the lighthouse. Orange and purple streamers fluttered, and banners of skeletons, pumpkins, and ghosts slapped against the concrete houses.

It was getting colder, the kind of chill that nipped through coats and carried the smell of sea salt from the ocean. Winter was approaching, soon to surround their island home in a blanket of snow. But first—Halloween

Bon pulled her scarf tighter, her breath puffing white in the air. Hallow’s Eve was only a few days away, but she insisted Gitaly needed more work before it looked ready. Her arms were tired from hauling decorations, but her heart was light as she crouched by the fountain. One by one, she placed miniature pumpkins along its rim, each with a candle. Their carved faces glowed—some cheerful, some sad, most terrifying with jagged teeth and slanted eyes. Moriya had spent all morning carving fifty of them, and Bon couldn’t help but grin at their variety.

“Perfect,” she muttered, straightening. She rubbed her hands together, surveying the square. Banners strung high, candles glowing, paper bats dangling from the balconies. Gitaly was alive with color and shadow.

Then, without warning, the wind stopped.

It wasn’t gradual. One moment the banners were snapping in the breeze, and the next, everything was still and silent. Above her, the clouds parted, and a pale light spilled down. The Blood Moon. It hung over the sea, casting shades of crimson on every stone, pumpkin, and streamer. The fountain shimmered like a pool of blood, and the shadows of the carved pumpkins danced like demons in the firelight.

Bon’s skin prickled. “That’s… creepy.”

She turned to head inside—A skeleton leapt out from the alley. Bon screamed, stumbling backward and nearly toppling into the fountain. Her heart pounded as the figure lunged close, bones rattling, teeth grinning wide under the crimson glow.

Then the skeleton reached up, tugged at its skull—And the mask came off.

“Moriya!” Bon shouted, half angry, half relieved.

He froze, sheepish, holding the bony mask in his hands. “Sorry, Bon. I thought—it’d be funny—”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by Bon’s ragged breaths. Then her lips twitched. A snort escaped her, then a laugh, bubbling up until she was doubled over, clutching her stomach.

Moriya blinked, then chuckled too, his laughter echoing awkwardly against the stillness of Gitaly.

“I can’t believe you,” Bon said, wiping tears from her eyes. “You nearly scared me into the fountain.”

“Guess that makes me scarier than my pumpkins,” Moriya replied with a crooked smile.

The Blood Moon still loomed overhead, draping the town in eerie red. But now the square wasn’t silent—it was filled with laughter. Bon shoved Moriya’s shoulder lightly, and together they stood among the pumpkins, the fountain glowing with warm candlelight. Gitaly was ready for Halloween after all.

Chapter Text

Prompts:

Talon, Endust, Memories

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His eyes flickered across the wall in front of him. Back and forth, this way and that, never staying on a single object. His heart was a steady thump, thump, thump—a drum echoing in his hollow room. The walls were bare except for the trails of ash where he had burned his books, anything that could be used to remake his once beautiful invention.

Talon sat slumped on the floor, knees drawn to his chest, hands trembling. The dusty pink and blue powder still clung to him—sickly sweet, metallic, and warm. He tried to rub it off his skin, but it stayed, soaked into his pores. It had become him. He stared down at the small, shattered vial beside him. The last of it. The powder shimmered faintly in the candlelight.

He whispered to no one. “It was supposed to save us.”

The words came like broken glass. His throat ached from how dry it was. “It was supposed to unite everyone—to make us one, to stop the dying.”

He laughed, a raspy sound. “Now look what’s left.”

The laughter died as quickly as it came. His voice fell to a whisper, softer, smaller. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t know it would...”

He closed his eyes, and they were there again—the flying monsters. Wings like jagged glass, glowing with the color of the endless cosmos. Their voices were wrong, layered, like they were calling out through water. They screamed, words jumbled. They screamed like they wanted him to save them.

Talon gripped his head and rocked back and forth. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

He looked at the door. No one was there. He was the last one.

“Folly,” he said suddenly, his voice shaking as if speaking her name might tear open the sky. “If you can hear me—” He stopped. The candlelight flickered. “No. You must hear me.” He sat straighter, staring up toward the ceiling.

“Please—” His voice broke again. “Forgive me. I followed your gift, I followed the light, and it led me here. I tried to make something beautiful. I swear I did.”

He looked at his hands—scarred, blackened at the fingertips from burns. His arms were scratched up and bloodied. “I didn’t want to destroy them. I didn’t want to become this.”

A gust of wind rattled the boards. The candle’s flame bent low, nearly snuffed out.

“Please,” he whispered, desperation bleeding into the word. “Tell me this wasn’t for nothing. Tell me there’s still a way. Tell me they’re somewhere safe in the Astral Plane, even if I can’t see them. Please.”

Silence.

He pressed his palms together and bowed his head, muttering prayers he barely remembered from before the Endust. “Folly… I only wanted to make something that mattered. I only wanted them to live. To stay.”

He laughed again, quietly this time. “Maybe you’ll laugh too, won’t you? The fool’s creation—his paradise turned graveyard. It’s funny. It has to be.”

His voice trembled, he reached out for his dagger again, wanting it all to be over, but stopped himself before his fingers could wrap around the hilt again. He whispered, “I just wanted to save them. Save them all.”

A sound cracked outside his door. Talon flinched. The boards trembled. They appeared suddenly, surrounding him, multiple of them at every angle. He rose halfway to his feet, heart pounding. But then, he stopped. His shoulders fell. “No,” he breathed.

He slumped back down, the tears hot against his face. “Let them finish it.”

His voice dropped to almost nothing. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “For all of it.”

The candle went out.

Chapter Text

Prompts:

Doctor4t, Folly Pink, BonesBurrow

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RAT held his sword firm, his clothes stained in the pink that coated teh walls and ruins of Bonesburrow. The blades' edge gleamed faintly in the sun above them, reflecting the sweat and ash on his face. The Mason—Arathain—stood before him, chest rising and falling, the tip of the blade pressed just beneath his throat.

The cavern was silent except for the low hum something unrecognizable that filled the air like a second heartbeat. The smell of burnt stone hung over them.

“You changed it,” RAT hissed. His voice was low, almost a growl. “You tampered with the ore. You lied to everyone.”

Arathain met his eyes. “I changed what needed changing.”

“You played god,” RAT snapped. The sword pressed closer, drawing a thin red line across Arathain’s neck. “You twisted the world for your own gain.”

“For their gain,” Arathain whispered back. His tone cracked, not in anger, but exhaustion. “I saw what was coming, Doctor4t. The greed. The wars. Every fool mining until the world burned itself hollow. I tried to stop it.”

“Why?”

Arathain’s jaw tightened. “to buy us time.”

RAT stepped closer. “You don’t get to decide who lives and who starves.”

“And you do?” Arathain's eyes gleamed, yellow leaking through the cracks in his pupils, spider webbing across his face. “You think standing here makes you better than me? You’ve spilled blood for less.”

RAT’s grip tightened on the hilt. “You made me.”

For a moment, neither spoke.

“I never wanted you to see this side,” Arathain whispered.

“Too late.”

The blade cut through the air in one swift motion. A sickening sound followed—a sharp gasp, then silence. Arathain staggered back, clutching his chest. Golden chains erupted from the wound, spinning wildly, wrapping around his arms, his legs, his throat.

The air rippled.

“RAT,” he croaked, blood mixing with molten light. “You don’t understand—”

But the chains tightened, dragging him to his knees. The ground beneath them split open, veins gold bursting through the stone. RAT stumbled backward, raising his arm to shield his face as the heat surged.

“Arathain!” he shouted, though the words drowned beneath the roar.

The light became blinding. The fire swallowed everything—the chains, the sword, the stone—until only the flames remained.

And then, nothing.

Chapter Text

Prompts:

Folly, AfterLife, Old Friends

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The afterlife is not silent.

It breathes. Softly yet endlessly. Wind rolls over pale fields that stretch into eternity, brushing through grass that shimmers like glass. Rivers of silver mist wander lazily between hills, and ghostly fish drift through the air above them, scales glinting with faint blue light.

And there she was. She was known to all who lingered beyond life—a wanderer in white and pink. The one who visited forgotten souls and the strange spirits who built small villages in the mist. Where she stepped, the world flourished. Lanterns lit. Songs began again.

She liked visiting them. But today, she had come to see a friend.

The cabin stood alone on a hill overlooking a lake so still it could have been a mirror. Built from old spruce and polished stone, it looked oddly human among the otherworldly expanse. Smoke drifted from the chimney, curling into the violet sky. Folly paused at the door, her hand resting on the handle. She smiled faintly before knocking.

There was a pause. Then the door opened, and The Mason stood there.

Arathain had once been a builder among mortals—a creator of walls, towers, and dreams. But after... She pushed that thought away. Now, he was a quiet soul, his hands still strong but his eyes worn with decades of solitude.

“Folly,” he greeted softly, voice gravelly but kind. "You have found your way here again."

“You make it sound like you were hiding,” she teased, stepping inside. The room smelled faintly of woodsmoke and river water. Shelves lined the walls, filled with carvings of things long gone. Arathain poured tea without a word. The silence between them was gentle, not awkward.

“You’ve been walking again,” he said at last.

“Always,” Folly replied. “The planes change so much when no one’s watching. I saw a herd of Vethra by the southern ridges yesterday. They were luminous.”

Arathain smiled faintly. “You always bring light with you.”

Folly tilted her head. “You sound tired.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Maybe I am. Even death grows heavy when you live it long enough.”

The goddess studied him—the way his shoulders had begun to slouch more than they already did, the way his fingers fidgeted with the edge of his cup.

“You used to laugh more.” She said

“That was before laughter stopped being useful.”

Folly sighed quietly and looked toward the window. The afterlife’s horizon glowed faintly. “I remember when you built things for joy,” she said. “When you carved statues just to make Luxintrus smile.”

At her daughter’s name, Arathain’s expression faltered.

“How is she?” he asked, voice trembling slightly.

“She’s well,” Folly said gently. “Still headstrong. Still trying to outsmart fate. She’s been spending time with Diansu again, though I think she misses you more than she admits.”

The Mason stared into his cup. “She shouldn’t. I left her too early.”

“You were murdered, Arathain,” Folly said softly. “That’s not the same thing.”

He chuckled bitterly. “Feels the same to me.”

A long silence followed. Outside, the wind stirred the lake. Folly leaned forward. “You did good things, you know. Even if they hurt. You made the world safer... Even if all of them never thanked you for it.”

Arathain gave a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You always did try to comfort the broken.”

“I visit the ones who need it most,” she said. He looked at her, the lines of grief softening for just a moment. “And who visits you, Folly?”

She laughed quietly, caught off guard. “No one. I suppose that’s the trade for never dying.”

“I don’t envy you.”

“You shouldn’t,” she said. “Eternity is lonelier than death.”

He nodded slowly. The fire cracked between them. The shadows flickered across the walls like old memories of him and his daughter, dancing to old songs. After a while,

Arathain spoke again, voice quieter. “Sometimes, I still dream of home. Of sunlight. Of the smell of rain on stone. I dream of the day Lux came to me. And when I wake up…” He trailed off, staring into the flames. “I wonder if she'll ever forgive me...”

Folly reached across the table and rested a hand on his. Her touch was warm. She knew what she should have said, that it wasn't his fault. That there was nothing that they could have done to stop it. But different words left her lips. “She did,” she said. “Long ago.”

The Mason’s eyes glistened. “Thank you,” he murmured. He leaned back, hands pulling away from her. She looked past him, through the window that overlooked the lake. It was so peaceful out there. But it wouldn't be for much long. Folly saw the fear that plagued the mortal world, she knew two more souls would arrive soon, but she knew she couldn't stop it.

“What do you think about?” The Mason asked, pulling her away from her thoughts.

Folly’s eyes locked with his, a smile forming on her lips. “Have you ever taken a moment... a moment to appreciate this world we live in?”

Arathain returned her smile. “Watching the Endless Dusk?”

Folly nodded.

The two sat there for a time, the silence between them soft and easy. Through the open window, the wind carried the faint hum of spirits drifting beyond the hills.

“I used to hate silence,” Arathain said at last. “Back when I was alive, it meant something was wrong. Meant I’d failed someone again.”

Folly tilted her head. “And now?”

“Now…” he breathed, looking out at the still water. “Now it means peace. Maybe that’s all death really is—the silence we fight so hard to earn.”

Folly nodded, her fingers brushing against his hand—cool, ethereal light against the weight of a man who had carried so much. “You built this world from the ashes of your sorrow,” she said softly. “You’ve earned this quiet.”

Chapter Text

Prompts:

Charter, Narrator, Fear

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Nobody knew where it came from. It was unknown one day, but the next it seemed to be everywhere.

Charter. An ancient form of killing. But it was so much more than just killing someone. This kind of death was permanent.

In this world, most return. From the boiling lakes of lava in the Nether, to the blades of mortal kind, even the edge of the void itself—none of it lasts. You wake up again, shivering, gasping, cursed to keep living. But, something like The Dusks Epitaph... or The Lesser Divinity... that’s different. Once it marks you, you do not come back.

Then, he appeared.

A ghost, something that shouldn't exist. Mouthpiece.

He wandered from the shadows after The Mason’s death, stalking those who grieve, to those who feared. His voice promised an end to pain, an end to endless fighting. He offered a way out, a deal, a contract, a regret... And through these deals sealed in blood, your soul was his, but Charter was yours, something cursed and divine in the same breath.

I’ve seen what they do.

Arathain was the first. A father, a friend, a man who found meaning in the quiet rhythm of the stars. He spent his nights beneath open skies, charting constellations and tracing stories in their light. To some, he was a scholar; to others, a storyteller who could make the heavens themselves sing. He would laugh and dance with his daughter until dawn, spinning tales of old heroes and fallen gods, his voice carrying through the night like a lullaby against the dark.

But the stars that once guided him were silent the night he was taken. His life was ripped away in a brutal show of power, condemned for a crime born not of malice but of hope—an act meant to save the world that instead sealed his fate.

Void and Zombie were next. The two were brothers in arms. Void had the wit. Zombie had the will to live through anything. Until one night, they faced their friend under the darkened sky. Winsweep used a weapon he never should have obtained. The fight didn’t last long. Their screams were drowned by the explosions. Blake stood where his friends had been and laughed until his throat was hoarse. And when I saw them next... they weren’t the same.

Then came Diansu Vulkarch. The Elysium CRT Monitor. The man who built empires from nothing. He ruled with power greater than anything seen before. His friends tried to reason with him, begged him to stop before the world burned. But pride is poison. In the end, it was a Luxintrus’ hand that brought the blade through his head. Diansu fell without a sound. And the world felt quieter.

And then there was Luxintrus. She died saving another, pushing her friend away before it could kill him. The weapon tore through her chest, and for a moment... it was as if the stars themselves dimmed. Her friend never forgave themselves.

You see... Charter does not just kill. It reveals.

It shows what hides inside us when everything else is stripped away... Those who wield Charter think they’re bringing peace. But all they’re doing is showing the truth: that the monster was never in the blade.

It was always in us.

I’ve seen the marks, the trails of ash where they fell. I’ve seen what’s left behind when they never return home.

And now... when I hear the merchant whisper my name in the dark... I wonder what he’ll offer me.

Because everyone thinks they can resist him...

                                                                        Until they see the one person they’d kill for...

                                                                                                                                                 Or worse — the one they’d kill to save...

Chapter Text

Prompts:

Luxintrus, Positivity, Denial

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The sun rose on the seventh day, casting its golden rays through the windows onto her skin. And yet, it felt to Luxintrus as if it hadn’t risen at all. The warmth on her skin meant nothing—not after what she had done.

The memory was still too vivid, too sharp. His last words still echoed in her mind, not as accusation, but as something worse: A rally. A rally to troops that would soon come. “Long Live Oceana.” he had said before the blade struck his head. Lux had expected his empire to fall silent after his death, but the world had not stopped turning. The same banners still flew across the horizon. Will was waiting for their return.

Now, a week later, Lux had holed up in RAT's home. Far away from any meddling spies to know what she was really feeling.

Behind her, footsteps approached. It was RAT.

“You really should go to sleep” he asked. "At least for a bit."

Lux didn’t look up. “I can’t. Not until it feels right.”

RAT sighed, walking around the side of the couch and sitting next to her. “It’ll never feel right, Lux. You know that.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But we had no other choice.”

He nodded. The words were true, but truth didn’t make them easier to bear. Oceana would have swallowed the world if they hadn’t acted. And yet, as the two sat in the quiet aftermath, the victory felt hollow—like standing atop a mountain of bones.

“I keep thinking about what comes next,” RAT said. “Blake and Nox... if they return—”

“When,” Lux cut in. “There is no denying that they won't. But when they do, we’ll stop them again.”

She smiled then, and it was strange, the motion felt weird to her brain—too bright against the gloom of the dead world. A flicker of what RAT had always admired in her: that impossible, stubborn light.

“Positivity, huh?” he muttered.

“Freedom,” Lux corrected, meeting his eyes. “If we stop believing in that, then everything we did was for nothing.”

RAT hesitated, then nodded. For the first time in a week, Luxintrus let herself believe that maybe, someday, it would be enough.

Chapter Text

Prompts:

Noxintrus, Negativity, Revenge

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The moon rose on the seventh night, casting its pale light across the empty city of Oceana, making it feel much more dead than it already was. But to Noxintrus, it felt more like an empty city. The pain in his heart blinded him with rage—after what Lux had done.

The memory was vague, only knowing what Blake told him. His words still echoed in his mind. What Diansu said was not his grand finale, but a beginning to the fury that would follow.

A declaration of war. And it came with Diansu's last words: “Long Live Oceana.” Said before the killing blow was brought down upon him.

Nox believed the people of Spawn expected Oceana to crumble from his death, but it would not do anything of that sort. Oceana would still rule. Its banners raised higher than ever before. Him and Blake and Will would finish what Diansu started.

Even now, only a week after, Will laid out his plans. Plans to retake Spawn, Rattenheim, Markhett, Gitaly, the far reaches of the world that had no ruler.

Behind him, footsteps approached. It was Blake.

“You shouldn't be here” he muttered.

Nox looked into his eyes. “I know. I shouldn't. I just...”

Blake sat next to him, legs dangling over the cliff that overlooked the city. “Can't accept it?" He finished for him. "We probably won't ever be able to."

“I know,” Nox bit back tears. “But I still feel like I could have done something.”

Blake nodded. It seemed possible they could have escaped NeverEnd sooner, maybe they could have caught Diansu in the battle and saved him. Maybe it was denial speaking. Maybe. Nox ran his hand through the grass, what lay ahead felt so impossible to get through—like the weight of a mountain on their backs.

“I keep thinking about what comes next,” Blake said. “When we take Spawn and kill RAT and Lux...”

“If,” Nox cut in. “There is no proving we can win. But if we do, then we can lay him to rest.” He smiled then, and it was strange, it felt too soon to talk about a proper burial—too soon to mention his name.

“All this, for him,?” Blake said.

“Not all of it,” Nox corrected, eyes drifting over the city.

"Than what is it?" 

Nox hesitated, then nodded. "Revenge."

The word hung in the air, but neither spoke. But for the first time in a long while, Noxintrus let himself believe that maybe, someday, everything would be okay.

Chapter Text

Prompts:

Free Bird, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Winsweep's Therapy Routine

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The engines of The Free Bird howled through the sky, cutting through the clouds like a knife through silk. The deck rattled, pipes screeched, alarms blared—but over it all, Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Free Bird blasted from the ship’s speaker system, echoing through the cockpit, through the main hull where everyone else was, and across the open air over Spawn.

Winsweep stood at the wheel, mask off, smiling crookedly. His grin was wide, wild, and unhinged. “Ain’t she beautiful!?” he shouted over the roaring engines.

“Blake, you’re insane!” Void yelled, gripping the back of the co-pilot’s chair as the ship pitched downward. “We’re going to die!”

Zombie was at the back door, pushing his full weight on the door as Luxintrus and RAT pounded on the metal, shaking the handle, doing everything in their power to get in. “You can’t just crash a ship for fun!” He cried.

But Blake only laughed harder, slamming one hand on the lever and the other on the wheel. “It’s called living, boys! If I’m going down, I’m taking this beauty with me!”

The horizon tilted violently—Spawn came into view, a glittering collection of builds and lights.

“Blake! PULL UP!” Void screamed.

“Can’t!” Blake howled with laughter as the guitar solo reached its crescendo. “She’s free now!”

The sky turned to flame as the airship burst through the final stretch of clouds. Zombie clutched his seat, eyes wide, fingers pale. “We’re gonna die to classic rock!”

“Best way to go!” Blake roared, voice cracking with manic joy.

The Free Bird dove, engines screaming, fire trailing behind her like the tail of a comet. The final note of the song rang out just as the ship struck the ground—an explosion of light, sound, and chaos.

For a moment, the world was still.

Then a single, charred speaker crackled in the wreckage.

'Won't you fly high, free bird, yeah'

Chapter Text

Prompts:

NeverEnd, Repeating, The Abyss

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The water hummed like the whisper of something breathing beneath the tiles.

He didn’t know how long he’d been walking. Days? Months? Years? Time didn’t mean anything here. The halls stretched forever—white walls, blinding white light, water that lapped at his ankles, always clean and cold. There was no end, only corners that led to more corners.

He held his son close. Though it was only a small pool fish that followed him everywhere. It darted beside his feet, weaving through the shallow water. He had named it. He talked to it often. “We’re almost there,” he would whisper. “Just a few more halls. There has to be an exit somewhere.”

His voice echoed across the bright hallways. No one ever answered.

He passed the same mossy wall for the seventh—no, the seventy-seventh—time. The green vines stretched down to the floor, hiding the pale blue tiles beneath. They were different. Maybe that is why the moss grew here and no anywhere else. He used to think it was a marker, that it meant he was making progress. Now he wasn’t so sure. Sometimes, he could swear the missing tile moved.

He laughed softly at the thought, rubbing the edge of his arm where the water had turned his skin pale. “You think it’s funny too, don’t you?”

The fish blinked up at him, or maybe that was just the light refracting.

Once, he found a door. It was locked. Sometimes he found staircases that led down, but they always ended in more water. He’d tried following the current once—it had taken him in a perfect circle. When he realized, he screamed until the walls shook.

Now, he just smiled.

He passed another corner and froze. There was a new sound—dripping. Slowly, steadily, echoing from somewhere below. He crouched, peering into the rippling water. The black holes of the mask staring back.

“Do you see that?” he pointed, crouching down to meet the water.

The fish swam closer.

He stumbled back, laughing. “That’s new,” he whispered, though his voice cracked. The laughter came again, louder this time, bouncing endlessly through the halls.

He kept walking, still laughing, still talking to the fish.

Somewhere behind him, the dripping grew louder—like something rising from the abyss beneath the tiles.

He didn’t turn around. He just kept walking, whispering, “We’ll find it soon. We have to.”

The halls hummed back.

Chapter Text

Prompts:

Asai Hatsuyo, Inkclipse, Before Lux's Death

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Asai sat at the table, pipe in hand, the smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. The wood beneath his boots creaked as he leaned back, eyes fixed on the world beyond the window.

Outside, the land stretched endlessly—ink rain, grey horizons, even the sun was bloodied. The wind no longer sang. It only carried the ghosts of what once was.

He drew in a slow breath, the ember at the end of his pipe glowing faintly. Then he saw it—the yellow light. It began as a shimmer over spawn, over Markhett, and then it bloomed, bright and unnatural, spilling across the horizon like molten glass.

The clouds above sprouted red lighting before recoiling in on themselves.

Asai exhaled, smoke escaping his mouth. “So this is how it ends,” he murmured. His reflection in the window looked older than he remembered—tired, almost at peace.

He set the pipe down, its ember fading. Slowly, he rose from his chair, boots thudding against the old floorboards. He adjusted his coat and glanced once more at the pale horizon.

“It’s time,” he said quietly. “I need to be there… for the main event.”

And without another word, he stepped out into the dying light.

Chapter Text

Prompts:

The Mason, Hunting, Living In The Moment

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The forest was alive with light that afternoon.

The sun's rays poured through the canopy above, scattering across the moss and leaves in gold and green. The shadows of the treetops swayed gently in the breeze, painting the world in slow, shifting patterns. The air was warm, full of birdsong and the hum of insects. It all felt so... alive.

The Mason moved quietly through the underbrush, his hand rested on the bow slung across his shoulder, eyes scanning the forest floor for signs of movement. Behind him, Luxintrus followed, her boots crunching the dried leaves.

She was trying to be quiet—he could tell—but patience had never come easily to her. Every few steps, she peeked over his shoulder, eager and restless.

“Slower,” Arathain whispered, holding up a hand. “The woods will tell you where to go if you listen.”

Lux pressed her lips together and nodded. Her bow over her shoulder, just like his. But her crossbow hung at her side, the red crystal bolt shimmered faintly in the sunlight.

They stopped near a clearing, where a young deer grazed by a pool of still water. Arathain crouched low, gesturing for Lux to do the same. “We wait,” he said softly. “Patience brings the good things.”

Lux’s fingers twitched around her crossbow. “But what if it leaves?”

“Then it wasn’t ours to take,” he murmured.

She frowned, lowering her gaze. The wind shifted, rustling the leaves above them. A ray of sunlight fell across her face, catching in her hair. She was so full of life—too much of it, sometimes. And he loved her for that. But the forest was a quiet teacher, and quiet was something she had yet to learn.

Minutes passed. A bird took flight in the distance, and the sound startled the deer. It raised its head, ears twitching. Arathain froze, steadying his breath, motionless. But Lux couldn’t wait any longer. Before he could speak, she aimed and pulled the trigger. A streak of crimson light tore through the clearing. The deer let out a short cry before collapsing near the water’s edge, its reflection rippling away into nothing, red spilling into the water.

Lux exhaled, lowering her weapon, a bright smile spreading across her face. “I hit it,” she whispered. “I really hit it!”

Arathain stood slowly. His bow hung useless in his hands. He looked at the fallen deer, then at her. The sunlight caught in his eyes, but it didn’t warm him. She was so proud, and she had every reason to be. But instead of pride, he felt something else—something heavy and sharp in his chest.

He wanted to tell her she’d done well, that she was learning. But the words wouldn’t come.

He turned and walked away, the forest suddenly too bright, the air too full of sound. Each step felt heavier than the last until he stopped behind an old oak, its branches casting cool shade across the roots. He leaned against the trunk and sank to his knees, the bow falling from his grip.

He pressed a hand to his face, but the tears came anyway—quiet and unrelenting. Things he hid away for so long.

He had tried to raise her right, to teach her the stillness that kept one alive in a world built on noise and chaos. But what if he was only teaching her to lose herself—to trade joy for discipline, heart for silence? What if he was failing her, just as he had failed so many others? He didn’t hear her at first. The soft rustle of her boots on leaves, the faint hitch in her breath.

“Father?”

Her voice pulled him back. He wiped at his face, forcing his breathing steady. “I’m fine,” he said. “You did well, Lux. You made the shot.”

She stepped closer. The sunlight caught in her eyes—golden, concerned. “You’re crying.”

He gave a small, broken laugh. “Just tired, that’s all.”

“Don’t lie to me,” she said quietly.

He froze, looking up at her. She was too sharp for her age—saw too much. Lux knelt beside him, her crossbow set aside. She hesitated, then wrapped her arms around him. For a moment, Arathain didn’t move. Then something inside him gave way, and he held her back, his shoulders shaking.

“I just want to do right by you,” he whispered. “I want you to have more than I ever did.”

She pulled back enough to look at him. “You already gave me everything that matters,” she said. “You taught me to care. You taught me to see the good in the world—even when it hurts.”

He stared at her, stunned into silence. The wind picked up again, rustling through the branches above. Sunlight shifted across the forest floor, dappling their faces in gold and green. For the first time in a long while, Arathain smiled.

“Maybe that’s enough,” he said softly.

“It is,” Lux whispered. “It always was.”

They sat there together, the world around them glowing with afternoon light. The shadows danced across the leaves, the forest breathing slow and calm.

When they finally rose, Lux took his hand. “Come on,” she said gently. “Let’s go home.”

And for once, Arathain didn’t feel like he was failing her. He felt like he was exactly where he needed to be—beneath the trees, in the light, with the person who reminded him what it meant to live.

Chapter Text

Prompts:

MoriyaShiine, Sky, The Great Beyond

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The wind whispered through the tall grass, carrying with it the faint scent of rain that never came. Moriya lay beneath the old oak tree, its roots curling like tired fingers around the earth. The world was quiet—too quiet—and that silence made him think.

Above, the sky stretched on forever, blue bleeding into the soft gold of late afternoon. The clouds drifted lazily, reshaping themselves again and again. One looked like a mountain, another like a ship, another—just for a moment—like a person reaching out to him. He smiled at that.

“What does it look like?” he murmured to no one. “The end, I mean.”

The words hung in the air, unanswered.

He thought about it a lot these days—what happens when the breath leaves, when thought fades, when time finally lets go. Would it hurt? Would it come suddenly, a sharp burst of light? Or would it be quiet, like slipping into water, the world above blurring until there was nothing but calm?

He tilted his head back, eyes tracing the faint shimmer of a crow gliding across the sky. “Maybe it’s beautiful,” he said, a little dreamily. “Maybe it’s not so bad.”

The oak tree creaked softly, its leaves trembling against the fading light. The shadows grew longer, pulling across the field in thin ribbons. Moriya reached up, fingers brushing against the air as though he could touch the sky itself. He wondered if those who’d gone before were watching him now—Arathain, Lux, Bon, and all the others. Maybe they were out there, somewhere beyond the horizon, beyond the clouds, waiting.

The thought made him feel lighter.

A yawn escaped his lips. The warmth of the setting sun wrapped around him like a blanket, and the ache in his chest softened. He shifted beneath the oak tree, the world dimming, his breath slowing to match the rhythm of the wind.

“If the end looks anything like this,” he whispered, voice barely a breath, “then maybe I won’t be afraid.”

His eyes closed.

And as the last light of day faded, he drifted into sleep—peaceful beneath the sky, dreaming of The Great Beyond.

Chapter Text

Prompts:

Gitaly, Island, Sea

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Gitaly shimmered like a jewel upon the endless blue. Its houses—painted in lime, rose, ocean blue, and yellow as bright as the sun—clung to the island’s sandy surface in cheerful defiance of the sea’s endless breath. The air smelled of salt and citrus, laughter drifting through narrow streets where flowers spilled from window sills.

Above it all, the lighthouse stood proud—a tall spire crowned with a golden lantern. Each night, its beam swept across the darkened waves, a guardian’s eye guiding sailors away from the jagged rocks and toward the open freedom of the ocean.

The sea whispered against the shore, telling old stories to anyone who would listen. Stories of lost travelers, of stars reflected in calm tides, of homecomings and departures.

And in that soft symphony of color, light, and sea breeze, Gitaly dreamed—forever waiting, forever shining.

Chapter Text

Prompts:

EightSidedSquare, Shades, Burning Bridge

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The forest was burning.

The air was filled with the beating of wings—hundreds of them—black silhouettes blotting out the faint light of the moons. The Shades were coming again, their bodies flickering like ash, their pale white eyes glimmering with a hunger that could never be satisfied.

Eight ran. His shoes splashed against the faded path, each stepped continuing the trail of blood he brought with him. Behind him came the ragged gasps of Talon—stumbling, shaking, tears streaming down his face.

“I didn’t mean to—” Talon choked, voice breaking as a branch lashed across his cheek. “I didn’t know they’d turn into that! Eight, I—”

“Keep running!” Eight barked, reaching back to grab his friend’s arm and yank him forward. “You didn’t know. You didn’t know, Talon!”

But even as he said it, Eight felt the lie burn his tongue. Talon had known—maybe not what would happen exactly, but something. The experiment, the power, the fragments of end portal frames. The creation that went wrong. The Shades were his mistake—and now they hunted them.

The trees thinned ahead, and the faint sound of rushing water grew louder. Through the fog, a bridge came into view—rope and wooden planks stretching across the gorge, and below, the roaring river. On the far side, silhouettes waved them forward—Lux and Diansu. Near them, Winsweep stood motionless, his hollow eyes watching the swarm.

“Come on!” Luxintrus shouted, voice nearly lost to the wind. “They’re right behind you!”

Eight’s lungs burned. His legs were numb, but he didn’t slow. He half-dragged Talon the last few steps until their feet hit the start of the bridge. The ropes creaked, planks swaying under their weight.

“Eight—” Talon started again, voice trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Save it,” Eight muttered, pulling him harder. “You can apologize when we’re alive.”

The bridge groaned. The river far below churned like boiling glass, its surface fractured by flashes of moonlight. Eight knew this was their only chance. The shades never wanted to cross. He didn't know why. Maybe they were too far from the portal fragments, or maybe there was something else keeping them away.

Then came a shriek.

A shadow descended from above, wings spread wide—a Shade, claws glinting like obsidian knives. Eight ducked just in time as it tore through the ropes behind them, sending shards of wood and cord spiraling into the water.

“Talon, run!”

They sprinted, hearts pounding. Eight squinted towards his friends, but when he did, his stomach dropped. Ahead, Diansu was kneeling by the support beam, hands glowing with a faint red light.

Eight froze, shouting ahead. “Diansu, what are you—”

“I’m sorry,” Diansu’s voice shouted back. His eyes flickered with something between hate and pain. “They’ll overrun the other side if I don’t.”

“Wait—no! We’re still—”

Click!

The explosion ripped through the air.

For a moment, there was nothing but white. It was so loud, but so silent at the same time. Eight watched in slow motion as the charges on the pillas detonated. The bridge tore apart beneath them, planks and ropes crashing into the abyss.

Eight and Talon were thrown apart.

The world spun—sky, river, fire, shadow—until the cold water slammed against them, swallowing everything.

Eight hit the surface hard, the shock ripping the breath from his lungs. He surfaced once, gasping, shouting Talon’s name, but the current dragged him down again. Something brushed past his leg, a vine, or maybe a root, coiling around his shoes. He kicked, twisted, struggled, but it only pulled tighter.

Through the rippling surface, he saw Talon floating near the edge of the current, arms thrashing, eyes wide. For a heartbeat, Eight thought he’d make it to the surface.

Then a shadow swooped down.

The Shade’s claws wrapped around Talon’s chest, dragging him upward and out of the water. His scream echoed across the river, cutting through the fog. Eight saw the silhouette, his flailing arms, the sudden jerk, then it stopped. The creature vanished into the fog with its prize.

Eight’s chest burned. The vines had wound tighter, wrapping around his legs, his waist, his chest. He clawed at them, lungs screaming for air.

He thought of Diansu—the look in his eye when he detonated the bombs. He thought of Amy and Nox and RAT and Moriya and everyone else—killed. And Talon—the one who made this hell possible, the one who never meant to.

Eight stopped fighting.

The river muffled the world, turning it into a dull, distant hum. His body swayed gently in the current, vines pulsing like veins, wrapping tighter still. Tiny bubbles escaped his lips, rising like silver orbs to the distant light above.

He stared upward at the faint gleam of the moon breaking through the fog and thought of what he’d said earlier. It’s not your fault.

Maybe it was. Maybe none of them were innocent. The vines tugged once more, and the last bit of light faded from his eyes. For a long time, there was nothing but the river. The water carried the ash of the fallen bridge, the broken ropes, the splintered wood. It carried the blood and the shadows of the dead.

Far above, the Shades circled like vultures, searching for new prey.

On the opposite bank, Diansu stood at the edge of the rubble, watching the black river twist below. His face was unreadable, the faint glow of his circuitry reflected in his eyes. Winsweep and Lux stood behind him, silent.

“Did they make it?” Lux asked quietly.

Diansu didn’t answer. His gaze lingered on the shattered ropes and planks, hanging limp in the breeze. The swarm of the beasts on the other side halted, not daring to go across.

“No,” Winsweep muttered, looking away. “They didn’t.” He eyed Diansu. "You did what you had to. Come on, let's go."

The group turned and left, disappearing into the tree line as the Shades’ cries echoed across the valley.

And beneath the river, in the cold dark silence, Eight’s hand drifted free of the vines for a moment, palm open, reaching toward a light that would never reach him. The current carried him deeper into the Abyss, where all sound died, and even memory could not follow.

Above the water, the sky wept. The bridge was gone. The chase was over.

And the river whispered its secret—of two who ran, one who wept, and another who finally let go.

The world moved on.

Chapter Text

Prompts:

Nautilux, Anchor Blade, Continuing The Cycle

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The sky was ash.

The water was murky gray.

The land was dead.

The current still flowed, carrying broken scraps of machines and the faint echo of things that once lived. The ocean around her was not the blue she had once home to know. It was black, thick, and motionless, as though even the waves had died long ago.

Nautilux sat at the edge, boots hanging over the precipice of the underwater trench, her reflection barely visible in her glass helmet. The Anchor Blade lay across her lap, its once-brilliant edge dulled and cracked, the runes along its hilt faded.

She ran her fingers along its surface. The metal was warm, even after all this time.

“This blade,” she whispered to herself, her voice trembling between bitterness and memory. “It was supposed to save my world.”

But it hadn’t.

RAT’s machines had burned through the oceans, the sky had fallen, and the rivers had boiled. She had fought, bled, screamed—and still, everything she loved turned to dust. Her home, her people, even the stars that once watched over her world had gone dark.

She traced a long scar on the blade, the mark of her final battle. “Maybe it was you,” she said softly, eyes narrowing. “Maybe you were the curse. Or maybe the version of me who carried you was the real mistake.”

The thought lingered—the possibility that the other Luxintrus, from another reality, had handed her this weapon as a gift… or a burden. Maybe this relic was never meant to save. Maybe it was the key that doomed everything.

The current shifted, carrying with it the faint hum of something divine, like a lullaby whispered through the end of time.

A voice followed with it

“Are you ready to go?”

Nautilux didn’t turn immediately. She knew the voice—she had heard it before. Long ago when she received the anchor.

Folly stood behind her, her eyes shimmering with galaxies long forgotten. Her presence painted the water surrounding in faint gold light, breaking through the endless gray.

“Does that mean its really over?” Nautilux murmured, tears forming but not flowing. Not yet.

Folly’s expression softened. “This world has run its course. You did what you could. It is time to move on.”

“Move on…” Nautilux repeated the words. She lifted the Anchor Blade, watching how the dim light caught its edge. "How can I move on when I still feel like a failure. I couldn't save them from him."

Folly stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the stone. “You tried. Tried your hardest. But some things don't end the way we wanted.”

“Traying wasn't enough, apparently.” Nautilux’s voice cracked, and for a moment, she looked small—the weight of infinity pressing on her shoulders. “What if all I did was make it worse?" Her grip tightened around the weapon. "Maybe I could destroy it. The Lux that gave this to me said their world was also destroyed. And the one before her was the same. And the one before her..." Nautilux barely blinked back the tears. "Maybe I can save the rest if I end it here."

Folly knelt beside her, the golden light dimming to match the sorrow of the air. “Do you really believe that?”

Nautilux hesitated. The current tugged gently at her clothes, trying to pull her with it. “I don’t know anymore.”

She looked at the blade again, running her thumb across the cracked runes. The metal hummed faintly in response—a remnant of power, or perhaps a memory of one. She thought of the laughter that used to echo through her world, the songs, the light of morning. All gone now.

She raised it slightly, gripping the hilt tighter. The idea of its destruction burned behind her eyes—freedom, finality, peace.

But then, as the reflection of the dead sea shimmered in the weapon’s edge, she saw something else: faces… All the fragments of lives intertwined with hers across time. People who had fought beside her, betrayed her, loved her.

To destroy the blade would mean forgetting them—erasing even the memory of what they once were.

She couldn’t.

With a trembling sigh, she lowered the weapon. “I can't be the one,” she whispered. “Maybe… maybe in the next world.”

Folly’s hand brushed her shoulder. “You have been carrying the weight for long enough, Nautilux. This anchor has kept you grounded—but it does not have to keep you chained.”

For a long moment, they stood in silence.

Finally, Nautilux stood, sliding the Anchor Blade across her back. She turned toward Folly, eyes glinting faintly with the last remnants of hope.

“Where to next?”

Folly extended her hand, glowing softly. “Beyond this place. Another cycle waits.”

Nautilux looked back once more—at the remains of her home, the shattered mountains, the black sea. For all its ruin, it was still beautiful in its own way.

“Goodbye,” she whispered to the wind.

Then she took Folly’s hand.

The air shimmered around them, and the light from Folly’s form grew brighter, wrapping them both in threads of gold and white. The trench, the ocean, the broken sky... It all began to dissolve, pulled into a horizon that no longer existed.

As the last fragments of the world fell away, Nautilux closed her eyes.

Somewhere, far away, she could already feel the pull of the next world. The next Luxintrus who would carry the torch. Hopefully she would end the eternal conflict Nautilx couldn't. But even if she didn't, the cycle would continue.

And she would, too.

In the end, all that remained was the echo of a goddess and a wanderer, leaving one dying world behind to walk into the next—together.