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The stasis breaks. Amon’s eyes open, seagreen in the sea of red that is his parlor. All is the same as he left it. Had his spell not protected the tower’s dwellers? This thought startles him to full alertness, whips his head from side to side and pushes him up and into a sprint.
Save for his heels echoing on the floors, the tower is eerily silent. If his spell had failed, the ruckus would have carried to his ears by now. Outside his curtains, palace staff previously frozen in time would have found themselves in his conundrum, the variety of security chimeras would have made noise. He specifically asked Glasya Labolas to sound the alarms should anything go against the plan, too; the man was singleminded, yes, but not so dull as to forget simple instructions, was he?
He might as well go ask the brute himself. “Glasya?” he shouts as he steps out into the winding spiral leading downward to his station. That he does not receive an immediate response doesn’t surprise. The crystal surface of the structure may echo his call, but not enough to reach floors below. What worries him more is the still-lifeless forms of the dragon and azers posted as sentinels while he secluded himself for the important spellwork.
The Horasis had shown the capital engulfed under the earth as the end Xande so fervently wished for came. Going against his liege’s will one last time—who was he if he didn’t seek the last laugh?—Amon decided to conduct a test: he halted time itself within these walls and lulled all into the slumber he’d just awakened from. Should humanity survive and thrive enough to undo the seal, perhaps it deserved to exist after all. If such a triumph of will did not come to pass in five thousand and five hundred years, an overly generous amount of time, each inhabitant along with himself would finally surrender their souls.
If the unlikely happened and humanity succeeded, Xande couldn’t be too mad. He’d get another chance at seeking oblivion if he still wished it. That was what Amon reassured himself with as he weaved his spell. Oh, the irony that life has given him other reasons to regret it. How long has it been since he made his decision? He cannot tell. That doesn’t stop the horrible hunch that the reason he breathes again is not from broken seals.
Curses hiss from under his breath as he dashes down the stairs, two at a time. Each tread seems longer and steeper, but he forces himself down faster in spite of aching limbs tired from the hours of spell-weaving. Finally, after what feels like an aeon, he stumbles onto the platform where Glasya Labolas lies prone; an unsettling sight, but exactly as planned. This is how he found himself only moments ago before his eyes opened against his will. But now, with only him awake as far as he’s aware, he wishes so dearly that there was someone else to blame.
His thumb rubs over his spherical ring in an anxious habit as he walks beside Glasya’s body. “Wake up, you dolt,” he mutters, nudging the head of guard with the toe of his boot. Nothing. Not a twitch, not a sound. “Did you even try to do your job?” He hopes for the usual deep rumble of Glasya’s old excuses he once found grating, but the silence persists.
This bodes ill. Everyone and everything else still sleeping says that time has stayed halted. But then, why is he awake?
… And why does the creeping itch of eyes on him follow him?
His head whips around, but sees no shadow or silhouette to pin his dread on. Hears no sound except his own breathing, too fast, too loud in the stillness. Smells no scent but the faint dust stuck in place in the air. He is alone. As he shouldn’t be, by all logic. As he should be, as penance.
A part of him wishes to go back to his parlor and wrap himself back in ignorance of whatever could have gone wrong. Maybe if he closes his eyes, he can fall back under. But curiosity, that most cursed of impulses, outweighs any desire to bury his head back in the sand. He resumes walking down to the lower floors of the tower. Scylla is the last person he wants to be alone together with… but her expertise in magic would be helpful in troubleshooting this mess.
Yet no matter what chamber he enters, it’s all the same. Scylla’s canine form too has been rendered immobile. Bodies of servants, courtiers, clones and chimeras all sit like statues exactly where they were left. Not a single soul awake but him. He’s checked every corner but the throne room… but when he attempts to steel his will to face the one person he cares about in this entire cursed palace, he fails miserably. What would his ideal outcome even be? Seeing His Majesty as stuck as everybody else, his frown’s permanence further enhanced? Or having to explain to him what he’s done, and why it has failed for them and them only?
No. He cannot face his failure so intimately. Instead, he finds himself wandering deeper into the underbelly of the tower, towards the dungeons. Surely the beast Xande demanded to be kept alive for ‘future study’—such a ridiculous lie—will be just as still. Maybe Skolopendra’s grimace has frozen too, a rare moment of peace from its endless suffering. That would be… something to look at.
His footsteps slow as he reaches the cell. Dread prickles down his neck like unseen claws.
The cage is empty, the vent above it wide open.
A ragged laugh escapes him, tinged with hysteria. “Of course you’d be the exception,” he mutters as he stares at the claw marks scoring the vent’s edges. He changes his mind: this is the last person he wants for company, if Skolopendra counts as any definition of person anymore. No wonder the air tasted of unease.
He should bolt. Barricade himself in the highest chamber. Instead, he stays to investigate like a fool. “You should not be able to open this by yourself,” he mutters as he traces the vent’s rim, as if the tower might answer. If he’d left it open in his meticulous preparations… well, kick him while he’s down, won’t you, world?
Then he hears it: the skittering of many legs, far too close. The sound freezes him in place. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck like spiders. He knows that sound, of too many joints flexing too quickly, of flapping wings, and it is not from one of his lesser chimeras. He holds his breath to better listen. There, again. Coming nearer.
Slow and silent, he forces himself to retreat to the corridor. His mana steadily returns, but he doubts any spell he knows will help much. The creature he made of Kirimu was always more spite than purpose, but he did make him exceptionally durable. And now it prowls the tower, looking for a meal.
The skittering grows louder. The scrape of claws on stone near-deafens his straining ears. Amon can no longer tell which direction the noise comes from, for its echo twists and warps in the resonant halls. With careful tiptoeing, he begins to edge back towards the main staircase; maybe he can hide in his parlor after all, if he can make it there without being seen—
The whip of a tail knocks his feet out from under him. He bites down a pained cry as his chin smacks into the floor. Sharp pain sparks up the side of his face. Blinking back the dizzying dark spots dancing in his vision, he scrambles to his knees. Something wet drips onto the brim of his hat knocked askew in his fall. A low rumbling growl resounds from behind that could tear a warrior’s bravery into pieces, and a breath that reeks of sulfur curls around his nape and locks his spine. He knows what he will see if he glances behind: the slavering maw, the unblinking eyes of red, claws that could snap his neck and rend his flesh in seconds.
“Is this any way to greet your maker?” he tuts with bravado. This thing should not kill him, at least; it has a biologically coded directive not to. But it has acted against the orders to harm him before; his wrist never bending quite the same after it chomped through it is a prime example. That concerns him more.
A huff follows, the heat of a breath scorching his cheek, then a low rumble that could be a sound of acknowledgement or much more dangerous. The pointed claws pinning one of his legs down do not let up as the creature leans down more to sniff at the blood seeping from his chin. Amon tries to keep still while the thing presses its cold snout right up to the wound. The rough texture forces a shudder.
“I get it, I get it, you’re hungry,” he grits out the obvious as a rough tongue laps up the blood. He gags from the stench of rot. “Let me go, you oversized fleabag, and I’ll feed you something proper.”
The creature pulls back with a wet, guttural sound, followed by wheezes and howls from the faces along its hide. Soon the pressure on his limbs recedes. He dares to roll over and face his most monstrous creation. Four pairs of eyes glow back at him, their pupils dilated to hungry diamonds. Something is missing from them: something human, the last spark of intelligence Kirimu could hang on to, with which he taunted him long after the operation that should have annihilated him. The madness in its gaze is of an animal that knows nothing but the hunt and the kill.
“Look at you, all teeth and no wit,” Amon murmurs, forcing a smirk despite the throbbing in his jaw and the hammering of his pulse. “Seems I win after all.” It’s a hollow victory, having naught but voidsent for company in this predicament. He drags himself to his feet, one hand braced against the wall for balance, and gestures for the beast to follow. “Come along, then. I’ll fetch you something worth eating.” Before you decide I’m the meal. And he might as well get himself a potion while he’s at it.