Zerin studied Ivan in the dim, cool ambient light that filled the library from no discernible source. By the glow of his crimson eyes, Zerin could make out every movement of his lips as each word left his mouth.
"There aren't many places like that one," Ivan repeated curiously, before giving a slow nod.
"Most certainly," he continued. "It was a place of true purgatory. Only there does one come to understand just how pathetic they truly are—something that cannot be grasped through the first death, only the number above seven."
Purgatory?
What an inaccurate word for such a place.
To Zerin, it was offensive to associate something like that with retribution. How could the deaths of others ever serve as preparation for anything divine?
Ivan studied the young man, his brow creasing.
"Surely you don't take me for someone so cruel." He shook his head, extending a hand toward Zerin despite the cavern between them. "I was never its author, nor would I ever rob you of that little delusion you've been clinging to." His expression softened into pity—mock pity.
He continued.
"No. Even if I'd possessed such an ability—which I did not—I would have left you and your beloved in that rotting cradle if it had been my choice."
Beloved?
Ecludia shifted where she stood, bewildered.
One moment, they had seemed like strangers. Yet when she looked at Zerin now, all she could see was something she had mistaken for the sharpness of his features not so long ago.
Crystallized pain.
Zerin stared straight ahead. Even the dullness of his gaze could no longer hide it from her, and when he finally spoke, it only confirmed what she had begun to suspect.
"I could have killed you then," Zerin said. "I'm glad I didn't. Because you are going to answer me."
Ivan regarded him for a long moment.
"Well, that could be discussed elsewhere." He paused, ignoring Zerin's words before continuing. "Though, I think I would have preferred that you spare me the torment of reliving those memories at all." A faint, bitter smile crossed his face.
"Unlike you, Zerin, I gained nothing of value from all that suffering."
Zerin's jaw tightened.
Ivan laughed.
The sound came in short, fractured bursts of breath, making it impossible to tell if the laughter was another facade.
Zerin knew him.
Beast.
Harvest.
Promised Lord.
Ivan was the old man from his First Nightmare—the father who had murdered his own son and fed the boy's flesh to the festival's participants.
He was real.
But how?
The library answered with a groan.
Ivan turned his head ever so slightly, keeping Zerin and Ecludia in the corner of his vision as he looked toward the far end of the library.
"We are nearing our destination." He inhaled quietly. "I have been exceedingly patient with you, Zerin."
Ecludia turned as well, her gaze following his toward the far end of the library as the groaning swelled into a thunderous drumroll. The sound rushed through the aisles, weaving between the towering shelves until recognition struck them both.
The maddening tide.
For a moment, no one moved.
Ecludia was the first to stir.
"Zerin," she called in vain.
The roar within the library deepened, pressing against the shelves until the wood itself seemed to strain. Pages trembled in their bindings. Dust sifted down from the floors above.
Ecludia sprang into action. Her empty hand shot out and caught Zerin's wrist.
"Zerin!" she called again. Her nails bit into his wrist, leaving pale crescents in his skin. "We need to go!"
Go?
To Zerin, the swarm of hags barely registered as an obstacle anymore. He had killed worse—slain dozens of them, and more.
It was all painfully clear to him: the crack of bone, the wet collapse of bodies, the way they folded like broken puppets when his blows tore them from their mortal coils.
Instead of retreating, he leaned forward.
Ivan.
The thought of him sharpened everything. His very existence made that moment feel unresolved.
"Zerin," she said again, quieter this time, as though she no longer believed she could reach him. "I don't want you to die for this."
Her hand remained locked around his wrist. Her pulse hammered against his skin—fast, uneven. It wasn't his rhythm. It should have remained distant.
Fear.
Something that didn't belong to him—something immaterial—bled into him through her touch. No longer did Zerin merely recognize it as her fear; he could feel exactly what she was clinging to.
It spoke to him with startling clarity.
She could have left him. Nothing Ivan had said concerned her, yet she had bound his fate to her own.
And then something else was born.
For the first time, he experienced what it meant to be rooted in someone else's fear.
Everything else began to settle. The anger that had been on the verge of awakening instead unraveled, retreating into the depths of Zerin's heart.
So, this time, when Ecludia pulled him, Zerin gave in.
Together, they fled.
Boots hammered against stone. The staircase ahead rose before them—the same one Zerin had descended while searching for her.
Ecludia led.
He followed.
Ivan remained where he was.
His hands were folded behind his back, his posture almost polite. He turned his head, watching them as they fled while atop that bookshelf.
Then the space they had occupied was swallowed.
The flood of madness tore through the very spot where Zerin and Ecludia had stood only seconds before, chasing them.
Ecludia couldn't help but glance over her shoulder, past Zerin.
Zerin never looked back.
Instead, he kept his eyes on her.
Her face had gone pale. Her lips parted as she struggled for a moment to find her voice.
"There are too many..."
"Just keep going," Zerin said calmly.