The landing was not gentle.

  Eliza hit the ground hard, the air knocked from her lungs as she tumbled across the gritty surface. Sand clung to her skin, fine and dark, like soot mixed with ash. She gasped, coughing as she sat up, her head spinning. The world around her swirled with a thick, suffocating mist, the air heavy and humid, carrying a stench that turned her stomach—death, decay, and something faintly metallic, like rusted iron.

  When her vision steadied, she took in her surroundings and froze.

  The land, if it could even be called that, stretched out before her like a broken nightmare. Once-grand spires jutted into the sky, their skeletal remains crumbling and jagged, casting haunting shadows against a dim and blood-red horizon. The sky above churned with thick black clouds, laced with flickers of violet lightning that illuminated the decay for brief, sickening moments. The ground beneath her was cracked and uneven, riddled with black veins that oozed a viscous, tar-like substance. Pools of it bubbled faintly in the distance, their surfaces reflecting the flashes of light like grotesque mirrors.

  Everywhere she looked, the remnants of what must have been beauty lay in ruin. She could imagine how it once might have looked—elegant towers of obsidian and silver, grand bridges arching over glimmering rivers, and gardens alive with strange, otherworldly plants. But now? Now it was a wasteland.

  The air was cold and damp, clinging to her skin like an unwelcome embrace. The oppressive smell of rot was overwhelming, and with every breath, it seemed to seep into her lungs, making her cough.

  “Where…?” she whispered, her voice trembling. She looked around frantically, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  Eliza opened her mouth to call out to him, but before the words escaped, he was already there. He emerged from the swirling mist like a ghost, his pale form stark against the rotting landscape. His glowing eyes locked onto hers, their intensity freezing her in place.

  “Remember, you swore,” he said, his voice low and commanding.

  Her breath caught as the memory resurfaced. She had sworn, but the weight of that vow now felt like a shackle around her mind. What exactly did I swear to? she wondered, her fear bubbling to the surface.

  “What the hell?” she muttered, her voice trembling.

  “Call me Tenebrae, Prince Tenebrae,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Not my real name. Not ever, unless I ask it of you.” His expression softened slightly, though the sharpness in his tone remained. “You want to talk, and I promise I want to as well, but this is not the time. My home—this place—is not right. It hasn’t been for a very long time.”

  Eliza hesitated but nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. “Alright,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Where…where are we?”

  Tenebrae gestured to the decayed land around them, his skeletal fingers cutting through the air like a blade. “This is the Kingdom of Goodnight,” he said, his voice tinged with something between sorrow and bitterness. “In the Realm of Nighttime.”

  “Is this Earth?” she asked, her voice trembling, fear laced in every word.

  “No,” he replied, his gaze distant. “This is not your realm. But we do have humans. Humans who don’t rely on such poorly crafted… gunners’ tools, as you call them.”

  Eliza blinked, confused. “Poorly made? They shot me! I think they did just fine!”

  Tenebrae scoffed, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “And that’s all they did—fire small projectiles. No water magic, no fire magic, no ingenuity. Pathetic.”

  Eliza stared at him, her mind reeling. The world around her was alien, broken, and unsettling. The air itself seemed to hum with a strange energy, and her vision was… different. She blinked several times, trying to adjust, but the sensation wouldn’t leave. It was as if she could see things she shouldn’t—details about herself that weren’t visible before.

  “What’s… greater healing?” she asked suddenly, the words spilling out before she could stop them. She looked at her hands, then down at her body, and saw something impossible: faint, glowing lines tracing the outline of her form, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. It was as though she could see her own health, her vitality, and the lingering effects of the spell he had cast.

  “Status effect…” she muttered, her voice shaking.

  “What did you say?” Tenebrae asked, his head tilting slightly as he studied her.

  Her wide eyes flicked to him, and above his head, she saw it—a faint label hovering just out of reach of reality: Undead Lich.

  “Undead Lich?” she whispered, her voice cracking.

  He nodded, unbothered. “It’s what I am,” he said plainly. “What I have been for centuries.”

  Eliza took a step back, her mind racing. “What does that even mean?”

  “It means I am neither alive nor dead,” he said, his tone calm and almost bored, as though he’d given this explanation countless times before.

  When they finally reached the castle, the weight of disappointment only deepened. The grand halls of the Kingdom of Goodnight, once bustling with thousands of servants, echoes of laughter, and the hum of life, now stood hollow and silent. The air carried the chill of abandonment, and every step through the desolate corridors sent a faint echo, as though mocking the grandeur that once was.

  Eliza followed Tenebrae cautiously, her eyes wide as she took in the crumbling state of the castle. She had imagined something grand and imposing, and while the architecture still hinted at its former glory, decay had taken its toll. Columns were cracked, cobwebs clung to the high vaulted ceilings, and the once-vivid murals on the walls had faded to muted whispers of their past beauty.

  Then, from the shadows, three figures emerged.

  The first was a doll, her face delicately stitched, her her brown cloth skin flawless despite the fine web of seams across her body. Her eyes, though glassy, were piercingly beautiful, and she moved with a precision that was both graceful and unnerving. She wore a formal librarian’s attire, her every motion as if dictated by invisible strings. Eliza couldn’t tear her gaze away.

  The second was a butler—if he could even be called that. He was made of tin, his metallic body worn and dented in places, giving him the appearance of a soldier long past his prime. He wore a tank top that seemed oddly casual, but his expressionless face betrayed no emotion. In his hand, he carried a concertina, its bellows sagging slightly with age.

  The third was a centaur-like creature, though where her lower half should have been equine, it was insectoid. Her scorpion tail twitched menacingly behind her, and her chitinous legs clicked faintly against the stone floor. She was beautiful in a haunting, predatory way, her sharp eyes darting nervously to Tenebrae.

  Eliza noticed one thing immediately: they all seemed to fear him.

  The doll curtsied deeply. “My lord,” she said in a soft, lilting voice.

  The butler bowed, his metallic frame creaking. “Welcome back, my prince.”

  The centaur shifted uneasily, her tail swaying. “We had no word of your return, my lord.”

  Tenebrae raised a hand, silencing them. “I don’t need pleasantries. Gather what’s left of the court and meet me in the throne room. Now.” His voice was commanding, leaving no room for argument.

  The court assembled before him, though calling it a “court” seemed laughable. Out of the thousands that once filled these halls, only three remained: the walking doll, the tin butler, and Lady Aura, the centaur. They approached cautiously, their movements hesitant, their fear of Tenebrae palpable.

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  Each bowed deeply before him. Tenebrae’s green eyes glowed faintly as he addressed them. “Lady Aura,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Report.”

  Lady Aura’s hooves clicked nervously against the stone floor as she stepped forward. Her elegant figure was marred by unease, her scorpion tail twitching in agitation. “My prince…” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “much has changed in the time you were… away.” She hesitated. “It has been… around 150 years since you left.”

  Tenebrae’s gaze snapped to her, his voice sharp and icy. “I was cast out, Aura. Cast out. By that unseemly spell. Do not mistake it for me leaving willingly.”

  Lady Aura stiffened, her eyes darting to the floor. “Yes, my prince,” she murmured, her tail curling tightly behind her.

  The walking doll, a figure entirely stitched from fabric and cotton, stepped forward next. Her movements were eerily smooth, as though guided by invisible strings. She wore a formal gown that swayed delicately with each step, her glassy eyes gleaming faintly in the dim light. “My… master…” she began, her voice soft and wavering, “you must remember that… you…” Her words faltered under Tenebrae’s intense gaze, and she immediately fell silent.

  “Enough,” Tenebrae said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He straightened in his seat, his skeletal hand gripping the armrest. “Let it be known from this moment forward: I have decided to take for myself the Immortal Crown.”

  A stunned silence fell over the room. Lady Aura’s tail froze mid-twitch, and the doll’s glassy eyes widened slightly. Even the tin butler’s creaking frame seemed to shift with tension. None of them spoke, their shock apparent. The declaration rippled through them like a physical force.

  Eliza, sitting quietly at the edge of the room, blinked in confusion. She didn’t fully understand the significance of the statement, but the reactions of the others made it clear this was monumental. She watched as they exchanged uneasy glances, their faces a mix of fear, respect, and disbelief.

  Tenebrae turned his attention to Zanac, the tin butler, who stepped forward with a deep bow. His metallic frame creaked as he adjusted his posture. “My prince,” Zanac began, his voice even and deliberate, “if you recall, your father commanded an army of 100 generals, dukes, archbishops, and countless servants, slaves, and soldiers.”

  “Correct,” Tenebrae said, his voice cold. “And now?”

  “Enemies, my lord,” Zanac replied bluntly, his voice echoing in the empty hall. “Armies of enemies. Made for you.”

  The reality settled like a heavy weight in the room. By the end of the meeting, it was painfully clear: this kingdom was no longer a beacon of power. It had fallen. The Kingdom of Goodnight was little more than a shadow of its former self, surrounded by foes and stripped of its strength.

  Later that evening, Tenebrae sat at the head of a long, decrepit dining table in the dimly lit hall. The faint glow of flickering sconces barely illuminated the ruined space, casting long shadows that danced across the cracked walls. The remnants of an ancient feast were long gone, replaced by tarnished silverware and plates with edges chipped like jagged teeth. In one hand, he swirled a glass of dark liquid, lost in thought, his glowing green eyes staring through the table as though it weren’t even there.

  Eliza’s voice broke through his silent reverie. “Is there something I can… eat?”

  Tenebrae blinked, his head tilting slightly as if her words were foreign to him. The request lingered in the air, drawing his focus back to her. Food, he thought. Of course. She is human. I haven’t had to eat in so long that I no longer remember what hunger feels like. Even though I wear this body again, I am still a lich.

  He looked at her, silent for a moment. His mind drifted back to the meeting earlier, to the faces of his remaining servants as they questioned her presence. A human in the Kingdom of Goodnight was an anomaly—a fragile, fleeting thing in a place ruled by the eternal. He had brushed their concerns aside, telling them to treat her as a guest. But now, even he wondered: Why is she here?

  Do I see her as a pet? The thought struck him, but he dismissed it almost immediately. Perhaps as mana? He shook his head slightly. No… I need to stop lying to myself. Even though I do not feel emotions as they do, I understand one thing: this human female saved me. His gaze softened ever so slightly as he watched her fidget nervously across the table. I may as well make her my queen. The thought lingered, strange yet undeniable.

  “Umm… sir,” Eliza asked again, her voice small but insistent. “Food?”

  Tenebrae sighed and set the glass down. “Yes,” he said finally. He summoned Zanac with a wave of his hand, and within minutes, Lady Aura appeared, carrying a modest tray of food. Eliza’s relief was visible as the scent of warm bread and roasted vegetables filled the room.

  Tenebrae glanced at Zanac. “Do you still maintain a collection of clothing?” he asked, his voice measured.

  “Why, of course, my prince,” Zanac replied with a slight bow. “In the quarters of your father, the late king.”

  Tenebrae stood from the table, his skeletal hand resting briefly on its edge as if to steady himself. His glowing green eyes swept over the remaining servants, their fear barely concealed behind submissive faces.

  “Please treat our guest as if she were me,” he said simply before turning and leaving the dining hall.

  The room fell silent as his footsteps echoed away. The word hung in the air like an unfamiliar melody: Please. The servants exchanged nervous glances, their thoughts mirroring one another.

  Since when does the young prince not demand?

  The stitched doll, walking with a slight limp, approached Eliza cautiously. She curtsied, her glassy eyes shimmering faintly. “Please tell me if the meal is not to your liking, and we can prepare something else,” she said, her voice soft, wavering between formality and unease.

  The centaur nodded, her hooves clicking softly on the stone floor. “I concur,” she added, her tone more confident, though her tail’s movements betrayed her nerves. “You are a guest of Prince Tenebrae. It would be our honor to see to your comfort.”

  Both of them, and even Zanac who lingered silently in the background, were thinking the same thing: This feels like the prince. It even looks like him, before he forsook his full humanity. But… is it truly him?

  Tenebrae didn’t wait long to retreat to his father’s chambers. The heavy wooden door groaned as he pushed it open, revealing a room that felt like a ghost of its former self. The ornate furniture was intact, but the grandeur was dulled. Dust had claimed the edges of shelves, and the once-bright colors of tapestries and rugs had faded into muted shades. The bookshelves, once lined with ancient tomes, were now bare, save for a few neglected volumes, their pages warped and brittle. The air smelled faintly of age and abandonment, like a tomb sealed for centuries.

  He walked to the wardrobe and pulled open its creaking doors. The royal robes of the Undead King hung before him, untouched by time. He reached out to lift them, the fabric cold and impossibly heavy in his hands. He hesitated, his thoughts unraveling like the frayed threads of the robe.

  I can’t fill his shoes, he realized, the weight of that truth pressing down on him. I haven’t even mastered the crown, and it will test me. It will punish me for running from it. For all the choices I made on impulse, I never thought I’d find myself here—looking back at a kingdom that has been without power for over 150 years.

  His gaze wandered the room, taking in its preserved state. Unlike the rest of the castle, which had succumbed to decay, this room was oddly well-maintained. He frowned, the question gnawing at him. Why? Why is this place untouched when everything else is falling apart?

  Setting the robes aside, he instead pulled on his princely garments. They were lighter and simpler, yet they felt alien against his skin, as though they belonged to a different time and man. He looked down at his hand, the bones stark against his otherwise restored flesh. He flexed it slowly, the motion mechanical, devoid of warmth. In the end, he chooses to forsake all clothing and return to the nude he turns toward the bed. The linens were fresh, the surfaces clean, as if someone had been tending to the room regularly. It didn’t make sense. As he approached, his sharp eyes caught sight of a small object beneath the bed. Crouching, he reached down and pulled it out—a voodoo doll.

  It was old, its stitches frayed, its form worn from years of use, yet it pulsed faintly with magic, a subtle hum that he could feel in his skeletal hand. He turned it over, inspecting its details.

  It’s active, he thought, his brow furrowing. But who placed it here? And why?

  He sat at the desk, placing the doll before him as the moonlight spilled through the cracked window. The Forever Moon hung high in the sky, its pale light casting a silvery glow across the room. For the first time since he became a lich—over 500 years ago—he felt it.

  He looked down at his body, his undead form mostly restored to flesh, save for his skeletal hand. He flexed the bones slowly, watching as the light glinted off their surface. The hand could move, could grasp, but it felt lifeless, a constant reminder of what he was.

  For the first time, the realization struck him with unbearable clarity: I am ugly. Not just in form, but in existence.

  The thought weighed heavily on him, his mind spiraling into questions he couldn’t answer. Should I care? Should I even try? Should I live… or should I end this wretched existence?

  The room was silent, save for the faint rustle of the scroll on the desk. He picked it up, tossing it lightly into the air. The scroll suspended itself, unraveling as it burned with an eerie green flame. News from the psychic channels filled the space before him, a litany of updates that painted a grim picture of the world outside.

  The more he read, the more somber he grew. The decay of his kingdom, the enemies gathering on its borders, the alliances broken in his absence—it all gnawed at him, widening the emptiness in his chest. He closed his eyes and cast a calming spell on himself, his voice steady but hollow. “Calm spirit.”

  The magic dulled the sharp edges of his thoughts, but the anger remained—a quiet, simmering rage directed at the humans who had trapped him, at Lilith who had betrayed him, at his father he couldn’t save, and at the kingdom that now lay in ruin.

  When the spell’s effects began to fade, he turned his gaze back to the doll on the desk. Its presence was a mystery he didn’t yet have the energy to solve. He leaned back, the moonlight spilling over him as he stared at his skeletal hand once more.

  For the first time in centuries, Tenebrae felt something he hadn’t expected: vulnerability. The weight of his existence pressed down on him, and he found himself caught between two equally unbearable truths. To end his life would be easy, but to live—to rule, to restore—seemed impossible. And yet, he sat there, undecided, with the Forever Moon bearing silent witness to his turmoil.