The twin moons sat high in the sky, their pale light spilling over the decayed halls of Goodnight. The kingdom, once teetering on the edge of revival, was now slipping back into disrepair, the weight of loss dragging it down once more.
Eliza walked through the empty corridors, her fingers trailing along the cold stone walls, tracing the cracks that had begun to form once again. She had tried—they had all tried—but without him, the very foundation of this place felt unsteady.
She sighed, memories whispering to her like ghosts in the dimly lit halls.
She remembered her first day here—how everything had been chaotic, surreal, overwhelming. The way they had arrived together, how he had stood there, naked and entirely unbothered, his sharp gaze scanning the ruins of his once-great home.
How he had ignored her for so long.
And how, little by little, she had seen the good in him.
She recalled their first major adventure, the laughter, the bonds formed, and the friends they lost. How their journey had changed them both.
She thought of Opal—tiny, fragile, saved by Tenebrae’s reluctant hand. Even now, Eliza saw the remnants of what they had built in Opal’s small, stubborn efforts to keep their home alive.
Everyone had their own way of coping.
Zanac buried himself in the dungeons, tinkering, speaking less and less to anyone.
Lady Aura spent their energy and mana tending the gardens, keeping them alive, as if she could hold onto the past through the flowers she and Opal had planted as a memorial.
Every time Eliza wandered into that garden, her chest ached.
Ten had been stoic, unreadable at times, but beneath it all, he had been gentler, kinder than any of the men she had known in her own world.
She pulled out a white-feather ink pen and a parchment, pressing it against the cold stone as she began to write.
Dear Diary,
This realm has no time and no date, so I will mark it as the realm of humans does.
It is the Month of Scor, on the twenty-fourth day.
I wake up some nights, crying his name, only to have Lady Mirabella or Aura comfort me.
In the first few nights, it was both of them. Now, duty calls them elsewhere.
The kingdom is fading again, just as it did before he came back the first time.
On nights like this, I think of Simon.
Of how I once looked at him with adoration. How I placed him on a pedestal only to realize, too late, that it was made of rotting wood.
How, the moment I did not live up to his expectations, the moment I tried to be something more, he crushed me.
I never told Ten about what happened between us.
I didn’t want to live in the past.
But some days, the past refuses to stay buried.
I remember the dirty bathroom floor and the way I barely had the strength to cover myself.
I remember the condescending look in his eyes.
The snide remark.
“Everything you touch turns to death.”
I don’t remember much before it. I remember puking my brains out, the laughter of Simon and his friends, the casual cruelty in their voices.
They had convinced one of the subjects to use its gifts on me.
They had thought it was funny.
I remind myself of this moment when I want to punish myself.
If I had been stronger then, if I had leveled up in this world faster, maybe… maybe Ten would still be here.
Her pen stilled, the ink bleeding into the parchment as her fingers trembled.
A sound.
Faint. Distant. A whisper carried by the wind.
Eliza’s breath hitched, her heart pounding against her ribs.
It was something she hadn’t heard in so long, something that shouldn’t—couldn’t—be real.
A melody.
Music.
It curled through the decayed halls like a forgotten memory, soft yet deliberate, unraveling the stillness that had settled over the kingdom.
Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out every thought except one.
She didn’t recognize the voice, but there was only one person who would play music there.
Ten.
The sound twisted, echoed, and danced along the stone corridors, making it impossible to tell where it was coming from.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
She didn’t care.
Eliza bolted, feet carrying her forward before she could think.
Eliza’s pulse quickened as she moved through the castle, the melody still haunting her steps, refusing to let her rest.
She turned a corner and nearly collided with Mirabella.
The living doll was frantic, rummaging through closets, overturning drawers, and pulling open doors that had not been touched in years.
Eliza stepped closer, brows furrowing.
“Mirabella…?”
The doll didn’t respond. She muttered something under her breath, her porcelain fingers trembling as she rifled through the scattered belongings of a long-dead prince.
“What are you looking for?”
Mirabella’s glass-blue eyes twitched, locking onto Eliza, but it was as if she wasn’t truly seeing her.
“The Little Master.”
The words were barely a whisper, but they sent a cold chill down Eliza’s spine.
“Mirabella?” Eliza tried again, but the doll had already turned back to her task, her movements sharper now, more desperate.
“The Little Master. The Little Master. The Little Master.”
Eliza’s breath hitched. This wasn’t normal. Mirabella had been like this ever since he died, but never like this. Never this detached.
“Are you okay?”
Mirabella froze, her delicate fingers clutching a scrap of fabric—an old, tattered piece of Ten’s cloak.
Then, slowly, she turned her head, her expression eerily vacant.
“I will be when I find him. I will be when I find him.”
Eliza stepped back. The doll’s voice was off, hollow as if the words weren’t truly her own.
And yet—she didn’t even seem to notice the music.
That alone made Eliza’s stomach churn.
The melody still drifted through the halls, beckoning her, calling her somewhere deeper.
Without another word, she pulled away from Mirabella, ignoring the lingering dread in her gut.
She followed the song downward.
The castle’s lower halls were colder than she remembered.
She descended into the dungeons, her boots echoing against the stone, the air thick with centuries of dust and decay.
And then—
She heard it.
A woman’s voice.
Eliza halted mid-step, her breath shallow, listening intently.
The music was clearer now. Soft. Slow. Haunting.
She moved forward carefully, following the melody until she reached a vast, open chamber.
At its center was a pool of water—but not like any she had seen before.
It was suspended.
Weightless.
Held in the air by sigils and glyphs inscribed along the walls and floor, forming a gravity-defying prison around the liquid.
Eliza hesitated, watching as ripples formed on the water’s surface—yet nothing touched it.
And then, the voice returned, weaving its song through the darkness.
“If you are near to the dark,
I will tell you of the moon.
Once it shone, soft and bright,
Now it fades into the gloom.”
Eliza’s fingers curled into fists.
She didn’t recognize the voice.
But the words—
They felt old.
“You will reach, hands like glass,
But the sky no longer knows your name.
The moon is in the night,
The moon is in the tide,
I hope you feel its light
Before the shadows pull you wide.”
The water pulsed, glowing faintly.
Eliza stepped closer, drawn forward despite every warning in her mind.
“The moon is in your hands,
The moon is in your bones,
But you can’t hold the glow
When the dark has taken you home.”
A pause.
And then, a whisper, almost amused.
“It does not much matter to me.”
Eliza’s breath came shallow, uneven.
“Who is singing?”
She didn’t dare say it aloud.
But she kept listening.
“If you are lost in the black,
I will whisper of the dawn.”
“It was warm, it was close,
But that world is dead and gone.”
Eliza swallowed hard.
The water flickered—images rippling just beneath the surface, shadows twisting into shapes she couldn’t quite decipher.
“You will cry, but the stars
Do not listen when the night is long.”
The song hweightedit.
A curse. A promise. A prophecy.
Eliza didn’t know which.
She only knew she had to keep listening.
“The moon is in the night,
The moon is in the tide,
I hope you feel its light
Before the shadows pull you wide.”
A shadow shifted beneath the water.
Eliza’s heart hammered.
“The moon is in your hands,
The moon is in your bones,
But you can’t hold the glow
When the dark has made you home.”
Something moved in the reflection.
Not her reflection.
Not any reflection she recognized.
The water shimmered, and the last whisper of the song echoed through the empty chamber.
“It does not much matter to me.”
Eliza staggered back.
A figure moved beneath the water, dark and sleek, shifting with unnatural grace.
Eliza felt a chill crawl up her spine as the Undine woman emerged from the floating abyss.
Her scales shimmered, dark green in some places, black in others, reflecting the dim torchlight that flickered in the dungeon chamber. Her long, flowing hair clung to her damp skin, strands drifting weightlessly like they had never fully left the water.
Then, her eyes found Eliza.
And they narrowed.
“You…” the woman murmured, voice low and sharp. “You are the human woman.”
Eliza hesitated. “The human woman?”
The Undine swam closer, her gaze flickering over Eliza with something between suspicion and urgency.
Then, her voice hardened.
“My daughter… Where is my daughter?”
Eliza’s breath hitched.
She knew exactly who this was.
“You’re… the mermaid?”
The word had barely left her lips before the Undine snarled, her sharp teeth glinting in the dim light.
“Do not call me that.”
Eliza’s hands shot up in surrender. “I apologize.”
The woman’s gills flared slightly, but she did not lash out again.
Eliza took a careful step forward, her voice softer this time. “I’m afraid I didn’t get your name before… before you… died?”
A tremor ran through the Undine’s muscular frame, and for a moment, her entire body tensed.
She still was not fully comfortable with being undead.
It had been… a time since she was raised, but the transition had not been smooth. The pain, the crisis of identity, the unnatural pull between life and death—it had all left its scars.
Her hands curled into fists, but when she finally spoke, her voice was not angry.
Just… weary.
“Where is my daughter?”
Eliza hesitated, then gave her the only truth she could.
“She’s in the garden.”
The Undine’s rigid form softened.
“A… garden?”
There was something almost vulnerable in the way she said it.
Eliza nodded. “Yes. She is in the garden, Miss…?”
The Undine grimaced, shaking her head.
“I am no Miss.”
She took a slow, deep breath, as if grounding herself.
“I am Una-Parn. Una is my name given… Parn is my name received."
Eliza stilled, recalling something Opal had once told her.
For the Undine, a Received Name was more than just a surname.
It could be the name of a father, a husband, or someone of great significance.
It meant something profound.
“Parn. That name… It belonged to someone important to her.”
Eliza offered a small, respectful nod.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Una-Parn.”
Before another word could be spoken, a metallic clanking echoed through the stairwell behind them.
A figure rushed into the chamber, panting, wide-eyed.
Zanac.
His polished tin body gleamed under the dim dungeon light, his usual graceful composure completely shattered.
His voice rose in alarm. “Lady Eliza?!”
Eliza turned, startled. “Zanac?”
His single glowing eye flickered as he scanned the scene before him, realizing what had just happened.
Zanac hesitated, uncertain how to proceed.
Eliza frowned. “What is going on?”
Her voice hardened, eyes locking onto the floating sigils around the pool.
“Why are we keeping Opal’s mother like this?”
Zanac tensed.
A nervous chuckle escaped his speaker, though it lacked his usual charm.
“Ah… well. That’s a rather… long story…”
He rubbed the back of his metallic head, his nervousness almost comical.
“Umm…”
His hesitation only made Eliza’s stomach twist.
She had seen this reaction before.
He wasn’t stalling because he didn’t want to explain.
He was stalling because there was no good way to explain it.
Necromancy.
Raising the dead was never simple.
And never without consequences.
