Eliza remained standing, unmoving. Her reddish-brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face scattered with freckles, a deceptive softness that belied the strength beneath. Her curvy yet toned form was tense, her fingers pressing lightly against the table as she processed everything that had transpired.

  Across from her, Zanac—the Tin Butler—gave Aura a knowing glance. Without a word, the woman inclined her head and quietly left the room, understanding the unspoken command.

  Zanac remained at Eliza’s side, the weight of his presence grounding her. He waited patiently, his metal fingers resting neatly at his sides, until she finally spoke.

  “How bad did I mess up?”

  A chuckle rumbled from the Tin Butler’s throat, his brass-rimmed eye glinting with something like amusement.

  “What, what—how bad did you mess up, you ask?” He folded his hands behind his back. “Well, I will say this—things ended better than I expected, but not as well as you may have wished."

  Eliza sighed, bringing her palm to her forehead. “Great.”

  She inhaled deeply, steadying herself before glancing at him. “If all of us go against her at the same time, can we win?”

  Zanac blinked. ”Us?”

  “Yes,” she said firmly. “You, me, Aura… and Mirabella.”

  For a moment, there was silence. Then, the Tin Butler threw his head back and laughed.

  “Oh, Mistress, what what—while we could certainly give her a run for her golden-laced underoos, victory is another matter entirely. Even the Prince himself struggled to fight her in the past.” His voice held an edge of something heavier now—remorse, perhaps. “It was one of the many reasons he became blind to her treachery… his love of her strength… and other assets.”

  Eliza swallowed, an unexpected pang tightening in her chest.

  Had she just doomed the kingdom?

  The weight of her words, her defiance—had she only pushed them closer to destruction? Her thoughts churned like a storm, threatening to pull her under.

  But she refused to let them.

  “Normally, in times like this, the servants are left to fight while the royal family retreats,” Zanac mused, his tone neutral.

  Eliza’s head snapped up, eyes flashing. “I am not leaving you all to die.”

  Zanac regarded her, his expression unreadable.

  “There has to be a way I can get stronger with the time we have,” she pressed. “She can’t just attack now, can she?”

  Zanac hesitated, then frowned.

  “Truthfully?” His voice was quieter now, the weight of reality settling between them. ”She could attack at any moment."

  Eliza stiffened.

  “And sending you out adventuring and questing will not only leave you vulnerable in the human realm…No...No...Maybe...No.” He shook his head. ”We cannot leave the realm, either. If we do… then Goodnight will truly be defenseless.”

  A chill settled over her.

  She had stood her ground against Lilith, but now?

  Eliza’s fingers curled slightly at her sides. ”Is there really nothing we can do?"

  Zanac regarded her carefully before speaking. ”Perhaps… there is one way."

  She straightened, her heartbeat quickening. “What is it?”

  Before answering, the Tin Butler tilted his head slightly, his brass-rimmed eyes locking onto hers with rare intensity. “Before this even becomes an option, I must know one thing.”

  Eliza hesitated. “And that is?”

  “Do you plan on going back?” His voice carried weight. “And I don’t mean returning to this realm, nor do I mean the human realm." His gaze sharpened. ”I mean your home. Your world. Do you intend to go back to it?”

  She opened her mouth—then closed it.

  Had she ever really considered it? In the beginning, the thought of returning had burned in the back of her mind, but as time passed, it had faded, reduced to mere flickers of memory—moments that she dismissed before they could take root. Why is he asking me this now?

  Her brows knitted together. ”Why does that matter?"

  Zanac’s expression darkened, more serious than she had ever seen.

  “Forgive me if I misjudge,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “But the woman I saw speaking to Lilith… she does not seem to be the same woman who stands before me now.”

  Eliza stiffened. “I—”

  He raised his voice, cutting her off.

  “You see, the woman who faced Lilith had a heart of steel—stronger than anything I’ve ever witnessed. But now...” He exhaled through his metallic frame, a sound more mechanical than human.

  “Now, I am reminded of a boy I once knew.”

  Eliza’s breath caught. She didn’t know who he spoke of, but something in her chest clenched painfully.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “A boy who dreamed of being a prophet—a voice for the word,” Zanac continued, his tone distant. “But all his life, he was told he would be nothing. The most hated monster in a family of monsters… all because, at the time, he was not a monster.”

  Eliza felt something hollow bloom in her chest.

  “All his life, he saw only the cruelest side of love—pain, blows, the unrelenting command to never let it show. Because this is how little boys grow. They are taught to embrace the hurt, embrace the lies, embrace the pain—and let it change them.” His brass fingers twitched. ”Everything has a fuel source, and there is plenty of pain to go around. So burn it. Burn it as fuel and turn it into power."

  Eliza swallowed hard.

  Zanac turned from her, lifting his hands. A strange energy pulsed around him, and glowing seals spiraled into the air, intertwining like threads of light. A sigil formed, intricate and shifting, before opening like a gateway.

  This was no ordinary door—it was an entrance to the armory of the kingdom. A place only Zanac and the Prince could access.

  He stepped inside.

  For a moment, the world stood still.

  Then, just as quickly, he emerged. In his hand rested an object—a fruit, twisted in design, unlike anything Eliza had ever seen. Deep ridges curled across its surface, its color an unnatural shade that seemed to shimmer, as if reflecting something unseen.

  He held it out before her.

  Eliza eyed it warily. ”I’m not hungry, Zanac."

  He chuckled, low and knowing. ”And I am not feeding you." He set it down gently. “I am giving you a double-edged sword. One that will cut you as deep as it cuts your enemies.”

  She frowned. “No riddles, Zanac. Just speak plainly."

  His gaze never left hers.

  “This fruit… it is called Eden."

  The name sent an eerie chill through her.

  “It is no ordinary fruit,” he continued. “Once consumed, it bestows qualities of the undead while allowing the eater to retain their original race.”

  Eliza’s stomach twisted. ”What?"

  “Some say it has taken people to level 100. Others say it has killed those who dared to consume it.”

  Her eyes flickered back to the fruit.

  “It is a rare item,” Zanac explained. “A unique consumable used by certain beings within this realm. If eaten by someone who has already reached level 100, it allows them to break free of all boundaries.” He paused. “This fruit only grows in one realm, and no one knows how to reach that place anymore. That is why, when one is found, it becomes highly sought after."

  Zanac gazed down at the fruit, a glint of reverence in his artificial eyes before he set it before her.

  "Now," he murmured, ”you may think that death is the worst-case scenario…" His voice dropped lower. ”But it is not."

  Eliza’s throat tightened.

  “For someone like you,” Zanac continued, “the worst-case scenario is that you may never be able to leave this realm—or any realm like ours—ever again."

  She stared at him, breath shallow.

  “You wouldn’t know what kind of undead—or monster—you might become. Some beings can only exist within our realm. The moment they step into another… they die." His voice was grave. “Not to mention the physical changes. Do you think your people—or any humans—would welcome you back if you were no longer one of them?”

  Eliza’s fingers curled, her pulse pounding.

  “And even then…” Zanac shook his head. “There is no guarantee you will be any stronger.”

  She inhaled sharply, looking down at the fruit.

  It gleamed, as though alive, radiating something unexplainable.

  Zanac’s voice softened to a whisper.

  “This fruit has a mind of its own.”

  The room felt colder.

  "It forces the consumer to ask themselves a question," he said. ”How does one stand in judgment of a food that will, in turn, stand in judgment over you?"

  Eliza exhaled slowly, her gaze locked onto Eden.

  It sat there—small yet impossibly heavy, curled in on itself like something alive, something waiting. The fruit wasn’t smooth—its surface was lined with deep ridges, twisting in intricate, unnatural patterns that seemed to shift if she looked too long. It wanted her attention.

  The color was difficult to pin down—black, yet not quite, tinged with something deeper, something void-like. And at its very core, veins of pulsing crimson ran beneath its surface, slow and deliberate, like a heartbeat in the dark.

  Her breath shallowed as she reached out, fingers hovering just above it.

  The air around Eden was wrong—charged with an invisible pulse, a sensation she could only describe as hunger. The fruit wanted to be held. It ached to be consumed.

  Yet the moment her fingertips brushed its surface, a sharp tremor ran through her body.

  It was cold—but not like ice. It was the cold of something dark and twisted, something meant to be feared. Holding it was like gripping the concept of fear itself, the weight of every nightmare pressed into her palm. The texture was smooth in places but jagged in others, as though shifting between pleasure and punishment.

  Her chest tightened.

  The longer she held it, the more it spoke—not in words, but in feelings. A craving gnawed at the edges of her mind, a whisper of take a bite, but beneath it, something warned her. The fruit did not offer power. It tested.

  It judged.

  She swore she could hear it—Eden—breathing. Slow. Measured. Watching.

  A shiver ran down her spine.

  Eliza placed the fruit down carefully, as if afraid it would lash out at her for rejecting it. Her hands trembled, and before she could stop them, hot tears slipped down her cheeks. She wiped at them quickly, frustrated with herself.

  She hated feeling weak. She hated feeling unworthy.

  “Is there… something else?” she whispered, barely able to meet Zanac’s gaze.

  Without hesitation, he took the fruit as if it weighed nothing and secured it once more. He turned back to her, his expression unreadable, and then extended his hand. In his palm, he held a small white piece of paper.

  At first, it seemed insignificant—until it moved.

  The strange sigil scrawled upon it burned, an unnatural light flickering across its surface. Then, in an instant, it lunged for her.

  Eliza barely had time to yelp before the paper seared into her skin. A sharp, stinging pain shot through her palm as the sigil branded itself onto her flesh—before vanishing entirely.

  She gasped, clutching her hand. “Ow! What the hell was that?!”

  Zanac merely waved a dismissive hand, already turning away. “Nothing important.”

  Eliza stared at her palm. It looked normal—no marks, no burns, no proof that anything had just happened. Yet she could still feel it. A lingering, ghostly heat, like something unseen had claimed a part of her.

  “My queen, please follow,” Zanac called from down the hall, his usual dramatic lilt present but softened.

  She swallowed down her questions—for now—and obeyed.

  They walked in silence, deeper into the castle, past familiar halls and then into places she had never been before.

  Zanac explained as they moved, “I have long anticipated an attack from Lilith. While victory is… unlikely, I do believe we can hold her armies for a time.”

  He led her through corridors she had never seen, staircases spiraling downward in endless loops, portals swallowing them into dimly lit chambers. Then, at last, they passed through a painting—a massive, ancient artwork depicting a battlefield drenched in fire and shadows. As they stepped through it, a cold gust of wind met them.

  They had arrived.

  Eliza stood at the mouth of a vast cavern, her breath catching as she took in the sight before her.

  Thousands of statues filled the cavern, stretching into the darkness. They stood in rigid formation, row after row of warriors frozen in time, their weapons clutched in stone hands, their faces locked in expressions of grim determination.

  Some were fully armored knights, their helmets adorned with worn crests from kingdoms long forgotten. Others were skeletal figures, their bones encased in crumbling steel, empty eye sockets still burning with a faint, eerie glow. There were revenants, ghoulish warriors with jagged blades, cloaked in the tattered remnants of their former lives.

  Each one looked ready—waiting, yearning—for a battle that never came.

  Eliza swallowed. “What… are these?”

  Zanac’s voice was heavy with sorrow.

  “What’s left of our army.”