The air was thick with the stench of blood, an iron-rich odor that clung to the lungs like smoke, making each breath a struggle. The once-lush field of flowers was now a graveyard of twisted bodies, their petals soaked in crimson and ground into the dirt beneath the desperate, the dying, and the already damned. The sky was an unnatural abyss of pulsating red, where instead of stars, countless unblinking eyes hung suspended in the void, watching the carnage below with eerie, voyeuristic hunger. Each eye pulsed in time with the shrieks of agony that rang across the battlefield, a twisted symphony of suffering that echoed into eternity.

  Above it all, Invidia loomed—a blasphemous leviathan, a nightmare given form. Its grotesque body floated through the air, a rotting mass of gray flesh, bloated and riddled with patches of necrotic moss, as if time itself had tried to reject its existence. Seven crimson eyes glowed like bleeding embers, their gaze scanning the battlefield with something more than hunger—a desire for despair itself. Six fins, jagged and unnatural, slashed through the air with a slow, deliberate grace, sending ripples through the very fabric of reality.

  Atop its grotesque head, a halo of thorns spun, each razor-sharp spike glinting ominously as it twisted in slow, deliberate rotations. But the most horrifying feature was the largest eye, embedded dead-center in its forehead. Unlike the others, it did not twitch or dart around. It remained fixed, cold, and calculating—an eye that saw everything and judged nothing.

  This was no ordinary battlefield—this was a subspace artifact, a realm once meant as a sanctuary, now corrupted and twisted by Invidia’s madness. The very air shimmered with instability, warping and distorting as the beast’s presence seeped into every molecule of reality.

  Then came the thorns.

  Massive, barbed spheres rained from the sky, crashing down like divine punishment. Each impact sent shockwaves tearing through the land, bodies crushed like insects beneath them. Screams rang out, only to be drowned by the sickening crunch of bones snapping and the wet, gurgling squelch of flesh being pulped into the ground.

  But physical destruction was not Invidia’s true terror.

  Its true power lay in its Authority of Madness.

  Then, it screamed.

  A sound that did not just pierce the air, but ripped through the fabric of the mind. It was a howl from the depths of hell, a sound that burrowed into the psyche, unspooling rational thought like a thread unraveling from a fraying tapestry.

  Awakened humans convulsed violently, their bodies twisting and contorting, bones snapping as their own power turned against them. Meta-humans and the unawakened were no better off—their souls drowned in the madness, their flesh warping into grotesque abominations, barely recognizable as the people they had once been. Some burst apart, their own aura consuming them from within. Others howled in agony, their faces melting, their eyes bulging, their limbs elongating into eldritch horrors with too many joints and not enough sanity.

  The battlefield had become a breeding ground for monsters, a nightmarish landscape of wriggling, screaming things that should not exist.

  And yet, amid the carnage, Wallace stood frozen.

  His breath was shallow, each inhale tasting of copper and regret.

  Before him, Emma’s corpse lay unmoving.

  A phantom from his past, yet so vividly real in this moment of weakness. Her long brown hair fanned out like a halo of ash, her freckles a stark contrast against the unnatural pallor of death. A simple yellow dress, once bright and filled with the warmth of summer, now soaked in unseen blood.

  A golden wedding band, untouched by the filth, still gleamed on her left hand.

  And then, at the center of it all—a bullet hole in her forehead.

  The black abyss surrounding them felt alive, pressing against his skin, wrapping around his thoughts, drowning him in the prison of his own mind. He had fought horrors before, battled the unknown, but nothing compared to this.

  Because this was his own past, weaponized against him.

  And for the first time in a long time, Wallace Valentine felt truly powerless.

  Iris crouched lower, her breath caught in her throat as she watched the scene unfold. The room’s oppressive darkness seemed to close in around Wallace, who sat motionless, his face streaked with tears, his hands trembling as though the weight of the music crushed him. She could barely see him, but the broken sound of his voice, the quiet, involuntary apologies he murmured to someone not present, chilled her more than anything.

  The haunting notes of Lullaby’s melody continued to swirl through the air, weaving a sinister web that ensnared Wallace’s mind. Each soft, lilting chord pierced deeper, unearthing buried pain and wrenching it to the surface. The artifact’s power was insidious—it didn’t simply replay a memory; it reshaped it, amplifying the guilt, distorting the recollection until it felt more vivid, more immediate than the present. It was no longer just a memory; it was Wallace’s entire reality.

  Iris strained to hear what he was saying, the faint whispers slipping from his lips. Then she heard it—her heart clenched at his words: “I’m sorry, Emma. Forgive me for this.” She didn’t know who Emma was, but the anguish in his voice made it clear she had been someone precious, someone irreplaceable.

  And then Wallace’s hand rose in the faint light. Iris’s eyes widened as she saw his fingers form the shape of a gun. His arm extended, trembling, as if following the instructions of some unseen puppeteer. The sound of the imaginary gunshot was only in Wallace’s mind, but the impact of that memory, of that moment, rippled through him, through the room, through everyone present.

  Calum’s hands stopped turning the crank for a moment, the normally smug and detached expression on his face replaced by something almost like horror. He exchanged a glance with Sofia, whose icy facade cracked ever so slightly as she processed the scene playing out before them. Both of them, accustomed to being in control, suddenly found themselves at the mercy of a truth they hadn’t expected.

  “This is…” Sofia began, her voice trailing off, as if the weight of realization had stolen her words.

  “We have to take him alive,” Calum said firmly, his voice colder than the frost that often surrounded Sofia. He straightened, his grip tightening on Lullaby as if reaffirming his resolve. “Nikolai needs to hear this.”

  The oppressive weight of Wallace’s torment filled the room like a suffocating fog, and Iris refused to stand idly by as he drowned in his own nightmares. She turned to Charles, urgency sharp in her voice. “Charles, we need to act now. Take her weapon—I’ll deal with the illusion.”

  Charles groaned, his usual reluctance surfacing even in the middle of a crisis. “You order me around way too much,” he muttered, but for once, there was no real bite to his words. The tension in the room had stolen the usual sarcasm from his voice. “Fine, but you owe me for this.”

  The air pulsed with the dark energy of Lullaby, its twisted melody feeding on Wallace’s suffering, stretching the illusion’s hold to its limits. The room itself seemed to shift and breathe, caught between reality and madness, and for a brief moment, Iris wondered if Wallace would ever truly come back from this—or if the man before her had already been lost.

  Then, without warning, a crimson aura burst forth from Charles’s outstretched hand. Glacier’s Edge wrenched free from Sofia’s grip, the force of the telekinetic pull sending her staggering backward. The weapon hovered for a split second, crackling with raw, freezing energy, before it was hurled across the room with enough force to embed itself in the far wall. Sofia winced, her arm throbbing from the sudden loss, her golden eyes flashing with irritation.

  But Iris wasn’t paying attention to that anymore. Something deeper, something worse, had begun stirring inside her.

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  A familiar, yet foreign, pressure built behind her eyes. The red ring. It glowed faintly around her iris, an ominous presence that she knew she hadn’t called upon—but had arrived all the same.

  The walls twisted, the very air warping as illusionary screams clawed at her sanity. They weren’t coming from Wallace anymore. They were coming from her. The same raving voices she had heard from the red book now echoed within her mind, a chorus of madness whispering too many things at once, too many truths she was not meant to know.

  And then—7 words, burned into her thoughts as if seared into her very soul.

  On… September… 14th… use… the… red… book.

  Iris inhaled sharply, her body moving without her permission.

  She could feel it—something ancient, something unstoppable. Her flames flickered, shifting, twisting into new shapes— butterflies.

  Their delicate forms burned red, glowing with an ethereal light as they detached from her hands, fluttering soundlessly into the air. The transformation was seamless, terrifyingly natural, as though she had done this a thousand times before.

  And then—the book appeared.

  Not in front of her. Not summoned. It formed from the butterflies themselves, its pulsating cover materializing in her hands, solid and waiting.

  The weight of it sent a chill down her spine. This was wrong. This was so, so wrong.

  But the book did not care. Its pages flipped with a will of their own, ancient, unreadable script flashing past her eyes in a blur—until it stopped.

  An image.

  A butterfly, its wings spread wide, its form made of ink and whispers, surrounded by symbols that pulsed as though alive.

  Iris couldn’t read it. But she didn’t have to.

  She understood.

  Her hands moved on their own, compelled by something deep inside her, something that should not have been there.

  The butterflies dispersed, their wings brushing against the lingering shadows of Calum’s illusion, and everywhere they touched, reality cracked.

  The nightmare that had imprisoned Wallace shattered.

  The darkness recoiled. The suffocating weight of Lullaby’s influence weakened as the last of the illusion was burned away.

  Wallace, gasping for breath, was free.

  But the battle wasn’t over.

  The artifact’s power still lingered, coiled like a serpent, waiting for another moment to strike.

  And Iris—she stood there, the red book still clutched in her hands, her fingers trembling against its surface.

  She had used it. The very thing her future self had warned her never to touch.

  It had given her exactly what she needed.

  But now, she could feel it. It had taken something in return.

  And she had no idea what.

  The room trembled with unspoken intensity, the air thick with the weight of unfinished conflict. Iris steadied her breath, clenching her fists as her mind raced. The red book had been used. She had used it. And though she had managed to free Wallace from the illusion’s grip, she knew—she had taken a step down a path she could never turn back from.

  Charles’s voice shattered through her spiraling thoughts.

  “Snap out of it! We’re not done yet!”

  His sharp clap cut through the haze like a gunshot, dragging Iris back to reality. The intensity in his gaze was unlike anything she had seen before—fierce, unwavering, desperate. For once, the usual sarcasm was absent, replaced by something heavier. Urgency. Fear. A silent demand that she stay present.

  Iris blinked rapidly, her breath hitching as she forced herself back into the moment. “Y-you’re right, sorry.” She swallowed the tremor in her voice, but the weight of her actions remained, pressing on her like an iron chain. There was no time to process it. No time to grieve the part of herself she had just lost.

  Across the room, Calum’s frustration boiled over.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” His voice lashed out, venomous and sharp. “Our intel was slightly off, and this complicates things.” His gaze snapped toward Sofia, the irritation in his eyes flaring like wildfire. “Sofia, pick up your damn weapon! I’d understand if it was Wallace, but did you really let a child throw your weapon out of your hand?”

  Sofia’s lips pressed into a thin line, shame flashing across her expression. She reached down, fingers curling around the hilt of Glacier’s Edge. The blade felt heavier now. Not because of its weight—but because she had allowed it to be taken from her in the first place. She had been careless. And that kind of mistake could get them all killed.

  “I didn’t expect them to be here,” she admitted, her voice tinged with quiet regret.

  Calum exhaled sharply, the irritation rolling off him in waves. They had already wasted too much time.

  Without another word, he turned back to Lullaby. His fingers curled around the rusted crank, and he began turning it again—each motion deliberate, each note dragging Wallace further toward oblivion. The eerie, winding melody twisted through the air like an executioner’s final words.

  Wallace trembled, caught in a cruel limbo between nightmare and reality. His breath hitched, his fingers twitching, but his eyes—his eyes flickered. He was fighting it. Somewhere inside, he was still there.

  Calum sneered, his voice cold, absolute.

  “Hold them off. Once the music is done, Wallace will die.”

  The words hit like a death sentence.

  Iris didn’t wait.

  She charged.

  Sofia met her head-on. The air between them froze mid-clash. The temperature plummeted as Glacier’s Edge ignited in a furious frost, the cold slithering through the floor like grasping fingers. Every step Sofia took left the ground encased in ice, her movements sharp, precise—deadly.

  Iris’s flames roared in response. The two elements clashed violently, fire and ice dancing in a chaotic, beautiful destruction.

  But there was no beauty in this fight.

  Only survival.

  And if Iris failed—Wallace would die.

  Iris felt the bitter cold biting at her skin, but she refused to let it sink into her bones. She was fire. She was heat. And she would not be consumed by the ice. Flames surged around her, licking the air, radiating an intense warmth that clashed violently against the freezing aura of Glacier’s Edge.

  Behind her, Charles stood poised, his focus razor-sharp, telekinesis thrumming beneath the surface like a taut string waiting to be plucked. He wasn’t just watching—he was waiting. Waiting for the perfect moment to tip the balance of the battle in their favor.

  Sofia struck first.

  With a sharp flick of her wrist, she carved through the air with Glacier’s Edge. A crescent blade of ice screamed forward, aiming to lock Iris in a coffin of frozen death.

  Iris countered.

  A wave of her hand—fire roared to life. The two forces collided in a violent explosion of steam, the room was swallowed in a thick, hissing cloud.

  But Sofia was already moving.

  From the mist, she lunged, Glacier’s Edge carving an arc of frozen death toward Iris’s throat. Iris barely had time to react, throwing up a pillar of fire, the intense heat forcing Sofia to pivot mid-strike. But Sofia was relentless. Fluid. Precise. Deadly.

  Her blade scraped against the ground—ice crackled outward like creeping death. The floor beneath Iris froze solid in an instant. Her footing slipped.

  And in that moment of weakness—Sofia struck.

  But Charles was faster.

  A flick of his wrist—a force unseen crashed into Sofia.

  She spun, her instincts saving her, Glacier’s Edge slicing upward to deflect the telekinetic strike. The air rippled from the clash of unseen power and raw ice, but she barely wavered, her stance unshaken.

  Charles clicked his tongue. “She’s annoying.”

  Iris moved.

  A cluster of fireballs ignited in her hands—each one burning brighter, hotter. With a thrust of her arm, they launched like shooting stars, streaking through the air toward Sofia.

  Sofia reacted instinctively—Glacier’s Edge shimmered with ice, forming a translucent shield. The fireballs exploded against the barrier, flames cascading over her, illuminating her silhouette in the inferno.

  But Sofia smirked. Confident. Unshaken.

  Iris wasn’t finished.

  The moment the flames dimmed—she moved.

  Through the smoke, she darted left, her fire condensing into a spear. Blazing. Deadly.

  Sofia barely saw it coming—she twisted, Glacier’s Edge whipping up in a desperate parry. The force of impact sent her skidding backward.

  Iris didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.

  Her body burned with resolve. The plan had formed in an instant, her mind moving faster than her own flames.

  She faked right.

  Sofia tracked her movement.

  Iris faked left.

  Sofia adjusted.

  Then—Iris pivoted.

  And hurled a fireball past her.

  Straight at Wallace.

  Sofia’s eyes widened in horror. Realization hit like a thunderclap.

  Wallace wasn’t an enemy. Wallace wasn’t a target. Wallace was the goal.

  The fireball slammed into Wallace’s back—heat surged through him, the embers of his mind igniting.

  Wallace gasped.

  His eyes snapped open.

  The spell was broken. Lullaby’s nightmare shattered.

  And Wallace Valentine was awake.