Faux's lustful breathing filled Walter's and Elin's bedroom. He ordered her to deliver two messages, one to the elf and one to the nosferatu, and she completed one. She wanted to reward herself, so she defiled their personal space.

Unlike before, her hand moved deliberately and applied a drawn-out self-administration. What kind of lover would Walter be? Faux imagined him to be a 'completionist,' not satisfied until he understood, conquered, everything about her. Walter would reduce her secrets to a fully categorized list. He'd rip her identity out into the open and expose it, not unlike how he nearly threw her off the mountain. He would be nice, and he would be mean, and he would be both in-between.

Faux slipped, forced, an additional finger inside, and she grunted from the painful stretching. She paused a moment while a thought fluttered over her fogged brain like a butterfly gently disturbs the air.

Secrets, hmm? He must have them, and he would hide them here. Enticed by the revelation, Faux's hand accelerated until she brutally finished herself. A self-inflicted whimper escaped her. Would Elin smell it when she returned? Faux hoped so. The paladin-bitch deserved it.

Buzzing from the afterglow of masturbation, Faux searched their belongings, respectfully for Walter's and rummaging Elin's without care. Downstairs, she noticed the haphazardly tossed roll of parchment on the fireplace, and she cackled. No, of course, Walter's uncaring about something so valuable. She sat at the breakfast nook, unrolled the papers, and flipped through them. The more Faux turned the pages, neatly restacked them after absorbing them, the more her face glowed with excitement. Her spare hand scratched between her thighs, and she climaxed with the final page.

Walter didn't just create a grimoire. He defined it. He laid it bare, dominated the language of magic, and bound it down to transparency. The concepts were still absurdly complicated, and no simpleton could grasp them, but Faux felt graced by providence. It was a bible to her. If she had to use one word to explain how Walter stripped away the mystique of spellcasting, then she would scream that he ravished it. She read it, again and again. Faux memorized the contents like a prayer, and sweat beaded on her forehead. Exhausted past limitation, her legs splayed and arms dangled, and Faux reclined on the chair like a drugged victim.

She could apply this grimoire to her own magic. Teetering, dizzy, Faux scooped up the pages, bundled them, and hugged them against her breasts. Do I even need to hide anymore, armed with this? No. She didn't bother to correct her clothes and wobbled out of the house. I have to be a good girl and deliver my message to the Duke. Walter wants to set the stage.

----------------------------------------

The Duke of the Rotting Garden, as always, filled his time with pursuits expected of idle nobility, and Faux spied him painting. The image started as a skull, but the Duke continued to add deliberate brushmarks until it blurred into one black shadow, and he ruined it. He nodded with satisfaction and hung the painting.

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"I would think," his voice boomed despite the casual tone, "that your shame would drive you away forever. I didn't expect you. It's good to see you again."

Faux didn't reply immediately. She stepped into the clocktower and gazed upon the scene at hand. The Duke's statement that he didn't anticipate her presence was a complete lie. He reset the stage for the time after her summoning, before her imminent sacrifice. This was a deliberate psychological attack. However, a thrill surged between her legs. This time, if, by some miracle, the Duke of the Rotting Garden did manage to overpower her through some trickery, she might be powerful enough to survive the process. Would it be worth the experience to volunteer? She shook the idea clear from her thoughts, too risky. No, I'll reserve the attempt for Walter.

She cleared her throat, "I'm acting in the capacity of a messenger."

"Oh?" The Duke didn't turn to face her yet. While Faux could simply kill him with brute force, he would respawn, and the pain was little more than clipping his fingernail. So long as the Necropolis dungeon heart carried on, so did the Duke of the Rotting Garden. He needed nothing from her. "Do tell."

"It's from Walter." Faux smiled when she watched the back of the Duke's bald scalp tighten. "He says to expect him. I think he's going to end you, once and for all."

The Duke's brush stalled mid-air. It trembled. "Now that is a tantalizing prospect, a true boss fight with real stakes."

"I don't think you heard the message clearly."

"Oh, I think--"

Faux muttered her spell.

¡II uoᴉʇɐɹǝuǝƃǝɹ

The Duke of the Rotting Garden hissed. He hugged his ribs and collapsed. Bewilderment flicked over his face when he turned to stare at Faux.

Faux grinned. "That's pain. The spell continuously heals your body, so your defunct nervous system is sending pain signals. Probably the first time you've ever felt that? Huh? You should show some fucking respect to the messenger of a god, cretin. Kneel and repent!" She flicked her hair over her shoulder. "You're probably wondering where I obtained such power? It's only natural that one is soaked with divinity when strolling next to a god, right? I bet you're jealous. Hell, I would be. I am. Fucking paladin-bitch. Well, that's a small matter. First, I want you to understand in your bones a fraction of what you face."

Faux snatched the Duke of the Rotting Garden by the throat and slammed him onto the stone table. It cracked. Each one of his limbs Faux stretched out with a chain at the corner.

The Duke coughed up greying spittle. "Doesn't matter what you do with me! I'll come back! This is an old game!"

"Then it's time for some new blood, don't you think? You do understand what me, Elin, and Walter really are? How funny, I have to actually tell you. Here, listen close. We're the echoes. Here, I'll give you some time to ponder the full effects of that. When I'm done with you, I want you to do your absolute best to entertain Walter, okay?"

˙ʇɔǝɹɹnsǝɹ