Beyond the white shores of Merill, across the blue horizon, a lone rock rose between the waves.

From a distance it looked like nothing more than a black cone against the blue of sea and sky. From up close, it was even less welcoming: not a blade of grass grew on its surface, not even on the side swept by the humid ocean breeze. Nothing but dark stone sprawled over little more than a kilometre and forming a natural spire in the centre, as though some uninspired spirit had fought boredom by stacking rocks haphazardly. There was at best some moss growing in the gaps and cracks exposed to the wind, while the rim of the island was invaded by seaweed that was even darker than it. Needless to say, while there was enough space for people to live there, not a single house or a shack had been built on it.

Although, that wasn't to say that the island was uninhabited.

They had borne many different names depending on who you asked. There wasn't a single culture on the continent that didn't have a designation for them, from the Merillian coasts to the glass woods of Ivaamor, and even all the way to the East in the golden hills bordering the Eight Bald Kings. They were sometimes called Waki-jaki, Mererunt, or Inkbeasts. Among themselves, they had no names, for they did not speak intelligible words.

Instead, they communicated with each other through series of clicking noises and shrieks, the only sounds their mouths were able to make. That didn't make them any less verbose: the world they lived in was so simple that they didn't need much vocabulary, and even should ten of them babbler at the same time they could precisely tell words and speakers apart from one another. There were times of the day where cacophonies of these clinks and clanks echoed far out from the island's innards; all living souls in the surroundings with a pair of ears could listen in, even when the isle was too far for their eyes..

The colour of their body let them to blend in admirably well with they habitat. If they lied down on the black cliffs of their home without moving, they could be mistaken for part of the scenery – and indeed, maybe their skin was made of the same ink-coloured stone. But once the sun set, it was hard not to notice the pairs of eyes burning like torches amidst the night, shifting about and staring at anything that moved. When they swam in bands in the night sea, it was as though stars had spilled down from the firmament and were searching their way back.

But when the light of the sun returned, they could be seen in all their grotesque beauty: their flat head stretching on each side with two large white eyes on both ends; their mouth adorned with two rows of nail-like teeth, perpetually stuck in an impish smile; their limbs thin as dry branches and tipped with taloned fingers.

They were bipedal by nature but found it easier to move on all four thanks to their arched backs and unusually long arms, crouched like toads about to leap. When they entered the water however, their whole body straightened and glided under the waves with more grace than the emerald-capped nojer or the elusive hombrie.

With their strong legs, they pushed against rocks and corals to propel themselves; a sharp turn and they would catch the nimblest prey in their wide maw. The shallow waters around the island did not lack in food, be it algae, plankton, crab or fish. For the Waki-jaki, everything that grew or swam in these parts was a viable dinner or a potential source of entertainment: if they weren't too hungry, they sometimes let their prey escape to prolong the hunt. When it was a fast swimmer, they would bet on who could catch it first. When a depth-strider kolus or any other large fish wandered into their territory by mistake, a group of Waki-jaki would surround it and force it to keep swimming until it was on the brink of overexhaustion.

Because such recreation was only available underwater, that was where the Waki-jaki spent most of their time. In spite of that fact and of how well they had adapted to this environment, they didn't have gills and had to stock oxygene inside pouches along their rib cage. If a fight broke out between two Waki-jaki, they aimed specifically for those air pockets – if too many were ripped open, the loser had no choice to resurface. A Waki-jaki that had lost all its pouches could not afford to swim or hunt until they healed; during that time they had no choice but to starve. This was considered enough of a punishment and, after a full recovery, they reintegrated the group seamlessly as though no quarrel had ever taken place.

Among them, there were only adults. Some were larger and some bore more scars, but none of them could be called juvenile. That was because there was no such thing as a young Waki-jaki. The idea of mating was foreign and there was no word in their cryptic tongue to express the idea of "a child". Nor did they have a real concept of age group, in fact. For all they cared they had come to the world at the same time and had no memories of any such thing as infancy. In that sense, the Waki-jaki were never born.

And neither did they die.

Nothing in their enclosed world could challenge them aside from another Waki-jaki. If they ever ran out of strength underwater or hurt themselves against the rocks by accident, a high-pitched cry would alert every single one of their kin around the island. Everyone that is close enough would swim to drag them back to the shore, even if they were wounded themselves. A Waki-jaki would never let one of their own die under any circumstance. No illness, no pest had ever reached their nest, and thus none of them had ever perished as far back as they could remember.

A past where they had been born didn't matter to them. A future where they disappeared didn't exist. At the end of the day, their lives could be summed up to an eternal routine of the greatest simplicity.

They rose at dawn alongside the sun. Every night, different individuals slept out in the open. Whenn the first rays warmed their bodies, they let out in unisson a strident wake up call that rang out throughout the island. Most of their brethren slept inside their nest instead and answered to that call, so that the whole colony was up at the same time. What purpose there was to this ritual, they had long since forgotten, just like every other step of their routine.

In less than an hour, every Waki-jaki had joined the surface. The first activity of each day was to fill the stomachs that had emptied during the night, and the waters around the island became infested with predators looking for a meal. In seasons where the food became scarce, they ventured further out and enlarged their territory as they needed. If even that didn't suffice, they would ration the food they had scrambled together and make sure that every Waki-jaki received their share.

Approaching noon, they returned to the island and lied down on the rocky shores to dry their bodies. By the time the sun reached its peak, the entire population was gathered outside to bask leisurely in its light. From that point on, what they did was up to each individual: some of them dived back into the sea to find some entertainment; others who had enjoyed a larger breakfast kept napping while digesting their catches.

There were also those who prefered darkness, retreated inside a cave and searched for a spot where they could dig; while the isle itself may not appear very vast, the network of tunnels stretching underneath it was at least thrice its size and kept extending deeper and deeper into the bowels of the earth. Since there was no need for new nests, this endeavor could only be described as an obsession. There was also a reason behind it, but they had become so used to digging that it sometimes slipped out of their mind. It didn't matter; they stubbornly scratched the basalt wall with their claws, hoping that one day these tunnels could cross the sea toward the rising sun.

Other Waki-jaki kept them company on occasion – they brought with them large shells filled with a muddy paste made by grinding the seaweed that grew on the island. The latter had originally been nothing more than another food source but, since discovering its properties, the Waki-jaki used it exclusively to produce this paint. If left to ferment for long enough, it could easily catch fire and illuminate the galleries. Thus, the most artistically enclined individuals of the colony would carry two loads of this paste, one for light and the other for recreation.

Even then, it was less than ideal to draw on such dark walls with such weak flames. They wouldn't go to such length, if the outside walls of the island weren't already filled to the brink with patterns and paintings. The dark hue made it difficult to discern even in the middle of day, yet when the sunlight hit from the right angle, a world of scenes and stories unveiled itself to the observer. It was mostly elements from the Waki-jaki's daily life; often, one of them would impulsively grab some paste and draw their catch of the day or attempted to draw its peers with more or less exaggerated features. It was no surprise then that most of the island's murals depicted scenes of hunting.

On the other hand, some poured much more time and skill in their art, going as far as to lay entire tales upon the stone. In an effort to improve the intricacy of these portrayal, they experimented with various materials to obtain new colours. For example, mixing certain fish's guts with a specific dose of seaweed resulted in a lighter, almost pinkish shade. By pounding seashells and small crustaceans into powder, they obtained a grey that was close to white, which they used to draw eyes and teeth. Thanks to that, their immortalized works stood out starkly from the rest of the murals; in return, the latters seemed to complement them and give more meaning to the tales they recounted. This uncanny exhibit, brimming with morbidly fascinating artistry, was an expression of the world as they saw it. The perfect representation of what they cared about.

Which was why it may feel strange to find some clearly defined shapes that didn't match anything that could be found near the island.

Once the sun had almost achieved its descent toward the red horizon of the West, it was time for the second and last meal of the day. But while some wasted no time leaping into the water to see to that, it wasn't rare for some Waki-jaki to remain on land – standing motionless at the edge of a cliff, they stared eastward with longing gazes. There was nothing but the ocean to see but their imagination carried them far beyond, across the indigo horizon.

In truth, because their population was stable, they had no need to expand beyond their current habitat. Yet the reason why they did not move from this infertile and desolated rock wasn't out of laziness or for lack of need. Those alone couldn't hold back curiosity. If it were only up to them, they would long since have left to venture out into the world. But such was the adamant rule they had to abide to – for such was the will of the true master of this ocean.

From the murky depth all the way up to the pearly foam and all around them, there dwelled the Great of the Waters. As one of the last few Greater Spirits that remained in this world, it had no shape for the eyes to see but its ethereal essence was impossible for the soul to ignore; the ruthless lord of the sea did not take kindly to intrusion. The Inkbeasts were tolerated around their island but venturing too far out would incur them the wrath of the sea. They knew this well and knew to turn back when they reached a certain distance from their home.

But that did not bridle their ardent desire.

Despite knowing better, there were Waki-jaki who betrayed their daily routine and fearlessly broke the unspoken rule. When they saw a storm on the horizon, some couldn't resist the call and headed out in the open sea, trying to reach as far as possible. Because of the distance and the turbulent waters they had to swim through, they rarely had the strength to make the trip back; they had to be rescued by other Waki-jaki as reckless as they were. Even so, those rogue individuals were not chastized by the community. After all, there wasn't a single one here who didn't share the craving and nostalgia that fed their desperate endeavor.

When a Waki-jaki returned from such an adventure, those who had stayed behind welcomed them eagerly.

They were impatient to see what treasure they might have brought with them.

♦

Beyond the white shores of Merill, across the blue horizon, a lone rock rose between the waves.

Some might know it under names such as Sootnest or Ifelnui Ilba. People inland might instead have heard of it as Ogre's Tooth and Jovem's Trove (although, it shares the latter with other islands, most likely as a result of misinformed scribes). It wasn't foolish to believe that every Merillian knew of it under one name or another among the plethora it had received throughout the ages. As one got closer to the coast, these denominations became more and more dreadful – the fishermen of the West called it the Isle of the Damned.

Yet, not a single one of them had ever seen the island with their own eyes, let alone landed there: it wasn't visible even from the single westernmost stone of the westernmost coast. It would require a day's worth of sailing with favourable winds in order to reach it. But not even a veteran fisherman with no fear of death would venture to go this far out into the open sea. For such was the rule of the lord of these seas that none may encroach on his territory: Men could sail as much as they pleased near the white coast they inhabited, and a bit further past the horizon one could see from the shore. Beyond there lied Jovem, and the Great of the Waters did not tolerate intruders. A ship which had the misfortune of violating this sacred rule even by mistake would disappear into a storm. It only returned to the shore by fragments of wooden planks and a shattered mast; those on it did not return.

But then, how to explain the island's vivid presence in the collective imagination? Legends were told of those whose fishing boat had been lost to the sea, but who managed to return to land against all odds by feats of swimming. Had one of them caught sight the grim black rock in the distance before turning back? Or perhaps they had used to be a time when Men could sail without fear of the ocean's wrath. It could also be that some deaf bard had heard of it from wandering spirits. But at the end of the day, the truth was that nobody knew how the stories about the Isle of the Damned had started.

Nor did anybody truly know for sure why they feared it. Depending on where you travelled, you would hear a different story; farmers around the Tall City of Gilperōr had tales of mischevious spirits who snatched cattle away and carried it to a faraway island where all stolen goods were. More spiritual gents and learned men instead thought that the isle was a gateway to a profane underworld worse than the one that awaited those who stayed on land. Further down the south, the communities that lived along the coast imagined that all sorts of personified disease and woes resided there and visited the continent during the night.

In spite of the rich variety of these tales, the truth was that few people cared to know whether they were right or wrong. In market places, merchants would joke about goods coming from the other side of the sea; worried mothers used it as a cautionary tale to keep children from going out at night; in the halls of Mirellian palaces, it was seldom ever mentioned; one of the scolars at the Library of Belsavor might find their curiosity tickled by the island's mysterious nature, if they ever cared to write something else than political treaties and encyclopedias of rare birds. This island, which no one had ever seen, was not part of the Merillians' daily lives. In a few centuries, perhaps it would have vanished from living memory altogether.

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However, traces of it lingered in interesting places.

If the Isle of the Damned had become near nonexistent in the mind of the people of the West, the same could not be said of the sea that surrounded it. The fishermen of Merill knew these waters like the back of their hand; in the thousands of years they had lived from it, they had learned to compromise with what space was alloted to them. Despite the law of ruthless Jovem, those who spent their lives near him came to revere him openly or unconsciously. A worship born not of admiration or love, but of respect for the force that rules their world. And with that respect came a tacite apprehension for all that had to do with this sacred ocean they could only lay eyes on.

One way or another, a unique ritual had appeared among these maritime communities. While not as widespread as travellers from the East would have you believe, it had nonetheless become deeply anchored in the culture of those who lived from the sea. If someone was suspected of a grave crime and no compromise could be reached, they would subjected to "Jovem's trial".

Due to a long history of trial and error, the fishermen of the West knew precisely where the border with the Great One's kingdom stood. Once the fate of the accused had been decided, they were installed on a sacred boat. That being said, the attributes of the vessel remained very simple out of pragmatism: no extravagant decoration or meaningful artifact; fishing communities were of humble mean, and such things were too much luxury to waste on a damned man. Instead, the ritualistic aspect was in the creation of the boat itself.

Thus, tradition demanded to let the wood that would be used bath in the sea for a day and night. If any seaweed or shellfish became stuck to it during that time, the carpenters had to spare it while crafting the sanctified boat. Supposedly, those were the sign that the lord of the sea had accepted to settle the dispute, although there was no denying that these natural trinkets gave the bone-chilling impression that the boat had already sunk. Once the boat was ready, the blaming party would carve their accusation into the bow (if they didn't know how to write, a neutral third party was to do it in their stead). The accused was allowed to carve their defense on the other side. Those two testimonies were to be verified against each other by the sea.

Once the preparations were done, two pairs of fishermen were appointed as an escort, each composed of a veteran who had already taken part in the ceremony before, and a youth who would take care of it in the future. With this, three boats sailed out toward the horizon. The ship of the damned was brought to the edge of the human world, and from that point on they were to sail alone into Jovem's territory under the scrutiny of their guards. If by any mean they attempted to run away, the latters would catch them, tie their hands and feet with rope and forcibly push their boat toward its destination.

From that point on, the escort had to watch as the judgement unfurled.

In theory, this practice was a showcase of divine justice – if the accused was guilty, they would be swallowed by the waves. If they were innocent, the lord of the sea would see to it that they returned unharmed. In practice however, no one had ever returned: the true purpose of the ritual was a glorified execution. Communities of the West Sea were tight-knit, their rules were dictated by the bond between its members and the superstition that pervaded their daily routine. Spilling the blood of someone close to you such as a relative or a member of the same fishing crew was considered terrible luck, be it in cold blood or as punishment for a crime. By putting the sentence in the hand of a higher force, their hands stayed clean.

Which wasn't to say this method was popular or welcome. It held no official value in the eyes of the domain's laws – it was common for the local lords to look away, as it was better to let the fishermen deal their own justice than to kick a hornet nest, but it was generally frowned upon on the same level as plain murder. Even among those who practiced it, Jovem's trial was a grim thing to think about. It wasn't rare for the escort to include people close to the accused; when the latter understood their fate and begged for help, they had to carry out the sentence nonetheless.

Even so, the fishermen's attachment to this ritual remained eerily strong: it happened at least once every year, sometimes when the damned's guilt was dubious. Rather than to take the case to the local lord's court, all minds quickly turned to the vast forbidden ocean. As soon as someone suggested Jovem's trial, the decision was sealed. It had been so in days of yore, so it shall be now.

Still, there was one element which stuck out of the whole process like a sore thumb.

Once the boat of the damned had entered the Great One's domain and was left to his judgement, it was customary for the guards to keep watching it until the doomed vessel was gone from sight. But although the hand that killed were the waves rising with wrath, it was something else entirely that occupied their mind. The fate of the one they had sent to Elsewhere did not seem so important all of sudden, as though their disappearance from sight also made them vanish from reality. The fishermen remained for a while even after their task was accomplished. Their mouths were shut and their eyes were turned toward the faraway blue. If they spotted something in the water, they didn't say it; swiftly, they brought a triangular amulet to their mouth to ward off misfortune. As they prepared to head back to the land, they cast nervous glances toward the water.

They avoided standing near the edge of their ship and made haste.

♦

A storm was raging on. Like an ever-shifting desert of sand, the waves rose in ephemeral dunes and sweeped away all that dared to sail in their midst. A lone ship was tossed around in the wind between a dim sky and an even dimmer ocean; a single silhouette struggled to stay onboard. They had done well to make it this far, boat and sailor alike. How had he ended up here, so far away from him home? Had it been desperate recklessness or had he been cast out as a sacrificial sheep for the sea? No matter – the wooden craft reached the end of its luck on a rocky reef.

A cracking noise loud as a thunderclap, drowned by the howling gale.

Clouds, storm and waves suddenly meant nothing: surrouding him was only the dark, cold shroud of the sea. There was no light filtering through the surface to tell him which way was up. Even so, he was flailing his arms and legs as he could to reach somewhere, anywhere. It was the essence of life than to fight madly even as there was no hope left, and so he swam without knowing where he was headed. But he had used up most of his strength to remain on the boat that had given away under him. The water's embrace had devoured all the warmth in his body. Still the heart had not given up yet, and it seemed to him as though he was still fighting his way through.

Then, piercing through the unfathomable darkness, a light.

Many of them, actually.

Perched upon the black cliffs of their home, Inkbeasts had seen the storm from afar and had caught sight of the boat before its demise. At once they dived to the water. They were numerous to abandon what they had been doing to jump off and join the school of lost stars. So numerous that they almost got in each other's way; such was their impatiance and eagerness as they took to the shipwreck. They swarmed the reef on which it had happened and their head turned to all directions trying to find what was left of it, or of what had been on it.

One of them looked down and spotted the struggling shadow – the whole school moved as one.

These burning eyes surrounded the sailor. At this point nothing made much sense to him and he thought he might have been dreaming. But there was something terribly real about the hands that seized him. His heart was stabbed by a rush dread. Without understanding what it was he tried to fight off their pull. It was as though the sea had grown arms to better fling him around. In his mind crumbling under panic, he couldn't repress the intuition that these claws of night were dragging him toward the bottom.

He couldn't be further from the truth however: the Waki-jaki ignored his protests and pressed onward to their abode. It was somewhat inconvenient for them to carry a passenger who was in the prime of his youth and not so cooperative; when the Waki-jaki in charge of pulling grew tired, another replaced him. It was thus that the sailor passed from hand to hand until at last the wind was washing over his face once again. He had swallowed some water on the way and couched violently, but at the realization that he breathed again his eyes lit up with the unexpected spark of hope.

Then, he laid eyes on the Isle of the Damned.

His fear from earlier swelled up and nipped his relief in the bud. He saw the shores of black stone, the spire that rose before him. A peel of thunder cracked the sky; for a split second, sordid figures and cryptic tales laid in paint on very wall were revealed to him. But it was only when he saw the appearance of his saviors that horror fully bloomed on his face and he wished he were still in the depths of the ocean.

Memories resurfaced briefly. He remembered stories told by his mother at bedside and songs children would sing innocently without really understanding them. Whether he realized where he was, perhaps his wits were too far gone for that. Even so, his heart was filled with fear so deep it couldn't be explained, a primeval terror awakened by the mere sight of them. A scream wanted to break out of his chest yet his lips were sealed. He doubled in effort to shake off the hands holding his arms but in vain. Here on land his captors easily overpowered him, and even were he at the height of his vitality he couldn't resist them.

The whole cohort that had set out to rescue him now emerged from the waves. The commotion attracted the rest of the colony and before soon this side of the island was filled with a cacophony of shrieks and clicks. They were pushing and climbing on top of each other to look at him; many outstretched talons came just close of grazing his face before being replaced by others; the Waki-jaki who held him lifted him off his feet and carried him above the swarm.

The young man came from a quiet community and had seldom been to a city. Only once in his life he had seen the parade of a new lord flanked by his men and his beasts, with the fineries and splendours a fisherman could only dream to hold between his hands. It occurred to him that this procession was a parade in his honour, though instead of warriors and incense his retainers were this nightmarish host.

When they approached a cleft in one of the walls, he was lowered again and brought into the belly of the island. His nose was filled with an earthen smell as the light abandoned him down the roughly carved tunnels. He couldn't see where they were going whereas his escort seemed to know exactly where to make their turns and which galleries to enter. On their way, many pairs of incandescent eyes peeked out of their nest in curiosity and joined the parade. Vision suddenly returned to him: ahead of his carriers, two Waki-jaki led the procession with deep green flames shining from the conchs they held. How long this march went on, he couldn't say; it seemed to him they had been going down for hours but the thought of tunnels going this deep into the earth made his head spin. What kind of destination could possibly wait at the end of such a journey?

He received his answer when at last they reached the innermost chamber.

It was hard to see even with the torches in front of him. As his escort brought him deeper into it more lights were kindled, allowing him to observe the place in more detail. This room was larger than any they had come across on their way, shaped like a dome at the centre of which eight men or more could stand on each other's shoulders. Ahead of him near the opposite wall, there stood a strangely sculpted mass of black stone. There were many holes in the walls circling around them, either smaller nests or other passageways like the one he had come from. It would seem that by going down, one would inevitably reach this place.

It was only a matter of minutes before the entire island's population had crammed itself into the chamber. It had become awfully crowded in here, save for the middle where the young man had been set down. There was a certain perimetre around him where Waki-jaki dared not enter. He could even have stood up and moved if not for the awe nailing him to the ground. While glancing around, he noticed there was another space where the Inkbeasts did not stand – what he had thought to be a rock formation shook and slowly rose to its feet.

From the colour of its husk and the smile of teeth adorning its face, it was clear that this new figure was also a Waki-jaki. But it looked so different from the rest of its brethren. It wasn't thin like them but bulky and thrice as large. When it stood up, most of its figure was concealed in a worn-out sailcloth worn like a cape, yet even so the young man saw more limbs extend from its thorax than a living being should need. Instead of flat, it head was round and edged with protrusions that seemed stabbed into its skull.

But most disturbing of all was its face.

The crowned Waki-jaki had traits that were almost understandable to the young man, with a serenity in stark contrast with the euphoria that reigned in the chamber. Its eyes were not bright like the rest, the young man saw two white-and-blue marbles that peered into him and sent shivers down his heart. Now that it stood with all its height, it was impossible not to notice the jewelry it was wearing: falling down its chest and dragging on the ground like a table cloth, various bones were strung together with strands of hair.

Those were unmistakably human and they were not only on its person – all around the King, human skulls and bones were laid out and covered in moss. They weren't haphazardly tossed around but arranged neatly following an unknown yet noticeable logic. Among them were also a myriad of various trinkets; fishing hooks, pieces of oar and even actual gemstones. Everything that was even remotely human on this island was gathered here in the throne room.

Including him.

They exchanged looks wordlessly for a moment, after which the King raised one of its hands. At his command, a couple Waki-jaki broke the circle and approached the sailor. They carried shells, filled not with paint but a different substance altogether. At this point, the young man felt it pointless to resist and he let them inspect him from all kinds of angle. He had gotten a few injuries while holding on to his life at sea, and it seemed to be what the pair was interested in. Where his clothes were red and his flesh torn open, they applied the cerulean mixture. When they were satisfied, they retreated back into the crowd.

The King raised another hand; different Waki-jaki stepped in and presented their guest with freshly caught fish. It was hard to muster any apetite in a situation like his, but with all eyes turned to him and his raw meal his survival instinct compelled him to eat. Thus, he brought the fish to his mouth and took a hesitant, disgusted bite. He didn't even know what it tasted like, his attention could only account for the reaction of his hosts. The room had become deathly quiet but not from lack of interest on their part – they were watching his every move in religious silence.

In the end, he could not take more than a few bites out of his dinner. When he put it down, shrieks began rising again all around him. He couldn't guess what they meant, there was no difference with their fanfare from before. In fact, this new commotion quickly surpassed the latter: every Waki-jaki was crying out with their maw wide open. Their voices drilled into his head and painted over his thoughts. By dint of listening carefully, what he had believed to be a chaotic clamor revealed itself to be quite organized and even harmonic: they were singing.

The circle around him was becoming unstable.

The crowd had been fidgety for a while, and now some of them were too restless to keep chanting. They were inching closer step by step, with furtive glances toward their King to make sure they were allowed to. Then they abandoned all semblance of self-control and rushed toward the young fisherman. The latter curled up and raised his arms in front of him in fear, thinking that he had finally incured their wrath. However, it wasn't anger that had them so hectic – it was love.

The flame of the braziers shed light on the paintings around the chamber. They depicted a land under an ancient Sun and an ancient Moon. They told of a cosmic game and the rift it had created, the oldest memories that even the Waki-jaki had lost. A humble fisherman was given the chance to behold that truth long forgotten. They searched for it in his eyes.

They pressed him on all sides and seized his hands to rub them against their faces. Some of them were crying tears that glistened faintly in the flickering light. More approached and reached out for his legs, his face, his neck – any part that wasn't already taken – and admired them. They wanted to pass their thin arm around him and pull him closer; a scream finally broke out of his chest but it was drowned out by the chorus.

They cherished him so much that, in the end, they tore him apart.

A fight broke out among the crowd. The Waki-jaki who had smothered him were now protecting at all cost the piece of him they had secured. The song died out and the throne room was filled with discord. They had lost their mind over the long-sought memory calling from the depth of their being. Seeing that it was so, the King sighed in resignation; his voice rose amidst the tumult, deep and soothing.

One by one, the cries faded out. They turned their heads to the centre of the chamber where their guest had been. There was only a pool of red now. They did not feel sad or angry. Instead, order returned to the room and all Waki-jaki lied down in circle around the crimson stain. They closed their eyes with the King's lullaby as a guide.

The damned dreamed of the days when they had still been humans.