- [The Throne Room] -

A rubescent haze glides in through the open windows of the colossal throne room, tinting the polished floor with a sheen that evokes fresh wine swirling at the bottom of a half-raised cup. The walls, formed of obsidian stone hewn centuries ago, glimmer in intervals beneath the flickering shine of suspended lanterns. These lanterns, forged from black iron, sway on delicate chains stretched between carved columns. A scroll of pale spider silk drapes down the far wall, serving as a curious form of decoration that exalts the artistry of the artisans who have labored for nights under the supervision of the castle’s occupants. A breeze — sharp with the iron scent of distant mountain wind — catches at the hem of many a trailing gown, occasionally ruffling the pinned hair of visitors who loiter around the throne room’s grand perimeter. In each corner stands a silver candelabrum alive with mismatched candles, melting into rivulets that track down twisted arms to form hardened wax lumps on the floor. Small spirits of fire float around their edges, mischievously nipping at anyone who comes too close.

The entire space is imbued with a formal hush, broken only by the muffled conversations of masked adventurers and robed necromancers serving in the castle, all of them taking measure of the night’s spectacle: an extravagant ball and banquet that is to be highlighted by the arrival of Vampire Lord Inkume.

As for the necromancers, Inkume isn’t sure where they’re from. They just kind of showed up one day.

The blood moon — high and unforgiving — projects not only its red glow but also its subtle electricity, an undercurrent of tension that runs through the assembled men, women, ghosts, and hungry-faced creatures. They’re not threatened by it. Instead, they tingle with anticipation as it slowly rises higher and higher, and the night only just begins. Each figure in the throng is dressed in a garment meticulously threaded from spider silk, too smooth to be anything mortal, shimmering under the bloodlit night in a subdued, otherworldly way. Few can resist trailing their hands over these outfits to feel just how fine they are. They are gifts from the Vampire Lord himself to everyone who wishes to attend, whether mortal or damned. For many adventurers who come from simple means, such lavish clothing is dreamlike and unusual, and many don’t even seem to quite know how to move in anything that isn’t bottomed with a thick pair of crusty leather boots.

Throughout, an orchestra of spectral performers crouches at the front of the room, a row of translucent shapes that raise phantasmal instruments to play a gentle lull of music. Harps float in midair, bowed strings perform without friction, and a skeletal violinist bows with unwavering dedication, and the castle’s banshees fill the air with a soft serenade. The entire arrangement has been prepared for this singular evening, this ceremony that stands poised to begin, yet simultaneously feels suspended in the silence that precedes something grand.

The air is tense, and everyone doesn’t quite know what to expect. Something like this has never happened before.

The Vampire Lord himself is said to be making an appearance tonight. As such, many of the living guests work meticulously to adjust their collars and the cuts of their gowns in hopes of catching his attention amongst the crowd.

Green flames crackle along the sides of monumental braziers, arranged around the perimeter to complement the open windows, venting multicolored smoke that drifts upward to the vaulted ceiling. Sparks pop in bursts whenever a passing ghostly attendant glides by, stirring the air currents. Somewhere near the center, a group of newly arrived adventurers stand, uncertain whether to be enthralled or alarmed, as they look around themselves in amazement at a hall that is fit in its splendor only for the final king of all nations. They are guided along this exotic environment by polite, walking corpses and ephemeral souls weaving to and fro with trays of sweet-smelling drinks.

It takes some adjustment to get used to the lack of incredible, horrific violence from the undead. But the living seem to be getting the hang of it. Those who are more socially difficult are escorted from the premises out through a side door and into the dragon.

This unstoppable wave of courtesy is orchestrated to lead them effortlessly toward the main gathering. Many guests settle by side tables laden with fresh bread, bowls of spiced fruit, and fluted glasses brimming with red or golden liquids. Others cluster near tall windows, transfixed by the mesmerizing color of the rare moon. The temperature is surprisingly mild, thanks to the flames and the thick curtains that had been drawn aside so that the special hue of the moon can paint the congregation with intense color, prompting exclamations from those who seldom see anything so bizarre.

Tonight, the moon is violently red, and its hue paints the world in crimsontide.

These window openings also allow small gusts of fresh wind to slip inside, swirling among the dancing couples who brave the center of the floor in the sound of the pre-event music. They dance in drifting arcs, guided by the spectral playing and by the swirl of gauzy spider silk. Many of the undead, bearing sunken eyes and illusions of ancient grace, do their best to move with the same elegance, though occasionally a bony foot scrapes over stone or an incorporeal hem floats oddly through a partner’s ankles. No one seems offended by these moments. If anything, the entire setting appears constructed to indulge the open-mindedness and curiosity of all present, bridging the living and the dead together for a single night of shared night.

Tomorrow will return to business as usual.

A single corridor leads from the throne’s base to the entrance doors, polished so thoroughly that it mirrors columns of flickering flame. The sumptuous banquet is arranged off to the side, where a row of decorative stands brims with gleaming platters. A quiet skeleton with a rusted nameplate pinned to its dusty lapel animates to life each time a new visitor approaches, offering a polite bow and directing them toward the nearest seat. Despite the huge dimensions, the throne room is filling fast. Adventurers who arrived earlier are already sipping from thin-rimmed glasses, while junior necromancers and wizards compare their outfits, self-consciously brushing off imaginary dust as they flex to their counterparts. One can see a few wandering ghosts who are uncertain whether to hide behind pillars or to join the dancers, shyly flickering with mild embarrassment as they aren’t used to being seen and looked at so. Meanwhile, the hush of the music sets a dreamy layer over it all. Even the conversation is subdued, presumably out of respect that the main event has not yet begun.

Some guests whisper about the night’s significance, the blood moon overhead, and the rumored arrival of the Vampire Lord himself. After all, the invitation they received bears his crest in a swirling signature of black ink, making each of them a participant in a historical moment.

A slender figure steps inside — a bunny-eared knight: Agnis. She swishes her tall ears in casual greetings, evidently confident in her attire. A pleated skirt of black spider-silk covers an underlayer of silver mail that she just couldn’t bear to do without, though she still looks quite refined for the ball. Old habits. She greets a few old acquaintances from Schwarzmond, though her gaze soon traces the quiet corners, as if searching for the host.

Another figure, Hwa-Young, enters soon after in an elaborate pointed hat riddled with pinned-on forget-me-nots. She stops mid-step, evidently forgetting why she came, until a passing phantom reminds her to keep moving as her absurdly large brim was blocking the crowd. She mumbles her thanks, taking a cup in her half-gloved hand, eyes glassy with puzzlement. The crowd of her students welcomes her warmly; a few wave from across the floor, and she beams, heading over to faces she recognizes.

Meanwhile, Snatch the ghost has been stationed near one of the tall windows. She lingers there, wringing her faintly translucent hands together. A mild, flickering transparency surrounds her body, as though an unsteady flame glows inside her chest. She’s anxious — she has checked the corridor at the far end a dozen times, glancing at the wide throne doors, waiting to see any movement that signals the Master’s presence.

Tonight is going to be a hard night for her. There will be a lot of fighting for his attention.

The awkward ghost looks down at herself, at the new dress that even she’s been given — ghost or not, the power of magical crafting is sure something special. It seems impossible to her, but she feels confident in it. It looks pretty.

She looks pretty.

Tonight is perfect. She can’t wait for her own attempts at dancing with the Master, all so she can prove her gratitude to Inkume, a creature who has allowed her entry into the domain of thoughts as absurd as these. She didn’t have much time to practice, but she was at it all night.

The music dips, fading into a gentle hush.

All around the throne room, a quiet envelops the crowd. Lantern light dims in the corners. A few braziers flicker lower, while the ghost orchestra’s final notes fade to a near-silence. In reaction, the exhalation of expectation is so thorough that guests clutch their glasses, their hearts skipping. One ghostly violinist lifts his bow again but stops, glancing toward a large set of double doors so as to not play too early.

It is very unlikely — but not impossible — that ruining the Master’s entrance will result in severe punishment. It’s better not to risk it.

Then, those doors shift with a soft groan.

A swirl of wind gusts inside — a crimson-dusted wind from the outside ledge — carrying the distinctive scent of disturbed night air. In that moment, every candle and torch flares with a sudden intensity that makes people shield their eyes. Then the flame recedes, as though bowing in deference to the shape that arrives. The double doors swing wide apart like the jaws of a monster, revealing a figure standing in the corridor: the Vampire Lord Inkume.

He cuts a tall, dark silhouette.

The open windows feed more of that blood-tinted moonlight into the throne room, painting his form in extraordinary detail. His hair — sleek and faintly tinted deep midnight — seems perfectly arranged, framing starkly pale features. His attire is a high-collared coat of black spider silk, stitched with a subtle design that hints at swirling nights. Behind him, a short train of servants follows elegantly, each trimmed with a subdued gold and black robing. A cluster of skeletal butlers stands on either side, half-bowing as he strides forward.

Guests hold a collective breath; others mutter and speak amongst themselves.

He moves down the central path with measured calm. His undead step back in reverence, making the path clear for him to move directly through the full room. People on either side of the crowd fight amongst themselves to reach the front, to see him from close. The living among the crowd who can do so gape in hushed astonishment, for his face is preternaturally entrancing. Whispers ripple. “He’s so…” somebody utters, never quite finishing the statement.

Inkume’s boots strike the floor with understated confidence. The weight in the air intensifies. His gaze sweeps across the guests in a slow, graceful manner. His expression is neither stern nor overly welcoming; it is a poised mask that radiates quiet power, as though centuries of knightly presence have coalesced behind him. A subtle half-smile graces his lips as he looks over the crowd. It’s one hell of a party for an introvert like himself. The hush folds inward. Even the swirling wind through the windows dares not intrude for a time.

Snatch, pressed against a marble column, forgets to remain discreet. She appears enthralled, that little wisp of ghostly flame within her brightening into a near glow.

At long last, Inkume reaches the throne, which stands upon a short dais at the far end of the hall. Candles flicker in the candelabra behind it. The immediacy of that red glow from the great windows intensifies, shining behind him in such a theatrical manner that guests cannot help but share stares of amazement as small firekin dance around him like fairies — enchanted.

He turns and faces the throng.

People remain quiet, awaiting the first words from him. He spreads his arms in a gesture of inclusion — shoulders back, chin poised.

“Welcome!” he says, his voice resonant, carrying easily in the dampened silence that replaced the quiet music and talking. “All of you, I thank you for gathering on this fine night.” He inclines his head, scanning the eyes of the living and those of the dead — they’re all the same tonight. “We meet now under the red glow of the rising blood moon, a rare time for us all.”

In one smooth motion, a skeletal butler stands forward, arms extended to present a tall, glass vessel sealed with a waxed stopper. Inside, the color of thick blood sloshes. The skeleton’s grin never changes, though the bones creak with the movement. Inkume’s gloved hand accepts the bottle, then raises it for all to see. “May the red of tonight’s moon satiate our desires of greed and blood until sunrise,” he continues, the corner of his mouth lifts, though not enough to break the quiet solemnity of the moment. “For tonight alone, I request that you set aside grudges and share with me this rare time.” He tilts the bottle, a smirk on his face. “But I’ll remind you that tomorrow we are again familiar enemies as we were before.”

He gestures to the crowd, then carefully uncorks the vessel. A swirl of deep red drips from inside, reminding onlookers of the harsh truth of his nature. He holds the bottle aloft. “Let us drink to that,” he says. Another butler passes him a crystal chalice. Inkume pours a measure of blood into it, lifts it, then stares over the top, scanning the crowd. A hush of excitement surges. Some of the humans shift uncomfortably. The undead do the opposite, leaning forward as if to catch the slightest drop in the air. Snatch’s entire form vibrates in excitement. She covers her mouth with trembling hands, shaking from head to toe with near glee.

She’s getting ready to lunge, like a panther from the bushes.

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— Probably. She thinks. If she’s not too nervous. She might be. She wasn’t before, but she can feel it starting now.

The ghost starts to shake.

One of the skeleton attendants lifts a second tray loaded with smaller glasses, each containing a wine tinted faintly in the blood moon’s rays. With well-practiced motion, more attendants weave through the throng, ensuring that every guest — living or dead — receives a glass of something. Soon, the Vampire Lord and the entire gathering have raised their, surprisingly unpoisoned, cups. He says quietly, “To us!” Then he drinks. People cheer and follow after his example. Laughter flutters around the room, a subdued clapping bursts forth, and many share glances of surprise or relief. The hush is broken, replaced by a gentle swirl of conversation as the room reinvigorates to life.

As Inkume lowers his glass, a subtle shift passes through him. His dark pupils narrow faintly. For a solitary moment, it almost appears that his entire figure tenses with an unseen current. A ripple of power warps the air around him, warping the candle flames behind. He straightens, and in that second, there is a sense that something intangible has surged within him.

[Experience Points Gained] You have drunk the combined, mixed blood and spectral essence of all of your servants.

It’s magical properties are beyond potent and fill you with immeasurable power.

— But it does taste a little weird.

*★✧+- [LEVEL UP!] -+✧★* You are now level 999!

NEW ABILITY [Vampiris Sanguis] Active Ability • Allows you to extend your vampiric fangs to any desired length at any time. However, doing so past a certain point is not advisable, as they curve inward.

Some adventurers exchange nervous looks. Even the ghosts hush. He exhales, placing the chalice in a skeleton butler’s offered hand. The hush of that moment edges back into normalcy as the orchestra’s spectral music picks up and resumes a gentle, melodic waltz. Many in the crowd show relieved grins. Seemingly, the moment is safe. Vampire Lord Inkume is at the apex of power, yet he is evidently in control of himself as he shifts attention to the dance floor.

For a normal mortal, level one hundred is the maximum achievable measure of power. For a being to reach his status is unheard of and puts him in a position of deistic power on the spectrum of the world’s entities.

— The fact that most everything he can do with said power is near useless, well, they don’t need to know that.

Snatch hovers near the dais. She waits, biting her lips that flicker translucent for a second. Her face is twisted between excitement and shy dread. She sees him step forward, and her head ducks, hiding after all as her fright wins in the end, new dress or not. He sees her in that instant, beckoning with a subtle motion of his fingers. “Snatch,” he calls, so strictly that the words carry straight to her like a whip’s crack. She shudders with delight, scurries forward, and stands before him, unsure whether to place a hand on his or to curtsey.

“Y-Yes, Master?” asks the sweaty ghost, hiding behind her own hands.

Guests around them shift, some standing aside to watch, others continuing their private conversations. Inkume extends a hand with that mild smile. Her eyes widen. She slowly sets a trembling, half-translucent hand on top of his. Her entire form glimmers. A hush forms around them, overshadowed by the waltz that has begun to swirl gently in midair. The two of them step to the center of the floor, leaving the throne’s platform. He extends an arm, guiding her politely into a posture suitable for the waltz. She stares, half-lost.

Many watch, and many others find their own partners in the crowd — either on the spot or from those they arrived with — and soon the center of the room begins to fill with movement.

The music swells, though never deafening. Spectral violins glimmer — bows flicking over strings that reflect no real light. A ghostly horn section hovers behind them, each occupied by a silent-lipped phantom who stares blankly at the conductor. The rest of the crowd follows suit. Pairs near the center begin a slow turn. The swirl of formal skirts and newly minted suits merges with the drifting footsteps of advanced undead beings who have not danced in centuries. Some do well. Others stumble, uncertain how to handle the swirl of these updated steps.

Hwa-Young frowns, checking her hat to ensure it doesn’t fall. She spots a partner but forgets what to do on the way toward them. Another wizard from the adventurer’s side approaches her, offering a tentative approach. She shrugs, evidently not remembering if she’s supposed to say yes, so she just nods.

— He’s shoved out of the way immediately, and Fi-Fi takes Hwa-young’s hand and drags her away toward the dance. They quickly escape before the man dusts himself off.

But a nice goblin catches his eye instead.

Snatch’s awkwardness is visible in every half step as she floats along with Inkume. She nearly glides forward on the wrong beat. Her ephemeral toes pass through the top of Inkume’s shoe more than once, but he takes it in stride, guiding her with gentle steadiness. She tries speaking, but the only words that come out are a jumble of quiet exclamations. “I- I just wanted. I, uh, thank you,” she manages in a subdued voice not many can hear. “Thank you for… letting me be here.” She tries to correct her posture, to move in an elegant circle with him, but nerves keep her intangible body half-floating. Still, she presses gently to him, focusing all her attention on his lead.

He nods slightly, that half-smile lifting an extra degree. “I’m the one who should be grateful, Snatch,” he replies. “All your work these last months allowed this celebration to be possible to begin with. You deserve more moments of joy than I can give you.” The corners of his eyes narrow, in a sense that might be akin to warmth. “Relax,” he adds quietly, seeing her look around everywhere instead of toward him. People are watching them, some jealously and with venom in their eyes. His breath is chill but not harsh. One can sense that underlying current of power in every word. “You’re beautiful,” says Inkume.

Colorless tears flicker from her, and Snatch tries to nod. “Yes, Master,” she says, trembling. She begins to find a surer step in the dance. Her ephemeral dress, loosely pinned with silver star brooches, rustles with each twirl. Together, they revolve around the center of the floor. Applause and whistles rise from some who watch. She glows with pride, though she stumbles once. He catches her elbow, steadying her, then resumes the swirling footwork.

Minutes pass, and more lively music floats upward from the spectral ensemble. Other guests step forward, forming lines of gracious courtesy to try and share a dance with the Vampire Lord. At times, Snatch only just barely agrees to yield her position with good humor, passing him as partners change. Next, he extends a hand to Agnis, the bunnygirl knight who stands at the edge of the crowd, arms folded in half-impatience. She flushes, ears perking as she steps forward. She squares her shoulders and sets one hand in his, letting him guide her. Her half-plate discreetly clinks with each twist. “You’re not half bad,” she mutters. “I was half-expecting you to prance around in something more pompous.” She eyes his ensemble, raising an eyebrow.

He grins faintly, stepping in tempo with her. “I’m not that pompous,” he says, adjusting his outfit's very humble interior second collar, above his ruby-encrusted silk tie, a silver lapel gleaming on his wrist. “I simply appreciate making a good impression.” Her movements are pointedly controlled. She leads the next turn. He yields. She smirks, evidently proclaiming that knights need not always be led. A short moment later, they dip to keep pace with the music. She stares up at him, face unchanging, before she steps free. Another pair promptly draws him into the next measure.

Hwa-Young appears, forgetting that she’s holding her pointed hat, so she has to toss that aside. A robed butler swoops by to catch it. She stands in front of Inkume. “Uh.” She looks at her feet and then back at him. “Is it left foot first?” She has absolutely no recollection of previous attempts at waltzing. He places a hand at her waist, guiding her carefully. “Oh! Right,” she says, cheeks reddening. They start to revolve, her swirling robes drifting around them. She gazes all around, half-bewildered. “I hope I don’t step on you.” She’s a touch flustered, but he just smiles, assuring her that it will be fine. The gentle swirl of the dance resumes. Soon, Hwa-Young is smiling broadly, though her mind keeps wandering, as though she’s forgetting something else that might be very important.

— But it’s probably nothing.

Eventually, other friends of Inkume rotate in. He is gracious enough to grant turns to each: skeleton knights once loyal to the old Master, newly arrived adventurers who muster courage to approach. Each partner trades a few polite words, a swirl, a dipping shift in the movement. The entire throne room glitters with motion. One adventurer tries to do a complicated step, stumbles, and slides face-first into a tall pillar, but the watchers only smile politely. Gentle applause follows each small comedic slip. The night’s mood brightens further. It’s a good thing he has endless stamina and doesn’t sweat, because he’d be a real mess otherwise by the time he makes his way through Azalea, Bark, and everybody else.

— Bark, of course, would have no choice but to be transformed into her wolfish state tonight, given the fullness of the moon. But Hwa-young was kind enough to develop a special, relatively volatile potion to allow her to remain in a human shape tonight for the event.

Of course, it was a real problem trying to get the wolf goddess into a gown. By the time it was all said and done, thirty-seven hollow armors needed to be sent to the forge to be bent back into shape and Fi-Fi only just barely avoided a black eye until Bark gave in.

But eventually, the swirl of color, conversation, and other small amusements yields to a hush as a new figure steps in front of Inkume.

He stands midstep, letting a previous partner move away, and focuses on the stranger who has wandered close. Some adventurer. This new dancer has a calm posture, an unassuming presence in her bearing — someone who arrived earlier but never drew attention. She extends her hand, her face partially hidden behind a half mask like many of the others in the ball. She is garbed in midnight-blue spider silk with subtle filigree at the sleeves, elegantly tailored. A few stray pieces of her hair reflect the moon’s hue, hinting at an odd sort of radiance. Inkume bows politely, takes her hand, and leads her into the waltz.

The watchers at the edge only half-notice this new partner, busy as they are with their own dancing and chatter. Nobody seems to recognize her from any of their prior adventures — mask or not.

However, Snatch and Agnis, standing near each other now, both perceive something unusual.

“Who is that?” asks Agnis, flicking a long ear. She can’t recall seeing that stature among the usual group that runs through the castle, nor from the known adventurers she recalls from the city. She steps aside and folds her arms, narrowing her eyes. There’s something weird about her. “I don’t recall the Master inviting someone from the outside specifically.”

Snatch tilts her head, a faint swirl drifting around her legs. “I-I’m not sure,” she whispers, narrowing her eyes in an effort to see the masked dancer better.

She might just be bitterly jealous, though.

On the floor, Inkume steps gracefully with the newcomer, who maintains surprisingly smooth footwork. She moves in time with the music as though intimately familiar with these rhythms. He finds her presence oddly fascinating. Her manner betrays no fear or hesitation. Instead, she gives measured nods when he makes a small remark, swirling along with him in the slow, looping pattern of the waltz. After a few moments, he speaks under his breath, a question not audible to the rest.

“Have we met before?” asks the Vampire Lord, staring at his dancing partner, who moves with such profound, perfect elegance that she blows everyone else out of the water. It’s like she’s in perfect control of her body to an almost monkish degree.

Her eyes gleam, yet she merely shrugs, wordlessly deflecting. He glances at the array of other dancers, trying to place her face below the mask. She meets his gaze with puzzling intensity. “I don’t believe so,” replies her voice.

A faint whiff touches his senses, a subtle yet undeniable profile that stirs at the back of his mind. He catches the scent of immensely strong magical potential in her blood. It’s nauseatingly strong. The dryness of the throne room’s night air mixes with her aura, forging an intangible fragrance reminiscent of uncut steel.

He tenses. Not from danger, necessarily, but from wariness. This individual — whoever she is — has an energy coiled within that surpasses ordinary adventurers or mages. Yet she stands here so calmly, dancing with him. He tries to keep his expression neutral, but inside, a flicker of curiosity ignites. He wonders if they haven’t met before. Something about her shape or voice draws at his memory, but the specifics vanish behind that half-mask, behind the swirl of conversation, behind his own uncertainty.

She does not speak, except for a single phrase: “You dance well for a monster.” It’s said in such a mild tone that he almost wonders if she is or isn’t mocking him. He inclines his head politely, leading her out of the spin. The music thrums gently, though never once stepping too harshly. The last chord resonates, followed by a half-tap of spectral drums, indicating that the piece has ended. Applause rises, and the many pairs come to stillness.

Afoot behind the crowd, Hwa-Young bursts into the throne room from the side, her eyes wide. She flails her arms, having apparently run there in a frantic hurry as she just remembered something on the spot. “Master! Master Inkume!” blurts the witch, stumbling across a group of half-rotted zombies carrying trays. “Master!” she repeats, louder. One of the more sensitive guests cringes at her volume. “I need- excuse me. Out of the way. I need to- this is important!” Her voice rings above the hush of the last note in the music as she fights through a crowd.

He releases the new adventurer’s hand and turns, brow raised. Hwa-Young runs straight up to him, dusty hat in one hand and clutched alchemical notes in the other. She looks up, chest heaving. “You’re in trouble!” she gasps, the skull attached to her belt talking in translation. Everyone around them stiffens, eyes darting to her. “A hero!” says the witch, wheezing for air as he braces a hand on her shoulder to keep her steady. “There’s a hero — some unstoppable hero — on her way to the castle! I saw it in my orb!” pants the witch. “- maybe even tonight!” She swallows, glances at the scribbled notes in her hand, then looks blankly at them, looking at a series of hero-criteria checkboxes provided to her by Inkume that list such things as ‘colorful, spiky hair,’ ‘ragtag group of unlikely friends,’ and ‘unusual, weak gimmick abused to reach a seat of power’. “…I forgot to tell you,” she mutters sheepishly, awkwardly pressing the tips of her fingers together. “My bad.”

The music cuts off in an abrupt hush. A phantom musician sets down a ghostly flute. The flicker of braziers intensifies. People hold their drinks, half-lowered, leaning forward.

Inkume remains silent. The tension knot in his chest flares. Then, as if triggered by that surge of tension, suits of armor around the perimeter animate to life. They stand upright from their positions near the walls. Hollow guardsmen — each a black steel shell, lacking any occupant — rattle with sudden motion. The crowd makes room as one by one, these guardians step off their stands, metal knees flexing. They carry either halberds or swords, eyes empty behind their visors. Collectively, they close in around the chamber, forming an arc that blocks all approach to Inkume. All above the inner balconies of the throne room, skeletal archers and mages run — their silhouettes visible in the darkness as they take vantage over the dance below. They move swiftly, each one directed by the castle’s interior magic, faint glows where eyes should be. They form a second barrier to block the onlookers from crowding in. The scattered hum of talk grows urgent.

Inkume looks at the witch, shielding her with an arm as he casts a careful look around the area.

A gleam of silver from just behind him catches his eye, ruby moonlight washing over the hero’s blade that runs his way from too close to react against.

Fuck.