Otharon's gaze lingered a moment longer on the fountain's silent elegance before his eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to pierce through the illusion of peace.

"Lord Chaos will be arriving soon," he murmured, the title tasting foreign even on his well-disciplined tongue. "Though for the life of me, I cannot decipher why he requested this place for our meeting."

Lysivelle's silver eyes did not turn to him. Instead, she gently reached into the folds of her sleeve and drew forth a small pocket watch—polished obsidian trimmed in silver, its surface etched with shifting runes that glimmered faintly in the fountain's glow. She flicked it open with practiced ease and glanced at the time.

"Liberators," she said softly, "Have always moved by strange rhythms. They walk paths the rest of us are not permitted to see. And I have found it… unwise to question the whims of such beings. It is beyond the scope of a mortal man to understand them."

Her voice carried the same gentle cadence it always did, but the weight of her words was old. Resigned. She snapped the watch shut with a satisfying click, and in that silence, Otharon chuckled—a rare, quiet thing that came from deep in his chest, like gravel stirring in a metal bowl.

She blinked, her posture stiffening faintly. Her head turned, and she glanced sidelong at him, the faintest blush blooming at the edge of her pale cheek. "What is it?" she asked, more defensive than curious.

He gestured faintly toward the timepiece. "I had simply forgotten how punctual you are, Duchess. I suppose some habits are more enduring than bloodlines."

She huffed, though it was not unkind. "A force of habit, nothing more," she muttered, tucking the watch back into her sleeve. "I've long grown used to knowing where I am in the day. It is disorienting, walking these halls for hours without the sun or stars to remind you time is passing."

Otharon's hands remained clasped behind his back, his pace as slow and steady as the turtles beneath the fountain's waters. "There are no clocks here," he said, "Because the palace was not built to flow with time, Lysivelle. It was built to ignore it."

She tilted her head, absorbing the words as one might a riddle wrapped in cloth. "You speak like a philosopher when you say things like that."

"I am old," he replied simply. "It's the one indulgence they still allow me."

"Then perhaps this is the only flaw in the palace," she said, almost wistful. "That it has no time. And even those who do have it, are simply borrowing it."

Otharon's steps halted. He turned to her—not sharply, but with a seriousness that quieted the air around them. His voice was low, but firm.

"We've spoken of the heirs," he said. "Of bloodlines and burdens. But Lysivelle… this palace may very well be the King's favorite child. If you must insult something, let it not be the walls that saved the human race."

She lowered her gaze for a moment, the fabric of her robe stirring faintly as if embarrassed. Then she bowed her head ever so slightly—an elegant dip of acknowledgement, not submission. "You are right, of course," she said. "I know better. The walls here have more than ears, and far more memory than either of us."

Otharon said nothing more, but his expression eased as they resumed their slow, deliberate walk along the edge of the fountain. Then… something began to happen.

It began subtly—a trembling of the water, a ripple not caused by koi or swan. Otharon noticed first, his sharp eyes narrowing at the slight distortion beneath the fountain's pristine surface. Lysivelle followed his gaze, and as soon as she saw the shadow spreading quietly beneath the creatures, she drew in a soft breath and immediately adjusted her gown. Her fingers moved quickly, smoothing invisible wrinkles from the indigo fabric, tracing the silver threads as though to remind herself they still existed.

Otharon, too, reacted instinctively. With practiced calm, he straightened the layers of crimson and black that draped his tall frame, adjusting the embroidered symbols that suddenly seemed less impressive under the shadow's slow crawl. They exchanged a quick glance, unspoken words passing swiftly between them. They both knew who was arriving, and both understood the gravity of the moment. With a slight, almost imperceptible nod, they faced the fountain once more.

Then, without warning or mercy, the room exploded into darkness.

Shadows surged outward from the fountain, pouring forth in thick, oily torrents. The polished marble cracked and shuddered, shattering with sounds like bones breaking beneath too much weight. The creatures in the fountain screamed as they vanished beneath the surging black tide—beautiful swans pulled under by twisted claws of shadow, koi scattering desperately only to disappear into an endless abyss, turtles sinking into their own shells as darkness flooded around them. Birds scattered upward, but their chirps transformed instantly into shrill, human-like wails of panic, vanishing mid-flight into grasping void.

Lysivelle's heart lurched as she felt the darkness brush against her, a thousand icy fingers tracing her spine, countless voices whispering madness into her ears. The voices spoke in languages long dead, whispered prophecies that turned her blood to ice, wept and laughed with the bitter knowledge of empires that had risen and fallen before her birth.

Beside her, Otharon stood rigid, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He felt unseen eyes opening all around him—thousands of them, staring from every angle, peering from the blackness that dripped and crawled along walls and ceilings.

The air filled with screams, millions upon millions, each scream distinct yet merging into a cacophony of agony and ecstasy that hammered relentlessly at his sanity. The shadow rose like a tide, swirling violently in midair, forming a cyclone of despair and madness at the center of the once-beautiful plaza.

Then, at its apex, Chaos emerged.

His figure rose slowly, deliberately, from the fountain's destroyed heart. The darkness parted around him, as if even shadows feared the being they carried. He was massive yet strangely formless at first—a shape of pure menace, towering and terrible.

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Eyes like burning embers opened within the shadowy mass, moving restlessly, countless pairs of crimson irises blinking independently as if searching endlessly for something never found. Chains rattled as he shifted, metallic links scraping together like the tortured screams of a thousand lost souls, each one a tiny, miserable plea for freedom.

Then the shadows began to shrink inward, tightening, condensing, shaping themselves obediently into a single monstrous form. Solid limbs, massive shoulders draped in chains forged from shadow, a face barely concealed beneath a hood woven from living darkness. His feet, still dripping with liquid night, touched down gently onto the polished golden floor.

And the instant Chaos fully stepped forth, the horror ceased.

Silence returned abruptly, as if all sound had been violently sucked out of the air. The shadows retreated instantly, slipping silently back into unseen crevices, leaving no trace behind—not a single droplet or stain to mar the once-perfect floor. The fountain stood intact once more, its marble polished as if untouched, swans and koi swimming gracefully as though nothing had disturbed their peace.

Chaos stood now, towering but controlled, wrapped in a robe of shifting darkness and rattling chains, his crimson eyes settling directly upon the nobles with a gaze that promised no escape from his notice. He tilted his head slightly, voice rolling forth like deep thunder wrapped in velvet darkness.

"Greetings," he spoke simply, with a voice too soft for his form, yet heavy enough to press against their chests like stone. "Your names?"

Otharon's lip twitched subtly, frustration briefly breaking through his disciplined calm. They had met before, more than once, in fact, and yet the Titan never remembered, never cared to. With a barely audible click of his tongue, he inclined his head respectfully, his voice even and cool.

"Lord Marshal Otharon," he stated, pride forcing a rigid neutrality into his tone. "We've spoken before, Lord Chaos. Though perhaps memory serves you less eagerly than it does lesser beings."

Chaos's gaze lingered briefly upon him, unreadable but clearly not amused. Then he turned expectantly to the woman. Lysivelle's response came quickly, her voice clear, steady, and far more eager to please. "Duchess Lysivelle, Lord Chaos. It is my honor to greet you once again."

Chaos's eyes narrowed slightly, considering her carefully. A quiet hum of recognition reverberated deep in his throat. "Yes," he murmured softly, almost thoughtfully, chains rattling gently as if stirred by unseen breezes. "Lysivelle. That name I remember."

She lowered her gaze respectfully, concealing her satisfaction beneath practiced elegance.

For another long moment, Chaos said nothing, merely standing and regarding them both as if measuring their worth. At last, his shadow-wrapped hand rose, gesturing lightly toward the path ahead.

They walked in near silence. The Royal Road ahead of them gleamed under the simulated sunlight, stretching endlessly forward like a divine tongue waiting to whisper secrets. Though none of them acknowledged it aloud, there was a quiet shift in the air. The palace felt different now. Not disrupted, not disrespected, but remembered. As though something old had returned to a room long-sealed, and the walls, in their stillness, had begun to hum softly with recognition.

Lysivelle adjusted the fall of her gown, the tips of her fingers brushing over the pearl-lined seams of her sleeves. Her gaze remained forward, and though her breath was calm and even, there was a newfound effort behind her posture—a deliberate grace meant not for courtly display, but for recognition. She spoke gently, evenly, as if her voice were a ribbon trying to tie itself around something ungraspable. "You honor us, Lord Chaos, by choosing to walk the inner path. Few of your kind ever have."

Chaos did not look at her. His stride was steady, weightless despite the chains coiled around him, and his voice came low and slow, almost disinterested. "This path was chosen for me long before ether one of you were born."

Behind them, Otharon's eyes narrowed slightly. He had walked the Royal Road more times than he could count, knew every turn, every arch, every banner hanging in memorial. But Chaos's words carried no ceremony, no awe. He spoke as if he had owned this place. As if he had stood here before, not as a guest, but as something far more intimate.

The Marshal said nothing for a moment, letting the realization turn over like a stone in his thoughts. Then, after a pause too long to be casual, he said, "And yet your arrival was announced just a few moments ago."

Chaos's head turned slowly, just enough for the faintest sliver of red to burn beneath his hood. "I am not in the habit of announcing what should already be known."

Otharon's mouth twitched, but he said nothing further.

Lysivelle, ever the diplomat, offered a smile that masked her unease with careful elegance. "Then allow me to say it plainly, my lord. You are not forgotten. Though I must confess, your timing remains… unexpected."

"It is not my timing," Chaos replied, his voice soft as drifting ash. "It is the palace's. It remembers me better than any man or record." The chain around his neck shifted of its own accord, slithering against his chest like a serpent roused from sleep.

They did not know it—but Chaos had walked these corridors long before they had titles. He had stood beneath the vaulted ceiling not as an intruder, but as an occupant. The shadows knew his weight. The golden floor remembered the exact rhythm of his steps. And somewhere far below, in the furnace halls buried beneath the marble, the machines that controlled the palace's breath had never stopped reacting to his presence.

Only the people had forgotten.

Otharon glanced once at the Duchess, then back at Chaos. His patience thinned with every word. "If you are so well acquainted with the palace, then you know we are not a court of illusions. Speak plainly, Titan. Why have you returned?"

Chaos did not break stride, nor did he look back. But there was something sharper now in the way his chains whispered along the floor—like knives drawing themselves slowly.

"I was summoned," he said. "Not by command, but by condition. The silence here… has grown too loud."

The Marshal's hand twitched faintly at his side, fingers curling just once into a fist before releasing.

Lysivelle, sensing the heat rising beside her, intervened again. "Lord Chaos… we are grateful that you chose to answer. However strange the reasons may appear to us."

At that, Chaos glanced toward her—not with warmth, but with a shadow of memory.

"You speak as one who still believes gratitude is required," he said. "Keep it. I ask for nothing."

Her smile did not falter, but her eyes shifted just slightly to the golden bricks beneath her feet.

It was Otharon who finally let the tension slip through. "You speak in riddles, and offer no clarity," he said, voice low but clipped. "We live in a palace of function, not poetry. The court has moved beyond theatrical mystery."

Chaos halted and the chains fell silent.

He turned then, not sharply, but slowly, like a mountain shifting direction. His face was still mostly obscured, but one eye glinted in the pale false-light. It burned—not with wrath, but with something colder. Something like disappointment.

"I forget," Chaos said softly. "Your kind believe power and structure are the same thing. You confuse rules with wisdom. And forget that the former was built only to cage the latter."

Otharon stiffened. "You—"

Before the Marshal could finish, Lysivelle moved a half step forward, lowering her head in apology, her voice soft and quick. "Forgive him, my lord. He speaks from duty, not disrespect."

Chaos looked at her a moment longer, and then… the tension slipped away.

"There is nothing to forgive," he murmured, already turning again. "A sword must remain sharp. Even if it does not know where it is being pointed."

They resumed walking. And after a long silence, Chaos added, almost idly, "I would not wish to make the King wait."

It was hard to tell whether the comment was courteous… or mocking.

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