"You sit in the Ashen Quadrant, little Empress. The land where the dead are gathered, where all who linger after death find their place. From the lowliest zombie and skeleton, to wraiths, vampires such as myself, and other undead horrors—wights, banshees, dullahans."

The voice was smooth, rich, with a faint rasp that carried hunger. The speaker leaned lazily against a tilted gravestone, his long black cloak spilling across the cracked stone. His eyes glowed faint crimson under the shadow of his hood, and when he smiled, his fangs gleamed pale white against his dark skin. A vampire—no mistaking it.

"I am Veylar," he said, bowing with only the slightest dip of his head, the gesture more casual than respectful.

Enya did not rise to greet him. She sat back in a throne of bones, the armrests carved from femurs, the back stretched high with ribcages stacked like lattice. She had shaped it herself with a thought, the magic responding as naturally as breathing. There was no System window, no circles drawn, no quill or scroll. Here in the Underworld, she simply willed, and it became. Her magic worked here, without limit.

Her small body looked strange upon such a throne, but her presence filled it easily. Pale eyes, white as mist, stared at him without expression. A regal aura, of the dominion of death, slowly creeping out from her body, like heat from a man on fire. She kept it pressed down for now—not out of kindness, but because it was inconvenient. Before she walked to the market, several zombies and skeletons kneeled and groveled before her when she didn't keep it suppressed.

It was annoying.

"Quadrant," she asked, voice flat, lazy. She shifted her chin into her palm as if she were bored already.

"Yes, the Ashen Quadrant."

"What does quadrant mean?" she asked. Her vocabulary wasn't infinite.

"Ah. Quadrant simply means a quarter, a fourth of a bigger whole." Veylar's cloak shifted as he pushed off the gravestone, standing before her. "The Underworld is vast. Divided into territories, each with their courts and rulers. But make no mistake. Nekron is the true master of all. We—" his eyes flashed red again, lips curling faintly "—we only borrow pieces of it. And you…" He gestured toward her throne. "You are the third Empress of the underworld. But you are different; you are one chosen by him directly."

Enya's brow lifted slightly, though she didn't move from her posture. "The third?"

"Indeed. The other two rose by politics, by grasping and clawing their way through succession. But you—" he bowed again, just slightly deeper this time—"you were anointed. His mark rests upon you. We can all feel it when you command the dominion."

"Hn."

The truth was, Enya didn't dislike this place. It somehow felt very comforting to her. It almost felt like she was back in Sable's sanctum.

However, she couldn't stay forever. She had unfinished business.

"I need to leave," Enya said suddenly. Her voice cut across the graveyard like a knife. Smooth, elegant, but sharp and unyielding. "I didn't come here for a trip."

Her fingers tightened around the throne's armrest. "I need to go back to the manor. I need to see how Pell is doing."

The name lingered on her tongue, and for the first time her pale eyes flickered. Her last memory of him burned in her mind—Pell shouting her name, thrashing beneath Elria's knight, begging her to stop.

Her small hand clenched into a fist.

The air shifted. Her aura slipped free like smoke leaking from a cracked seal. Gravestones around the cemetery rumbled, shaking in their soil. The ground itself trembled faintly.

Veylar stiffened where he stood. His lips drew back from his teeth, fangs bared as his body resisted the crushing weight pressing down on him. A thin line of blood welled at the corner of his mouth, tracing down his chin. Yet he did not lower his gaze. He made no attempt to tell her to stop.

Enya sat still, pale eyes unblinking, until at last the weight ebbed. Her aura coiled back inside her like a tide retreating. She looked at him again, her voice even, cold, flat.

"Pell is family," she said softly. "I don't know how he is doing."

Her hand slipped into her robe. From the folds she pulled out the small stuffed bear—threadbare and lifeless. She held it against her chest, her small arms curling around it. The Voidlight Bomb. The last thing Pell had given her.

She hugged it tightly. Her pale eyes lowered, fixed on its stitched button eyes. Is Pell safe?

Veylar wiped his chin with the back of his sleeve. When he spoke, his tone carried a faint rasp, but no mockery. "You mentioned you are bound in a painting. A prison that requires a soul."

"Yes." Enya raised her head again, white eyes cutting back to him. "To leave, I need another soul. Something to take my place."

Veylar inclined his head. "Then you need only bring back any soul you wish. You are the Empress of this place. Any soul should feel honored to obey."

Enya lowered her gaze. She gently lifted the stuffed bear from her chest and set it neatly on her lap. Her pale eyes rose again, fixing on him.

"Even you? Will you become the sacrifice?"

The vampire's eyes hardened, red light flashing in their depths. For a moment his fangs bared in silence. Then he bowed his head once, sharp and deliberate.

"If it is your wish," he said quietly, "then I shall obey."

The graveyard stilled. Only the faint rustle of fog through broken grass filled the space. Enya stared at him without speaking for several long seconds. Then she slipped the bear back into her robes, close to her heart.

"There is no need," she said at last. "Any soul should work, if Elria's words were true."

Veylar straightened, wiping the blood from his lip. "Then perhaps one of the prisoners of the Eternal Hell. They would suit your purpose well."

Enya tilted her head. "Eternal Hell?"

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"A prison," Veylar explained smoothly, his cloak shifting around him like living shadow. "For the most wretched offenders among the dead. The underworld has its own order, its own rules. Even among us, some deeds are not tolerated. Those who commit them are bound there, awaiting judgment. If you need a sacrifice, you may take one of them. None would dare protest. Simply call upon Beatrice and she'll bring you one of its wardens."

Enya nodded once, considering. "Good idea."

She lifted her hand and called softly. "Beatrice."

The gate burst from the ground once more, groaning with the cries of a thousand souls.

"Bring me a Warden from the Eternal Hell," Enya said.

"Of course," Beatrice replied. The portal swirled, and from its black surface stepped a skeleton. His bones were polished white, his spine ramrod straight beneath a long coat of black. A tall top hat rested perfectly on his skull, and his jaw clacked once as he bowed. A dressed up, but otherwise, normal-looking skeleton.

"I am Warden Thales," the skeleton intoned, voice smooth, almost gentlemanly. "Keeper of the Eternal Hells. How may I serve, Empress?"

"I need a prisoner," Enya said. Her small hands pressed firmly on the throne's arms. She pushed herself up, sitting straight. Her voice held no hesitation. "Any. I don't care who."

Thales inclined his skull, top hat dipping forward. "Very well. One shall be brought."

He turned, addressing Beatrice with a snap of his long fingers. "Bring forth Kravog the Two-Maw."

The gate shuddered and extended taller. From its dark surface emerged a hulking form. A massive ogre lumbered forward, skin rotted and grey, two heads snarling in opposite directions. Chains of black iron bound his arms, each link glowing faintly with runes that hissed when he pulled against them. His bulk shook the graveyard as he stomped closer, both mouths spewing guttural snarls. He was triple the height of Veylar, the tallest one present.

Warden Thales merely gestured to him with a polite sweep of his bony hand.

"Your prisoner, Empress."

Kravog lumbered forward as the chains clinked at his wrists, both heads turning side to side as if sniffing the air. His nostrils flared, and one mouth curled in a sneer.

"Where is this? This isn't my cell," the left head growled. His yellow eyes snapped to the tophatted skeleton. "You. Thales. What trick is this? Did you drag me here to mock me? To gloat?"

The right head barked louder, frothing spit across broken tusks. "You brittle runt, I'll smash your hat flat, then your skull with it. You think a warden can leash me outside where you want? I'll use your body as a stake to kill that vampire over there. From the bottom up!"

Thales adjusted his hat with two careful fingers, unimpressed. "Restrain yourself, Kravog. You stand before the Empress now. Speak with more caution—"

"Empress?" Both heads bellowed at once. His heads looked around, but saw nothing impressive. "I see no empress here! Only you, you little shitstain. I'll tear—"

Enya's voice cut through the rumbling noise, small but carrying weight.

"You're too loud."

Both of Kravog's heads snapped toward her. His sneer twisted wider when he saw the child perched on her bone throne.

"…You? This tiny brat?" He barked a laugh, rotten teeth flashing. "Are you the one who dragged me here? Command me, little child? Hah! Release me now, and maybe I'll take my time killing you. Slowly. Painfully."

Veylar stiffened beside her, cloak rippling as his fangs lengthened. His muscles coiled, ready to tear the ogre apart for his insolence.

Enya did not rise. She only clenched her fingers.

The ground cracked. A spear of bone burst upward, laced with pale soul-light, aimed for one of Kravog's heads.

The weapon struck, but only scraped his rotted skin. Kravog smashed his skull into the broken spear, snapping it apart with ease. Both of his mouths opened in harsh, gurgling laughter.

"That's it? Bone twigs and rattling tricks? Can't even prick my flesh. You're nothing but a runt playing dress-up!"

Enya's lips pressed thin. A faint twitch crossed her brow, the closest she came to a frown. The air around her shifted—then snapped.

Her aura spilled outward like a crushing tide. Gravestones groaned, fog tore apart, and the earth itself shuddered. The pressure collapsed down on Kravog, both of his heads jerking as if struck by unseen chains. His knees slammed to the ground, claws digging trenches in the ash as he tried to resist.

Enya clicked her tongue, sharp, filled with annoyance, then she turned her gaze away from him as if he no longer mattered.

"He'll work," she said, voice flat. Her white eyes moved to Thales.

The skeletal warden adjusted his tophat, jaw clacking faintly with what might have been approval.

Enya shifted her gaze again, this time to Beatrice's looming visage at the gate. "Open the portal. Send us back to the prison of the painting."

Beatrice's lips parted, her echoing voice hollow. "As you command, Empress. The passage is ready."

The grotesque archway stirred, its surface rippling with black light.

All around, the air stilled. Undead in the distance lowered their heads instinctively, giving her silence as respect.

Veylar bent at the waist, cloak fanning like spilled blood. "We shall await your return, Majesty. If you ever so need us, please call."

Thales gave a stiff bow, his bony grin clattering. "And if you find any despicable souls, do be so kind as to send them my way. I will take great care of them." His laugh was a dry rattle, more bones than mirth.

Enya gave a single nod.

She rose from her throne and stepped toward the gate. Kravog growled low in both throats, straining against her will, but he had no choice. Her aura bound him like chains, dragging his massive body forward on his knees.

Without hesitation, Enya crossed the threshold, the ogre dragged behind into the shifting dark.

The gate closed with a final groan, swallowing them both back into the painting's prison.

Enya landed first, her small feet striking the white void. Kravog followed, crashing to the ground on his knees.

The endless space accepted them, then immediately began to convulse. The void shook so violently that the walls of nothing rippled like water, threatening to collapse inward.

Beatrice's carved head tilted back toward Enya. "Farewell, Empress. May your return be swift."

Kravog staggered, both throats rumbling as he tried to rise. "What the hell is this? What's happening to me?" His words warped and tore apart as distortion swallowed the sound.

The next instant, Enya's body was ripped outward. White consumed her vision until it turned brighter than white, a blur that devoured everything.

Then she hit the floor. Hard. The wood knocked the breath out of her, her body rolling once before she came to a stop. Her tiara spun away, the pale crystal clattering against a far wall.

"Ow…" she muttered, rubbing her arm as she pushed herself upright.

The manor surrounded her, but not as she remembered. The second floor, once cracked and broken, had been restored. Smooth boards replaced splinters. The eerie glow of the Carrier's light was gone. Lyssia's shattered doll body—gone. It looked pristine, untouched, as though the chaos had never happened.

Enya straightened slowly, dusting her robes. A soft chime whispered through her mind. She pulled up her system screen.

Minion Pell has breached the summoner tether limit. Minion Pell has been unsummoned.

Her lips tugged into a small smile. The first in what felt like forever.

She raised her hand and willed the summoning spell into being. A familiar circuit glowed before her eyes. Light cracked the air, bones stitching into shape, soul flames sparking alive within a skull. Pell's form reassembled, solid and sure.

He looked down at her the moment he returned. The fire in his sockets flared. Before she could speak, he moved. His arms wrapped around her, rattling as he pulled her tight against his chest.

"Kid!" His voice rasped raw, louder than she had ever heard. "You're alive. I thought you were gone."

Enya froze. Pell never hugged her. Never showed much softness at all. He was gruff, always hard-edged, his care hidden behind sharp words. But now his grip trembled with something she could not mistake. Fear. Relief. Both tangled together.

Only rarely did he ever show actual emotion. Enya was usually the one who was overly emotional. Yet… it felt different this time. The roles were reversed. Now—it was Enya who acted like Pell.

Her eyes softened. Slowly, she raised her arms and hugged him back, pressing her face against the cage of his ribs. "…I missed you, Pell."

For a long moment, he held her. The hall stood silent around them, the quiet pressing in.

At last he pulled back. His skull tilted low, soul flames flickering erratic as he studied her face.

"What's with you," he said, rough and unsettled. "Not just your clothes. Your eyes. They're gone. White. Like I'm staring into fog. What happened to you, kid?"

Enya kept still. A lot had happened. More than she could explain in words.

Her fingers curled faintly against her robes. Maybe it was the acolyte's power keeping her steady. Maybe it was something else.

"A lot happened, Pell," she said slowly.

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