The giant's chamber had grown oppressive, its stale air and thick gloom gnawing at Belial's mind like a persistent ache. The ever-humming crystalline veins, threading the walls like frozen lightning, had once been a marvel, their pulses a quiet comfort in the endless night of the Black Theatre. Now, they were a grating reminder of his confinement, each throb echoing the monotony of his routines.
Even the crystalline books, with their glowing pages and etched thoughts, had begun to feel repetitive, their words spinning in circles like a mind trapped in its own labyrinth. He needed air—or at least the illusion of it, something to break the suffocating weight of this place.
So, Belial made his way to the edge of the mountain, his boots echoing softly on the worn stone steps that wound through the spire. The path was narrow, carved into the inner cliff face, and it led to a jutting balcony of obsidian—a natural ledge that seemed to hang in defiance of the abyss below. The slope beneath was impossibly steep, a jagged cascade of black rock and swirling mist that plunged into the great hollow. No monster could climb it, not even the winged ones, their claws slipping on the glassy surface. It was safe enough, for now, a rare sanctuary in a world that offered none.
Above, a cracked stone lip extended outward like a jagged roof, shielding Belial from the shards of frost and biting wind that drifted from the higher levels of the mountain. The glassy sky glimmered faintly, its surface fractured to reveal distant stars through the mountain's broken crown. The blue moon, faint and veiled, hung like an ancient eye, its cold light filtering through layers of shifting clouds. Belial sat on the ledge, his legs dangling over the edge, his leathery wings folded and dissipated into smoke. The air was sharp, stinging his face, but it was a welcome change from the stagnant weight of the chamber.
He pulled the Lonely Prince's notebook from his coat, its leather cover worn smooth by time and touch. The pages shimmered faintly under the moonlight, reacting to the ether in his blood. He flipped it open, his fingers tracing the familiar script as a new entry flickered to life on the parchment:
Sadly, I had to return today. The Empire is preparing for war. The Queen has commanded me to create more soldiers… so I did.
Belial blinked, his breath catching. The words were stark, heavy with resignation.
While I worked, a bitter thought crossed my mind. What kind of mother makes their own offspring work like a slave? I know, this is an emergency. But have these people ever learned what emotion is?
Belial's lips curved into a wry frown, the words striking a chord deep within him. Sounds familiar, he thought. The Prince's pain was raw, unfiltered, a crack in the facade of perfection he was forced to uphold. Belial knew that weight— the expectation to be useful, unquestioning, a tool forged for someone else's purpose. He, too, had been shaped by a creator who demanded everything and gave nothing, the Witch's curse a constant reminder of his place in her design.
The entry continued, each word heavy with the Prince's quiet rebellion:
This is a subject I've only just come to understand. Still, I went to the Forge. I built what they asked. The soldiers… they come out clean. Silent. Efficient. But they feel wrong. I wonder how many more I'll make before I stop feeling anything at all.
Belial sat in silence, the words echoing like a whisper of old pain. He gazed out at the steep abyss, the wind biting his face, and tucked the notebook back into his coat. The Forge, he noted. He hadn't found that room yet, though he'd searched the labyrinthine depths of the Black Theatre for months. It was likely buried somewhere below, hidden like so many of the spire's secrets. Another thing to look for, another thread to follow in this endless night.
That night, a mirror monster emerged from the caverns of the valley, its form unlike the others. It was larger, faster, its body clad in jagged bone plates that gleamed like shattered glass. Its maw shrieked, a sound that echoed for miles, splitting the silence of the hollow. Belial battled it for hours, his hammer a blur of motion as it shattered stone and flesh alike. The fight was brutal, the monster's claws raking across his arm, tearing skin and shredding muscle. Blood, black and crimson, dripped down his forearm, pooling on the ground. In the end, he won, but the victory came at a cost. His body ached, his breath ragged, as he collapsed beside the twitching corpse.
He didn't rest. Instead, he sat still, feeling the ether begin to pool. The monster's energy—dense and sharp—bled into him, his body drinking it greedily. But the poison in his veins, the cursed ether that was half-clear and half-black, reacted immediately. It writhed within him, swirling like stormwater stirred with ink. The pain flared, a familiar torment—his veins burning, his lungs stinging, his limbs twitching under an invisible weight. He gritted his teeth, riding out the storm, until—calm. His ether pulsed once, then twice, and finally settled.
Belial opened his eyes, his voice hoarse as he wiped blood from his lips. "…Got stronger," he muttered. "But not for free."
With slow, deliberate steps, he descended the spiral stairs that coiled through the giant's chamber. He knew every creak of the ancient stone, every echo of his footsteps. Nearly a year, he believed, though time was a slippery thing in the Black Theatre. There was no sun, no dawn to mark the passage of days, only the weight of fatigue in his bones and the rhythm of his routines. The air grew colder as he descended, the hum of the crystalline veins fading into a low, resonant drone.
At the bottom of the chamber, suspended above a black pool that shimmered like liquid night, hung the chrysalis. It had grown massive, its bulk dominating the cavern. Held by strands of pulsing black webbing, its surface was mottled grey-black, like scorched flesh and obsidian. Faint ripples moved across it, as if something stirred within—a heartbeat, a breath, a life waiting to break free. The air around it was thick, charged with an energy that made Belial's skin prickle.
He approached, his arm lifting slowly, still aching from the battle. Ether surged from his palm—half-clear, half-black, a volatile dance of light and shadow. It poured like a stream into the basin beneath the chrysalis, the stone trembling as it absorbed the offering. The cocoon's flesh twitched in response, a shudder that sent a ripple through the webbing.
Then—a thunderous pulse.
The chamber groaned, the sound reverberating through the stone like a cry from some buried god. Belial gasped as a crushing pressure slammed into his chest, driving him to one knee. His breath was forced from his lungs, his vision swimming as the weight pressed down, heavy as a planet on his spine. The ground cracked beneath him, hairline fractures spreading like spiderwebs. His arms trembled, his claws scraping against the stone as he fought to stay upright.
The pressure was familiar, a memory from another life. Cole, he thought, his mind flashing to the Hellion whose presence had once pinned him in place, raw and unyielding. But this was different—wilder, less controlled, a force that felt both alive and untamed.
A low hum rippled through the cavern, deep and resonant, shaking the air. Belial gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his brow as his ether flickered, struggling to resist the overwhelming force. It was useless. The chrysalis's power was too great, its presence too vast.
This thing… this damned baby…
His mouth twisted in a grimace, pain and defiance warring in his chest. "…is waking up," he whispered, the words choking through gritted teeth.