The pond's surface glimmered under Chase's unseeing gaze as the group regrouped, Nora clinging to Gerral's side like a ghost.
"So, how do we leave this hellhole?" Milla scooped up a pebble and tossed it into the pond—Plop. It vanished into the hollow depths.
Chase's inky eyes narrowed. "This is a pocket space. Without the door, we can't escape."
Nora's fingers dug into Gerral's arm. "I ran… for days. Always… looped back." Her voice rasped, dry and brittle, like wind through dead leaves.
"The door is here," Sylas said, crouching at the pond's edge.
"Huh?" Milla's hand shot toward his head—smack—but Sylas caught her wrist mid-swing.
"It's the pond. Same as the one in the dungeon."
"You're joking—" Gerral spat.
Sylas didn't answer. He drew his axe and sliced his palm open. The blood hissed as it dripped into the water, spreading like mercury. Silver fish swarmed, stirring the water into a whirlpool.
"Who's first?" Sylas grinned.
"CONNOR!" Milla shrieked, pointing at the cliff.
Every head snapped toward the empty ledge. Sylas turned—
THUD-SPLOSH!
Milla's boot planted squarely on his butt. "PAYBACK, JERK!" she cackled as he plunged into the whirlpool.
Alan pinched his brow. "...Idiots." He dove in cleanly. Emma followed.
"Slowpokes!" Milla yelled, cannonballing into the water and drenching Gerral and Nora.
Gerral eyes remained on the cliff. "Sure you don't wanna… finish him?"
Nora stared at the spot where Connor had fallen. Slowly, her hand rose, palm pressing against her lips—just as Connor used to do. She held it there, cutting off her own breath, as if trapping every memory within that single motion.
The corners of her lips twitched three times. Then, her hand dropped.
"Leave him… to rot."
They jumped.
—
Connor's body lay mutilated—arms and legs severed, stumps charred black to stop the bleeding. Blood pooled beneath him as he writhed, worm-like, toward the cliff's edge. "Not… done…" he gurgled, teeth grinding into the dirt as he etched forward, his torso wiggling disorderly. The whirlpool whooshing ahead, its vortex still stirring. "Just… one… more…"
Rrrrk-crunch! A boot crushed his spine.
"Tragic," Chase drawled—his voice warped, deeper, as his form rippled like the disturbed water below.
"You—!" Connor's snarl died as the man's hand flickered.
Thud-thud-PLOP!—His head rolled into the pond. His body twitched once, then stilled.
"Your service is no longer needed," the man spat, kicking the corpse into the vortex. "Go on now—go rot among the other frostworms."
He leapt after the body; the whirlpool sealed behind him.
—
Milla burst to the surface, gasping for air. "We're out!"
Gerral pulled Nora onto the stones. "Where's Sylas?"
"Here," Sylas groaned, squeezing water from his shirt. "Remind me to poison Milla's rations."
Alan scanned the water. "Where's Chase?"
No answer.
Nora's shaky finger pointed to the pond behind her—now still, opaque, and cold as a tombstone. No Chase emerged.
—
The wind howled down Kragnir Peak, slicing through the children's soaked clothes like icy knives. Milla hugged herself, teeth chattering. "N-Not the d-dungeon. S-So… win-win?"
Sylas squinted at the glacial summit towering above, its jagged peak clawing at the clouds. "So this is the foot of Kragnir Peak? Took us three days to get here."
"Y-You've got to be kidding—"
WHOOM—POW!
A green flare exploded overhead, dyeing the snow emerald. Figures in frost-mantled cloaks surged toward them.
"Here! They're here!"
Mr. FluGer dropped to his knees, pulling Milla into a crushing hug. "Thank the gods! You're safe. A week lost in the blizzard, we—"
"We weren't lost," Sylas snapped, peeling the man off her. "You just didn't bother checking inside the dungeon."
Ms. Wellform stiffened. "We did. Four parties went in. None… came out."
The biting cold seemed to deepen.
"Ms. Silvermine?" Gerral stepped forward. "Jareth?"
Mr. FluGer's silence was enough of an answer.
Nora's hand slowly rose to cover her mouth. Above them, the dungeon's entrance loomed—a jagged jaw veiled in ice.
"No one," Ms. Wellform whispered.
Sylas's gaze settled on the jagged jaw, watching—waiting—as if expecting something to emerge.
Nothing did.
He turned to Ms. Wellform. "Then we're leaving."
—
Ouroboros clawed free of the dungeon's jaw, her dress shattered. "That vermin Chase—should've flayed him alive!"
Jareth appeared behind her, unscathed, Ms. Silvermine trailing after him like a stormcloud.
"I held my end," Ouroboros spat, jabbing a finger at Jareth. "We're square?!"
"As agreed." Jareth's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Good. Go rot in the seventh hell." She flicked a card into the air—it writhed, morphing into a winged serpent with ember-red eyes. The beast snatched her shoulder, lifting her into the sky. "Pray we never meet again."
"Likewise," Jareth murmured as she vanished into the clouds.
A green flare crackled over the valley below.
Ms. Silvermine's glare could have frozen lava. "You knew they'd survive."
"Knew? No." He adjusted his gloves, his gaze fixed on the smoke signal. "Trusted."
She gripped her sword's hilt. "And the others? The ones who didn't return?"
Jareth turned with his smile intact. "Not everyone survives trust, Silvermine."
—
Ms. Wellform matched Sylas's stride, her breath stirring the glacial air. "Did you find it?"
He grinned, flicking a weathered parchment booklet from his pocket.
"Albert's diary. A fake." He scoffed, tossing it carelessly to her. "Connor died for this garbage. Tragic."
She scanned the pages—crude imitations, the handwriting a clumsy mimic of Albert's elegant script. "And the real one?"
Sylas' gaze drifted to the horizon, where storm clouds cloaked the peaks. "Lost. For now."
Ahead, Gerral barked as Milla hurled a snowball at his head.
"They'll notice," she warned. "That mark you bear… You can't hide forever."
"Don't need to." He snatched the diary from her hand and shredded it with a clenched fist.
"Runeheart's ghost always finds his way home..."
He paused, opened his palm, letting the wind carry the torn scraps.
"...And when he does—" He chuckled.
—
Meanwhile, in the Runeheart kingdom, the aftermath of a great battle had turned the capital into a smoldering ruin. Flames and smoke coated every surface of the graceful city. Two massive shadows stretched over the destruction, shrouding corpses that sprawled like broken puppets.
Proud banners that had danced during feasts and triumphs now hung in tattered, scorched strips, their golden embroidery burnt away. Where melodies of lutes and flutes had once echoed, only the crackle of flames and the groans of crumbling stone remained.
Amid the ruins, the throne remained teetering on a pile of rubble. At its feet were the Queen, broken and battered, carrying more ruin in her body than the ashes where her castle once stood. Yet, her shattered crown still hung askew in her singed hair. Here, among the ruins, she's still Queen.
Her throne rocked as a limping figure approached—a boy, his cane punching craters into the ash with each strained step. His black suit and pristine undershirt remained as fresh as day one, despite his painful crawl toward the throne. The butler and maiden stood at the foot of the rubble, swallowed by the same shadows that engulfed the dead.
The boy released his cane. It swayed but held, defying collapse as he dropped to his knees beside the Queen. He removed his black glove and traced her cheekbone with tender, frail fingers, then cradled her head against his heart in an embrace that could have lasted for an eternity.
He slowly lowered his lips until they grazed her ear and whispered: "Goodnight, mother."
He kissed her brow. Her eyelids fluttered. A spasm flickered through her lips. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks as her eyes sealed like tombs.