Through years of fragmented study, Erik had pieced together scraps of knowledge. Whatever lay behind that door bore a deep enmity with the gods. Its conflict with them had been so violent, so absolute, that the remnants of its defeat had left a scar on the world. That scar was known in hushed voices as the Spectacle.

Erik pressed his palm against the door. The runes beneath his hand throbbed, answering his touch, and the whispers surged, no longer faint but insistent, curling around his mind like smoke. He tightened his jaw and forced his hand to the handle. With a deep breath, he turned it, the sound of the mechanism groaning like something reluctant to be disturbed.

The door creaked open, revealing yet another barrier: a wall of reinforced glass, gleaming faintly in the dim light. Erik had built this safeguard himself, layer upon layer of protective wards etched into its frame, for what lay beyond demanded nothing less.

On the other side stood a single object: a wide glass bowl filled with dark, viscous water. The liquid shifted as though alive, undulating in patterns that defied natural law, shadows swimming across its surface as if the water itself were breathing.

The moment Erik's eyes fell upon it, the whispers crescendoed. They no longer scratched faintly at the edge of his hearing; they pressed directly into his skull, weaving into his thoughts. His pulse quickened, his breath hitched. The bowl called to him.

And then, amidst the cacophony, the voice sharpened clear, unmistakable, intimate.

"We could help you with your goal."

The words struck him like a blade of ice, snapping him out of his trance. His eyes darted around the chamber, searching desperately for the source. But there was no one. Only the bowl, waiting, its surface rippling as though amused by his confusion.

Fear spiked through him. Erik's expression hardened, and with a sharp motion he pulled the door shut, cutting off the whispers at once. The runes dimmed, falling quiet.

He collapsed back against the cold stone floor, breath ragged, chest heaving as if he had run a great distance. For a long moment he sat there, eyes wide with lingering dread.

This was not the first time Erik had heard the whispers. It had become a common sight and sound ever since he and Edward had taken possession of the Spectacle of the Lake. Once fiercely guarded by both their armies, it was now left unprotected, because of the whispers and tendency to oull in those around it. Erik and Edward took matter into their own hand and had crafted a great dome of reinforced stone, etched with runes that pulsed faintly in the dark. Around its perimeter stood five towering statues, each carved in the likeness of the origin gods, silent sentinels meant to suppress the entity's influence.

But even with such safeguards, the whispers never ceased. Especially for Erik.

The protections dulled the Spectacle's voice, but they did not silence it. And Erik, who got his hand on some of the spectacle before it was sealed and had handled its samples and studied its essence, was never free of its call. The samples themselves were both boon and curse each one granting knowledge, but each one clawing deeper into his mind. Whenever his resolve wavered, whenever his spirit dipped into doubt or weakness, the voice would stir, pressing against him with insidious promises.

It had worsened of late.

When Erik uncovered the flaw in his grand design, the problem at the heart of his dream to reshape his people the whispers grew bolder. The voice no longer cloaked itself in riddles but spoke plainly.

"We could help you. We could change the elvish bloodline. We could give you what you seek."

The words it carried in his thoughts was Cryotic, though he knew not whether that was truth or deception. The voice claimed it could mend the gentle aspect of the elves, bend it, transform it into something fitting for his vision. There was no mention of cost, no threats, no bargains, only boundless aid offered freely.

Erik was not easily swayed. He prided himself on discipline, on caution. Yet he could not deny the allure of what the whispers offered. Especially now, when his own studies suggested his elvish bloodline might hold the key to resisting the cursed nature of his people. If he could marry that heritage with the Spectacle's promise, he might not only achieve his dream, but end the torment of his kin once and for all.

And still… the fear remained.

The voice never let him go.

It was at this time that a sudden knock pulled Erik away from the dread clawing at his chest. His heart, already burdened with unease, gave a startled thump. Instinctively, he extended his consciousness outward, brushing across the familiar aura just beyond the door. It was his first son, the crown prince.

Erik hurriedly straightened himself, patting down his robes as though such small gestures could disguise the disarray of his spirit. He wanted, at the very least, to look like a king when his heir looked upon him. Slowly, he pulled open the heavy door.

What greeted him was not the proud, bright-eyed boy he remembered, but a weary man whose youth had been devoured by duty. The prince's eyes were sunken, his face drawn tight with exhaustion, and yet there was a quiet fire of resolve that had not gone out. That look pierced Erik far deeper than words ever could. Shame welled in him, shame that twisted his gut and burned in his throat. He knew, without question, that much of his son's hardened appearance was his fault.

It was his children, his son, his daughters, the royal family he had neglected who had held the kingdom together while he turned his back, drowning in despair and detachment. They bore the weight he had abandoned, shouldered the burdens he cast aside. They were the reason the kingdom still stood and had not crumbled into ruin.

Erik opened his mouth, meaning to speak to apologize, to acknowledge, to say something. But before the words could form, his son's voice cut through the air, sharp and cold.

"You have a visitor."

The words were clipped, devoid of warmth, but Erik caught it: beneath the frost, there lingered something else. A shadow of expectation. Perhaps even hope.

The prince turned away before Erik could answer, his back rigid, his pace measured. He did not look at his father again. To him, Erik was no longer worth recognizing. He had already done his part, delivered his message. His duty to the king was fulfilled no more, no less.

Yet as he strode down the corridor, his steps carried a trace of anticipation. He wanted to see how Erik, the king who had abandoned his throne in all but name, would face this unexpected guest. After all, this was the second time one of them had come to visit his people.

And such visits were never without meaning.

Erik's gaze lingered on his son's retreating figure, the prince's back stiff with unspoken judgment. A bitter taste filled his mouth. With a sharp snap of his fingers, a shard of frost shimmered into being before him, twisting and stretching into an icy mirror. His reflection stared back, a tired, hollow-eyed king who had long abandoned his crown in spirit, if not in name.

But Erik was not so weak as to let himself be seen in this state. No, not now. He drew in a deep breath and reached outward, gathering the ambient threads of cursed energy that hung thick in the air. It was the energy of lust, an intoxicating miasma that seemed to saturate the palace itself. He drew it into his veins, feeling it pulse through him, reshaping his image. His features sharpened, his posture straightened, his skin gleamed with unnatural vitality. In moments, the ruin of a man became once more a figure of elegance and dangerous allure.

The mirror fogged, then cracked, as though unable to contain the weight of the glamour he cloaked himself in. Erik dismissed it with a flick of his wrist and left his chamber, closing the heavy door behind him with a final thud.

As he moved through the corridors toward the royal court, something pulled at him. His nose twitched. There was a scent in the air sweet, intoxicating, familiar. A scent he craved, one that tugged at the deepest recesses of his memory. The closer he drew to the court, the stronger it became, until it nearly consumed his thoughts. His steps quickened, his heart pounding with a strange blend of excitement and hunger.

He was eager, desperate, even to meet this visitor.

But as the doors to the court loomed before him, instinct tempered his anticipation. He slowed, each step deliberate, his fingers brushing against the cold handles of the great door. With a slow breath, he pushed them open.

The chamber within was filled with light, and silence heavy enough to press against the skin. Erik stepped inside, his stride carrying him toward the throne as though by habit alone. But midway through the grand hall, his feet froze. His breath caught.

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