Chapter Text
The sun peeked weakly through the cottage windows, casting a pale golden haze across the worn floorboards — a warmth that didn’t quite reach the chill of early winter.
Spamton groaned as he rolled out of bed, every movement sluggish from the cold. His breath misted faintly in the air as he blinked at the familiar barrenness of his room — cracked walls, a single wooden chair, and a mirror that had seen better decades. Nothing had changed.
Downstairs, the muffled sound of his brothers’ voices carried through the floorboards — raised, bickering, the same argument he’d heard in a dozen different ways.
He sighed and turned toward the mirror, dragging a brush through his dark, tangled hair. The streak caught the light immediately: a sharp, unnatural slash of white cutting through the black hair like a wound.
He hated it. It made him look older than he was, almost sickly — a ghost among color. His brothers were lucky; their streaks bright, colorful and alive, each tinted by the family’s dormant magic.
Once, they had been a powerful bloodline — magicians of renown. Now they were relics of what once was, their magic sealed away by the very barrier that was meant to protect them.
Five brothers. Pink, orange, yellow, blue… and then him. White.
He set the brush down gently, straightened his simple garments, and drew his white-feathered cloak around his shoulders. The fabric was soft but threadbare, edges frayed from years of use.
When he finally descended the creaking stairs, the scent of breakfast met him — faintly sweet, faintly burnt.
Biscuits again.
Orange’s cooking never improved, but he was the only one who still bothered to try.
Spamton smiled faintly despite himself and stepped into the kitchen, the floor cold beneath his bare feet and the chatter of his brothers washing over him like background noise.
Orange stood over the small hearth, a flour-streaked apron tied crookedly around his waist. “Don’t even start,” he said without turning. “If you want better breakfast, you can make it yourself next time.”
Pink, lounging on the counter with his boots up, snorted. “Next time? You mean like the last dozen times? Face it, Orange — you could burn water.”
“Could not!”
“Could too!”
Spamton brushed past them both, plucking one of the biscuits off the tray before they could start throwing insults — or flour — again. The thing was pale and hard as a stone. He broke it open anyway, a puff of steam rising weakly from the center.
“Not bad,” Blue muttered from where he sat at the table, because someone had to say it. Though his biscuit had only the tiniest bite taken from it.
Orange gave him a grateful, if skeptical, look. Pink groaned dramatically and slid off the counter, his pink streak of hair bouncing with the movement. “You’re just being nice ‘cause you want him to clean the dishes.”
Spamton bit into the biscuit. It crumbled like chalk between his teeth. He forced a swallow, eyes watering slightly.
He coughed, trying to swallow the dryness from his throat. “I’m not that hungry today.”
He dropped the biscuit into the trash bin with a hollow thunk.
Orange frowned, flour still dusting his cheek. Pink burst out laughing.
“Oh, c’mon, really?” Pink jeered. “You could at least pretend to like it. That thing’s a delicacy! Hard as a rock, flavor of dust, you don’t get that just anywhere.”
Orange turned sharply. “You could always make breakfast yourself, Pink!”
“I would, if I wanted everyone to die of flavor shock.”
“Hey—!”
Blue rubbed at his temples, already regretting being awake. “Could we not do this first thing in the morning?” He glanced toward Spamton, who was quietly adjusting his cloak. “You sure you’re alright, White? When was the last time you ate something proper?”
Spamton scoffed, waving him off. “I said I’m fine, Blue. I don’t need a lecture.”
Pink slid up beside him, draping an arm lazily around his shoulders. “Yeah, leave him alone. He’s just doing that brooding thing again. Very mysterious. Very tragic.”
“Pink,” Orange warned, “knock it off.”
“What? I’m complimenting him.” Pink’s grin widened. “You’ve got to admit, he’s got the whole ‘haunted doll at a funeral’ look down.”
“Maybe if you took anything seriously for once—”
“Oh, here we go again!” Pink threw up his hands. “The ‘responsible brother’ speech. Every morning like clockwork. I keep the family business running while making things interesting. Just cuz I'm not boring like you–”
Orange slammed the spatula down on the counter with a sharp clack. “At least I do something useful around here!”
“Yeah,” Pink shot back, “you try to cook.”
“Shut up!”
“Make me!”
Blue groaned loudly, burying his face in his hands. “Can we not destroy the kitchen again? Last time you two fought, we didn’t have plates for a week!”
“Then maybe you should pick a side,” Pink said, smirking.
“My side is ‘quiet breakfast,’” Blue muttered.
Meanwhile, Spamton had already slipped toward the door. He didn’t even realize he was moving until the cold bit at his face and the sounds of his brothers faded into a dull roar behind him.
Out here, the snow was falling soft and slow, settling in the folds of his cloak. His breath came out in white puffs.
Peaceful. Almost.
He rubbed at his arms, trying to shake the feeling of static crawling under his skin. He didn’t hate them — his brothers. They were just loud. Too much.
He wanted quiet.
Or maybe he wanted something else entirely.
A dream he kept close but could never reach.
“Hold on, White—before you leave.”
Pink’s voice stopped him cold. Spamton turned to see his brother standing in the doorway, arms full of freshly printed flyers, the edges still warm from the press.
“More advertisements?” Spamton groaned, already dreading the answer.
Pink gave a brisk nod and shoved the stack into his hands. “You’ve gotta do something to help the family business. And since you’re absolutely hopeless at sewing, that means selling what we make.”
Spamton frowned down at the pile, the bright ink smearing faintly on his fingers. “Pink, you know I’m no good at this. People hate finding these mixed in with their mail. They call it junk.”
Pink rolled his eyes. “I don’t care, White. You have to do something with your life. So you might as well be useful.”
“I just—” Spamton hesitated, gripping the papers tighter. “What if I did something else?”
Pink let out a long, weary sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not this again. Don’t tell me you’re still on about performing.”
Spamton’s voice rose, desperate. “I’m serious, Pink! I’ve got ideas! This town’s so dull, so dreary—people need something to laugh at, to feel alive!”
Pink barked out a short, derisive laugh. “And what, you think a little short stack like you’s gonna stand on a crate and play a lute for the happy townsfolk? Get real, White. Think about the family business—we make clothes, we sell clothes. That’s what keeps food on the table.”
“But I’m not helping!” Spamton snapped, his frustration spilling over. “I can’t make the clothes, I can’t sell the clothes, and everyone hates when I shove these in their mailboxes!” He waved the advertisements like proof of his failure.
Pink’s smile vanished. His tone hardened, low and bitter. “Think of who we lost in the war.” His glare cut deep. “You really wanna let them down because you’d rather prance around playing music than help keep the family afloat?”
The words hit Spamton like a slap. He swallowed, lowering his gaze as the stack of papers trembled in his hands.
Pink’s words lingered in the air long after he’d gone. The door clicked shut, leaving only the faint sound of the wind.
Spamton stared down at the flyers again. They felt heavier now, like the weight of every expectation he’d ever failed to meet.
“Family business,” he muttered under his breath. “Right.”
He shoved the stack under one arm and made his way through the cobblestone streets of the village.
Spamton was, unfortunately, the village mailman. After realizing he wasn’t much help with the family’s clothing business, he’d gone and gotten himself a job delivering mail instead. Naturally, his oldest brother Pink saw an opportunity. Before long, Spamton was being handed stacks of dull advertisement posters to slip into people’s mailboxes—free promotion for the family shop, whether he liked it or not.
His mailbag hung loosely across his shoulder, filled with letters and a half-hearted sense of obligation.
One by one, he slid envelopes into mail slots, the rhythmic tap of his footsteps echoing down the narrow cobbled alleyways. Each sound blurred into the next, a dull heartbeat marking another house, another reminder of how small his world had become.
At every stop, he slipped one of Pink’s advertisements in with the letters — neat, careful, not letting the paper crinkle. Pink would scold him if it looked sloppy. “Presentation sells,” his brother always said.
The routine dulled his thoughts but couldn’t quiet the ache in his chest. It was always the same: wake up to his brothers’ bickering, choke down another tasteless breakfast, trudge through his route, stop by the chapel for evening mass, and then collapse into bed — too tired to dream, too restless to sleep.
Sometimes, on the walk home, he’d look up at the glimmering stars and wonder if this was all he’d ever have. The same streets. The same faces. The same looks of disappointment from his brothers. The same bland life.
He adjusted the strap of his mailbag and sighed, breath fogging in the cold air.
“Maybe tomorrow’ll be different,” he muttered, knowing full well it wouldn’t.
He turned down the cobblestone road and into the market square. The air was alive with sound and motion—horse-drawn wagons rattling over uneven stones, vendors shouting over one another to advertise the best deals, and villagers weaving through the crowd with baskets full of fresh produce. Even his family’s storefront was busy, the familiar sign swinging gently above the door where Yellow handled sales for the day.
Pink or Blue would probably drop by soon with a new batch of clothes to display.
He didn’t linger. He never liked being there. The shop had always felt like a world he didn’t belong to—thread and fabric and fashion talk he could never follow.
Despite not knowing a thing about fashion, people still told him he looked good, though he never really saw it. Dark hair, warm brown skin, a sharp jawline… but that single streak of white cutting through his long hair? It always bothered him. The magic in his blood could’ve made it any color—red, purple, green—something interesting. But white? That wasn’t even a color. Just an absence.
He slipped another envelope into a mailbox, tucking one of Pink’s flyers in behind it. The motion was mechanical, his mind elsewhere.
Sewing had never been his strength, no matter how many times they’d tried to teach him. His hands worked best at other things.
Music.
He sighed at the thought.
There’d been a time when the sound of a lute or the rise of a bard’s voice made his chest ache with envy. To play, to travel, to have people listen—really listen—that was what he wanted. That was freedom.
He paused mid-step as someone opened a nearby mailbox, pulled out the mail, glanced at the advertisement, and crumpled it up before tossing it to the ground without a second thought.
Spamton exhaled through his nose, rolling his eyes before moving on to the next house, his boots scuffing against the dusty road.
Another day, another pile of wasted paper.
As he slid another stack of mail into a box, something soft brushed against his legs. He flinched and looked down, startled.
A round, black cat was winding around his boots, purring low and steady. Its fur gleamed in the afternoon light like polished obsidian, and its tail flicked lazily back and forth.
Spamton couldn’t help but smile. He crouched and held out a hand. “Hey there, kitty,” he said softly, running his fingers through its fur. The warmth of the creature and the rhythmic vibration of its purr almost eased the monotony from his chest. He’d always liked cats—quiet, independent, clever.
Then the cat looked up at him.
He froze.
Its eyes were mismatched—one pink, one yellow—and both shimmered with an unnatural, almost knowing light.
Spamton jerked his hand back and stood quickly, his heart giving a strange jolt.
For a split second, he could’ve sworn the cat grinned at him.
Trying to shake off the unease prickling at the back of his neck, he turned and continued his route. But the soft patter of paws followed close behind.
He glanced down once, twice, hoping the thing would wander off. It didn’t. Every time he paused to deliver a letter, the cat would sit nearby, tail wrapped neatly around its paws, watching him with those eerie, mismatched eyes.
As he slipped another envelope through a slot, the cat let out a loud, sharp mew.
Spamton turned.
The cat—grinning again, he swore it—walked past him, its black tail flicking like a beckoning finger, and padded into a narrow alleyway between two shops.
He hesitated. Every instinct told him to ignore it and move on. But something—some strange pull in his chest—urged him to follow.
The alley was dim and cold, lined with broken crates and the smell of damp stone. The cat trotted ahead, leading him toward the far end of town, where the old wall loomed—massive, cracked, half-swallowed by creeping ivy.
Then the cat stopped at a jagged opening at the wall’s base, a wound of stone and frost.
Spamton frowned, stepping closer. Maybe it was leftover damage from the war—something the builders had missed during repairs. He crouched, peering through.
Beyond the gap stretched the forest—dense and silent, veiled in mist. Snow blanketed the ground, and in the far distance, mountains cut sharp against the pale sky. He thought he saw a thin trail of smoke curling above the trees.
The cat sat just outside the wall, tail flicking, pink and yellow eyes glinting in the gloom. It let out a soft, patient mrrrow, as if inviting him to step through.
Spamton glanced back toward the street. The bustle of the market was gone now, replaced by the muffled hum of wind through the alley.
He swallowed hard.
Then took a cautious step closer.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d decided to follow the cat. Maybe it was the aching desire for something more than the sameness of his ordinary life—the whisper of adventure he’d never had. The freedom to go anywhere simply because he could. Or maybe it was just rebellion, quiet and irrational.
Whatever the reason, he now found himself deep in the woods, walking alongside a strange cat that padded silently through the trees and fog. Snow drifted down in lazy spirals, catching in his dark hair and clinging to the feathers of his cloak. He drew it tighter around himself, the cold biting sharper with each step.
“Where the hell are you taking me, huh?” he muttered, half hoping the cat might actually respond.
It didn’t, of course. It only continued on, tail flicking, eyes fixed straight ahead as though it knew exactly where it was going.
He almost wished it would answer. Something—anything—to prove that magic still lingered in the world.
But that was a foolish thought. The day the barrier was raised, all human magic had been sacrificed to forge it—every spark and shimmer of power poured into the seal that kept the creatures of darkness contained. That had been ten years ago. Now the air felt hollow, drained. Safe, perhaps. But empty.
His gaze drifted upward to the skeletal silhouettes of trees, their limbs tangled against the pale sky. The forest seemed to breathe around him, ancient and indifferent.
“What am I doing…?” he sighed, stopping at last.
He should turn back. It was getting late. Judging by how low the sun hung behind the mist, evening mass would begin soon.
Yet somehow, it didn’t feel like he’d been walking that long at all. Time had a strange way of bending out here, softening at the edges.
Then a faint scent hit him—sharp and unexpected.
Smoke.
He lifted his head. Far ahead, through the veil of falling snow, a thin column of gray curled into the sky from somewhere in the distant mountains. His pulse quickened. There weren’t supposed to be any villages this far north. Only the ruins of the old monster settlement.
Maybe travelers had set up camp there. Adventurers, perhaps—scavengers picking through the bones of the past.
Curiosity stirred in his chest like a spark in cold ashes. He took a step forward—then froze at the faint toll of the church bell echoing through the trees.
His stomach dropped. Evening mass. He was late.
“Damn it—”
The cat gave a startled meow as he spun on his heel and broke into a run, boots crunching through snow and underbrush. Branches whipped at his cloak as he tore back through the woods, breath clouding in the winter air while the bell tolled again, calling him home.
He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, the world growing dimmer by the minute as dusk deepened into shadow. The path had all but vanished beneath the blanket of snow and tangled roots, but he pushed forward, heart pounding, lungs burning, the ghostly trees twisting past him in the dark.
At last, the village lights came into view—warm flickers against the cold, swallowing black. He sprinted through the narrow streets until the great chapel rose before him, tall, Gothic, and imposing, its spire piercing the night sky.
He paused at the doors, catching his breath. The streets were empty; everyone was already inside.
“Right… just slip in quietly,” he muttered.
He brushed snow and dirt from his cloak and eased the heavy door open—only for it to shriek in protest.
Dozens of heads turned.
The preacher stopped mid-sermon, gaze falling directly on him.
Spamton froze under the weight of the silence, then forced an awkward laugh. “No need to pause for me,” he said, waving a hand dismissively.
He slid into the pew beside his brothers, ignoring the heat of their stares. The preacher resumed, voice droning about the Angel’s light and the divine order, the same words as always.
Pink leaned toward him from the other end of the bench, whispering harshly, “Where the hell were you, White? You missed choir!”
Spamton rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m here now, aren’t I? Besides, didn't you just tell me this morning that I shouldn't perform?”
Pink glared, but said nothing.
Yellow plucked a twig from his hair, frowning. “You’re covered in mud! What were you doing out there?”
“Exploring,” he muttered under his breath. “What’s it to you?”
A few heads turned at the whispering, and Pink’s jaw tightened.
“Can you not embarrass us for once?” Pink hissed. “You come dragging in late, filthy, making a scene—do you even care about the family’s reputation?”
Spamton clenched his fists in his lap. “Sorry I don’t live to please you, brother.”
Pink’s glare hardened. “You should start. You wouldn’t have a place here if it weren’t for me. You’d be out there freezing to death all on your own.”
“Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad,” Spamton snapped before he could stop himself, louder than he meant to.
The words hung in the air like frost.
The preacher’s voice faltered again. A few villagers turned to glance their way, murmuring.
Pink’s face flushed red. “Do you hear yourself? You’d rather run off into the damned woods than be part of your own family?!”
Spamton’s voice trembled, but he didn’t back down. “At least out there, no one tells me who to be.”
“White—” Blue started, but Spamton was already rising from the bench.
“No, it's fine. I know when I'm not wanted. I'll just go and pray for the Angel’s forgiveness. I'm sure they'll forgive a little tardiness. And I'm sure they'd understand my want for freedom.” He spat, shooting a glare at Pink.
He walked down the aisle, the sound of his boots echoing through the silent chapel. The door groaned as he shoved it open again, cold air spilling in.
“White!” Pink called after him, voice strained. “Don’t you walk away—!”
But Spamton didn’t turn.
He stepped out into the snow, slamming the door behind him. The sound rang through the empty streets, swallowed quickly by the wind.
For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the chapel’s glowing windows—the silhouettes of people who would never understand him. Then he turned toward the dark line of trees beyond the village, the memory of the strange cat flickering in his mind.
It was waiting for him. He could feel it.
He pulled his cloak tighter, heart heavy but resolute. Then, without another glance back, he walked into the woods.
The snow fell harder now, soft and relentless, erasing his footprints as he went.
The forest swallowed him whole.
Snow muffled every sound—his footsteps, his breath. Only the wind remained, sighing through the pines like a voice too old to care.
He kept walking, his cloak trailing behind him, the world dimming to nothing but the white blur of falling snow and the dark trunks of trees. For a moment, he wondered if he’d gotten turned around—if the forest had shifted itself just to confuse him.
Then he saw it.
Through the fog, the land opened into a valley of broken stone and half-buried ruins. The remains of what had once been the monster village.
He stopped at the edge, heart catching in his throat.
The air felt different here—thicker somehow. Heavy with memory. Half-collapsed walls jutted from the snow, archways leaning like tired sentinels, doorways yawning into hollow darkness. Once-bright signs were worn to splinters.
It was strange to imagine the monsters who had once lived here—having homes, routines, and lives as ordinary as his own now. Such a human thing, and yet they’d lived it all the same. He’d been just a kid during the war, too young to understand much of anything. And by the time they raised the barrier, he was twelve. That had been so long ago. Now the monsters were little more than a fading story, forgotten by all but the ruins that still whispered their names.
Carved into the stone of many ruins was the same symbol—a flower. He even came across a tattered yellow banner, its fabric clinging stubbornly to a crumbling wall, a red flower emblazoned at its center. The emblem, perhaps, of whoever had once ruled this village.
He couldn’t help but scoff. How strange, how contradictory. Monsters and a flower. Monsters—horrible, violent creatures that once hungered for the power of the human soul. And a flower—so fragile, so pure. The pairing almost felt like a mockery.
He walked slowly through the ruins, tracing a gloved hand over the rough stone of a collapsed gate. Then a faint meow.
The cat was there again.
It sat atop a half-buried fountain at the center of the square, its mismatched eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. It blinked at him, tail curling neatly around its paws.
“You again,” Spamton breathed, managing a shaky smile. “You got me in trouble at church for being late, you know. Now I’ve gotta beg for forgiveness if I wanna keep my spot in Heaven.” The joke came out weakly, more habit than humor, and the thought still left a pit in his stomach.
He knelt anyway, murmuring a quick prayer for forgiveness—then immediately added another, apologizing for praying in a place like this. A condemned ruin of monsters.
When he stood again the cat was simply watching. The cat tilted its head, then turned and leapt down, padding toward the far end of the ruins.
“Wait—hey!”
But it was already gone, darting into the fog like a shadow.
He hesitated, then followed.
The ruins gave way to an old road, cracked and uneven, leading up a steep hill. He could see something massive through the mist—dark towers rising from the treetops, spires piercing the sky.
A castle.
It stood against the mountain, half-buried in snow and time. Gargoyles perched along its walls, their faces eroded, and the great doors at its front hung crookedly on rusted hinges. The whole place felt… wrong. Too still. Too watchful.
Spamton’s breath quickened.
He took a tentative step forward. Then another. The pull was irresistible—some strange, magnetic curiosity gnawing at his chest.
As he climbed the cracked steps, he noticed faint light flickering from one of the high windows.
Someone—or something—was inside.
The cat appeared again at the top of the steps, looking back at him expectantly.
He shivered, clutching his cloak tighter as a gust of wind flung snow into his face.
His heart raced—not just from the cold, but from that strange, unfamiliar thrill that came with moving forward. The quiet pull of adventure.
He pushed the heavy door open, and the sound echoed through the hollow halls beyond.
Cold air poured out—carrying the faintest trace of warmth, and something else beneath it.
Smoke.
The same smoke he’d seen curling through the mountains.
The door groaned shut behind him, sealing off the outside world with a low, echoing thud.
Inside, the air was somewhat warmer—alive with something that made the hairs on his arms stand on end.
His footsteps echoed faintly on the marble floor as he stepped into what must once have been a grand hall. A chandelier hung far above, coated in cobwebs and frost. Torn banners clung weakly to the walls, their faded emblems still just barely visible—a purple banner with the Angel, the yellow banner with the red flower from outside, a large hammer, and many others.
The light came from a single hearth at the far end of the room, where a small fire still flickered. He could smell the faint smoke from it now, warm and out of place in the ruin.
“Hello…?” His voice came out quieter than intended.
It was swallowed by the vastness of the room.
He waited, half expecting someone—or something—to answer. Nothing. Only the distant creak of settling wood and the faint howl of wind blowing against the old rooftop.
He stepped closer, drawn irresistibly toward the fire’s glow. Before it stood an enormous chair—crafted for a monster, not a human—despite being worn by time, the plush chair still looked rather comfortable.
He leaned in, stretching his hands toward the flames. The warmth seeped into his stiff fingers, chasing the cold from his aching bones. A long sigh escaped him as the silence of the vast, ruined castle settled around him like a heavy blanket.
Then his gaze caught on the hearth—more flowers, delicately carved into the stone, their petals etched with almost reverent care.
Something moved in the corner of his vision—a flicker of shadow by the staircase. He spun, heart lurching, but saw only the cat. It sat calmly on a step halfway up, its eyes gleaming in the firelight.
“Still not done leading me places, huh?” Spamton whispered, exhaling shakily.
The cat stood and began climbing, silent as ever.
He hesitated, glancing back toward the door. The thought of returning to the village—Pink’s voice, the chapel’s cold stares—made his chest tighten. He wasn’t ready to go back. Not yet.
Adventure was still calling.
“Fine,” he muttered, adjusting his cloak. “You win, little guy.”
He followed the cat up the stairs.
The steps were cracked and uneven, some missing entirely. Strange markings covered the walls—runes, maybe, but unlike any human ones he’d seen. The deeper he went, the more he felt that faint hum in the air—an echo of something powerful, something old.
At the top of the stairs was a long hallway lined with portraits. Dusty, decayed, but still watching. Their subjects were monstrous in form, but dignified—humanoid figures with horns, wings, or scales. Monsters, before the barrier. Before the war.
He stopped at one painting near the end—a tall, commanding figure that drew his gaze despite the dust and cracks dulling its colors. The monster was covered in white fluff, its form bearing an almost regal poise, though its shape was unmistakably insect-like. Long antennae swept from its head, and fangs caught the dim light in what could have been a smile—or a warning. Four arms extended from its torso, each arranged with deliberate grace, as if in some forgotten gesture of welcome or power.
Its face, however, was bare where eyes should have been.
A shiver crawled down his spine, though he couldn’t quite look away. The plaque beneath had long since corroded, leaving only a few readable letters.
“...Tenna?” he read aloud softly.
The word echoed down the hall, unanswered.
Then a low sound rolled through the air—a deep growl that seemed to come from the very walls.
Spamton’s pulse quickened. “...Okay,” he whispered, backing up a step. “Guess someone is home.”
The cat meowed once, sharp and clear, and darted down another corridor toward the glow of faint light.
Spamton swallowed, frozen where he stood for a moment. The growls subsided, and the flickering glow of light disappeared.
He took a deep breath. Monsters were gone—nothing more than bedtime stories now. The thought steadied him, if only a little. Once his heartbeat slowed, he adjusted his cloak and followed after the cat.
The hall opened into a wide chamber where the ceiling had partially caved in, moonlight spilling through the cracks in pale, silvery streams.
He tilted his head back, gazing up at the night sky framed by splintered stone, and shivered as the cold air seeped through. The sound of soft, distant meows tugged him onward, echoing faintly through the ruins.
He followed them into another room—a vast, grand hall that might once have been beautiful. Even in its decay, it held a kind of tragic splendor. Tall stained-glass windows glimmered faintly in the moonlight, their panes painted with red flowers that glowed like blood against the gold walls. The sight stole his breath. A ballroom, maybe—once filled with life and laughter, now hollow and still.
Half the room was swallowed by shadow, the light from the windows unable to reach its far corners. He hesitated, then stepped forward carefully, his boots crunching over fallen glass.
“Here, kitty…” he called softly. His voice barely carried, as if the air itself resisted sound.
The door slammed shut behind him.
He spun around, heart hammering.
The firelight from a broken chandelier flickered, casting strange shapes that seemed to shift against the walls. Then—movement. A sound like heavy fabric brushing stone, a low rumble that wasn’t the wind.
From the darkness, something stirred.
A tall silhouette detached itself from the shadow, massive and slow, the faint gleam of fangs catching the moonlight. White fur shimmered in patches across its frame, four arms unfolding with insect-like precision. Two long antennae arched forward, twitching as if tasting the air.
He stumbled back, breath catching in his throat.
The creature stepped closer, silent but heavy, its eyeless face turning toward him with deliberate, searching motion. The air seemed to thicken around them—part fear, part awe—as he finally realized the truth.
He was standing before a monster.
His mind screamed at him to run. Every instinct told him to turn, to claw at the door, to flee before whatever this thing was reached him. But his body refused to move.
He couldn’t look away.
The monster’s fur caught the faint light, a ghostly shimmer that made it look almost divine—terrifying, but breathtaking. Its movements were slow and deliberate, too graceful for something that large. Four arms shifted, claws flexing with an unsettling fluidity. Its antennae tilted toward him, and for a heartbeat, he could swear the air itself seemed to hum in response.
He took a shaky step back, his heel scraping the floor. The sound echoed far too loud in the vast room.
The creature froze.
Then, with a sudden, sharp snarl, it lunged forward into the half-light—fangs bared, claws flashing.
“What are you doing here?” The voice was a guttural rumble that filled the chamber, vibrating through the stone itself. It wasn’t entirely human—each word grated like metal, layered with something primal beneath it.
Spamton flinched, nearly stumbling to his knees. His heart pounded so hard it hurt, breath catching in his throat.
Words failed him completely. His mind reeled, too overwhelmed by shock to form anything close to coherence. He could only stare—heart pounding, breath trembling—as he staggered back from the towering, furious creature before him.
The beast took another step closer, the floor trembling beneath his weight. “This place is forbidden to your kind,” he hissed, fangs glinting as his upper hands curled into claws while the lower pair twitched restlessly at his sides. “You dare trespass into my home?”
Spamton’s eyes darted to the shattered windows, the broken walls, the dust. Home. The word caught him off guard. Despite the fury in the creature’s voice, there was something hollow underneath it—something lonely.
He swallowed hard, trembling but unable to tear his gaze away from the being before him. Fear still rooted him in place, but curiosity—foolish, human curiosity—kept his eyes fixed on the way the moonlight caught the monster’s fur, the faint curl of his antennae, the glint of sharp teeth in the dark.
It should have been pure terror. And yet… it wasn’t.
And that fact almost scared him more than the monster did.
The creature's antennae flicked sharply, his head tilting as though he were studying prey he hadn’t decided how to kill.
“You humans never learn,” he growled, his voice echoing through the ballroom like distant thunder. “You take what isn’t yours. You destroy what you don’t understand. Even after all these years, you still come crawling back.”
Spamton stumbled back another step, his boots scraping the floor. “Hey, listen, that's not fair—” He stammered, words collapsing under the weight of his fear. “I thought this place was abandoned!”
Tenna bared his fangs, a low hiss curling through his teeth. “Abandoned?” he echoed, the word twisting into something bitter. “Is that what you call the graves of those you slaughtered?”
He moved forward, each step slow and deliberate, the heavy scrape of claw against stone setting Spamton’s nerves alight. The moonlight caught his fur again—white as snow, glimmering like frost. For a moment, Spamton thought he could see the faint outline of scars crossing his forearms, vanishing beneath thick fur.
Then the monster lunged.
Spamton froze, breath torn from his throat as Tenna’s upper hands slammed against the stone beside his head, claws biting into the wall. The lower set hovered close to his chest, one talon tracing the air near his throat.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Tenna hissed, voice low now, almost trembling with restrained rage. “You don’t belong here. I ought to kill you now, use your soul to break open that damn barrier.”
The human opened his mouth to speak—but the words died in his throat as a sudden jolt ran through him. His breath hitched, body seizing as a blinding light flared in his chest.
He looked down, wide-eyed.
There, shining through the fabric of his clothes, was a white, glowing heart—his soul—quivering in the open air like a fragile flame. Its light flickered with every uneven breath he took, pulsing in time with his panic.
Across from him, the monster snarled, fangs glinting in the pale glow.
He’d only ever heard the old stories—how battles with monsters were fought not just with weapons, but with one’s very soul. But he had been too young to fight in the war, and too ordinary to matter. He had no magic, no training—nothing that could prepare him for this.
Spamton couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move—his mind racing between fear and something else, something he couldn’t name. The heat of the creature’s breath brushed against his face, the scent of smoke and old dust clinging to him. He could hear the faint, clicking tremor of Tenna’s mandibles—see the rise and fall of his chest. Alive. Angry. Real.
But then, a rush of adrenaline tore through him—the raw, burning instinct to live. His story wasn’t over yet.
A shaky laugh escaped him as his hand dropped to his hip, fingers brushing the worn leather of his dagger’s sheath. “Hah! My soul? It’s not much to brag about,” he said, forcing a grin. “Don’t think it’ll help you any.”
Before the monster could respond, he drew the blade and lunged forward, the steel flashing in the faint light.
It never met its mark.
In an instant, his arms were caught—crushed in a grip like iron. The dagger clattered uselessly to the floor as the monster threw back its head and let out a booming, guttural laugh that shook the very air.
Spamton’s pulse thundered in his ears as he was lifted clear off the ground, wrists trapped in claws that could have snapped them like twigs.
The towering creature’s grin widened, fangs gleaming in the pale glow of the fallen firelight. “I know all your little human tricks,” he spat, voice sharp with scorn. “I was a general in that war—since the very beginning.”
Spamton struggled in the monster’s grip, his breath coming fast and shallow. The pain shot through his arms—sharp and hot where claws pressed into his wrists. His feet dangled uselessly above the floor, the stone far below, the sheer power of the creature making his body tremble.
“Let go, freak!” he gasped, twisting, the edge of panic fraying his voice. The effort was pointless; the monster’s hold was unyielding, like stone come to life.
Tenna’s growl rumbled deep in his chest, vibrating through Spamton’s bones. His fangs gleamed inches from the human’s face, his breath hot with the scent of smoke and earth. For a moment, Spamton thought this was it—thought he’d feel those claws tear straight through him.
Then—something changed.
The monster’s antennae flicked sharply, twitching as though catching some unseen current. His expression faltered. The fury that had burned so vividly in his posture wavered, dimming into something unreadable. His grip loosened.
Spamton gasped as his boots hit the floor. He stumbled, clutching his aching wrists, his eyes flicking upward in confusion.
Tenna stood over him, motionless. The muscles in his arms tensed, claws flexing—but he didn’t strike. If anything, he almost looked… unsettled.
For a fleeting second, Spamton saw it—hesitation. Maybe even fear. Not of him, but of himself.
Spamton took a step back, still dazed, still not sure what he was seeing. “I… I don’t understand,” he whispered.
Tenna’s head tilted, frown tugging at his furred face, though his claws didn’t rise. “You don’t need to.”
Then, with a slow motion of his lower hands, he summoned a pulse of light. It shimmered faintly in the air—soft at first, then blinding. Spamton’s eyes widened as the wave of energy struck him like a sudden rush of wind.
The world spun. His legs buckled.
The last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him was the faint outline of the monster standing over him—still as a statue, his antennae bowed low, as if in regret.