It was the truth, and the truth tasted like bile. Every word she vomited into the air was another nail driven into the rotting lid of his sanity. Matthias was done. He was tired of the masquerade, tired of holding back the filth that had been clawing at his insides for years.
He collapsed into the velvet chair, his body moving with the stiff, graceless jerk of a marionette with cut strings. He didn't bother looking at her—Talia didn't deserve to be seen. He looked through her, as if she were nothing more than a stain on the wall.
Then, he reached for the ring.
As the cold metal slid past his knuckle, the last spark of human warmth in his eyes was snuffed out. Those emerald irises didn't just darken; they were swallowed whole, dissolving into two lightless, obsidian pits—empty, hungry, and ancient.
The fog didn't just appear; it bled.
