Amon woke gasping, chest heaving. The black thorn from his dream still had him pinned to stone. Sweat ran cold down his spine. Gooseflesh rose where the chamber's chill touched skin. Around his eyes: a clean bandage. Layer upon layer. No knot. Just fabric holding tighter secrets.
His hands trembled as he began to unwind it. The fingers felt distant and pale, as though they had been packed in ice for days. When the last loop fell away, he drew a slow, shaky breath and opened his eyes.
The chamber came into focus around him. Black stone walls etched with haunting figures—faces twisted in silent screams, limbs and torsos frozen mid-escape, as if the mountain itself had hardened around living men before they could break free.
A slab table stood to one side. A couch had been carved directly from the floor. His bed consisted of two stacked stone slabs, two steps up, lined with the only softness Genesis ever allowed him: thick brown wool and heavy furs.
He swung his legs over the edge and stood. The room tilted dangerously. He pressed cold fingers to his temples until the heaviness passed, then walked unsteadily to the narrow vertical slit that served as a window.
One hand rose to shield his eyes. He peeled it away slowly. Grey light struck his face—not blinding, never blinding. Sunlight was nothing more than a myth in this world. Since the day he was born, the sky had remained sealed behind perpetual clouds and endless rain.
Below him lay Genesis.
The castle rose like a malformed pyramid of black stone, its sharp angles high enough to scrape the underside of the clouds. It was built to endure, not to impress—no gold, no ornaments, only relentless geometry.
The city below matched its grim beauty: a blade's elegance. Underground bunkers roofed with thick slabs of black metal-stone formed row after row, creating streets that ran perfectly straight until they vanished into the constant downpour. There were no gaps, no shadowed alleys where weakness could hide. This was a kingdom forged for siege, long after anyone remembered what the war had been about.
The outer walls were worse. Layered black stone, perpetually wet, weeping rain through dark veins in the rock. They did not simply stand guard; they drank the storms and refused to yield. Fire could not consume them. Hammers would shatter long before the walls did.
Amon stared down at his kingdom—a breakwater with a throne hidden inside it, cold and unyielding.
Grief rose unbidden, thick and heavy in his throat. Tears slipped down his cheeks before he even realized they had begun. He wiped them away roughly, but more followed, leaving black stains like ink across the back of his hand. The doors to his chamber opened with a low scrape behind him.
He turned his head just enough to glance. A young woman entered carrying a tray. She moved with quiet, graceful purpose. Her long black gown hugged her waist tightly, her hair tied back neatly. Her olive skin glowed with quiet warmth in the dim light, her eyes deep black and framed by long lashes and thick brows, her lips a natural, striking red.
She set the tray down on the slab table— a bowl of steaming water, fresh white trousers and shirt, and a clean towel—then bowed low, head respectfully lowered.
"My lord, I'm happy you're awake. Shall I tell your mother, or do you need some time alone?" Her voice was gentle and sincere. Amon studied her for a moment. "Yes… you can tell them." She bowed again, but before she could leave, she reached for the tray and lifted a fresh roll of bandages. "Sir, I advise you still wear these."
Amon's gaze dropped involuntarily to the back of his hand, where his own tears had left dark, inky stains. He stepped closer to her. "Why? What's wrong with my eyes?" She looked down, then briefly met his gaze before dropping hers again. He moved even closer. "Tell me."
"They are… void, my lord."
She turned to the table, quietly moved the clothes, bowl, and towel aside, and instead handed him the polished tray. Amon looked into its reflective surface.
Complete black stared back—corner to corner, no white, no iris, just an endless, light-devouring dark. Black tears poured freely from the voids, yet he felt none of them sliding down his cheeks.
The tray slipped from his numb fingers and clattered loudly against the stone floor. His knees buckled and he dropped with it. No name. Or a name so deeply buried that no oracle could ever read it. His soul—the passage to everything he was—had become nothing but a pit of darkness.
He would not hide behind lies. Not when his eyes would expose the truth anyway. A cold, sharp plan began to form in the back of his mind. "What's your name?" he asked, his voice low and steady despite everything.
"Korina, my lord. I'm a student of the Pneumarchs—the revered healers. I was assigned to watch over you while you slept… to look for any changes in your soul." Amon nodded slowly and moved to the carved stone couch. "Help me."
"Yes, my lord." Korina dipped the towel into the warm water and began gently cleaning the black tears from his face and neck. "I cannot give up the throne," Amon said as she worked, his voice rough. "I promised my father I would become the king he wanted—and even more."
She listened without interrupting, carefully wrapping fresh bandages around his eyes. Layer by layer, the world faded back into controlled darkness. "I cannot remain like this forever," he continued quietly. "But what else can I do?" Korina remained silent. She seemed to understand he was not truly asking for answers from her.
"Hey." Amon reached out and caught her hand lightly. "Sit down. Tell me—how long have I been asleep?" Korina sat beside him, bandage still in hand. "You were asleep for a month, my lord."
A month. The words hit like another thorn.
She kept her voice low. "After the oracle, no one would enter the throne room. Two days. Your grandfather found you." She reached for the towel. Amon caught her wrist. "You were in your own blood. Almost dead."
She waited for him to let go. He didn't.
"The Pneumarchs said if the oracle wounds the soul, the soul has to heal first. But there was nothing. No brain activity. Until this morning." She met his bandaged face. "I told no one."
Amon gave a short, bitter chuckle. "Now I understand. I thought I had two dreams trapped inside one. But my mind was completely blank for a month. It never registered the passage of time between them, so it all felt like a single endless nightmare."
Stone rumbled. Distant. An explosion.
Korina didn't flinch.
Amon turned his bandaged face toward it. "What was that."
"Civilians," she said. "Civil war. A week now. They bomb houses."
He went still.
Civil war. In Genesis. While he slept.
His dream since he was a boy: stop wars. End hunger. Break the chains. You needed a name for that. A soul people could see.
He had neither.
Black tears burned behind the cloth. He didn't wipe them. Didn't speak.
Then: "Call my grandfather." She nodded and slipped quietly out of the dim room.
The corridors beyond stretched long and high, their ceilings disappearing into shadow. Statues carved from the same black stone stared down like silent judges along the fifty-metre-wide halls. Korina hurried until she reached the tall angular doors of the council chamber.
She entered. Silence fell instantly. Every eye turned toward her. Then one voice rang out sharply: "He's no king. He's an abomination—" The words cut off in a wet, final thud. The man's head rolled across the stone floor, severed cleanly from his shoulders.
The killer wiped his blade casually on the corpse's robes. His face remained hidden beneath a deep hood that shadowed his grim jaw. Long maroon robes pooled at his feet, their hems now dark and heavy with fresh blood. A flat slate-gray tabard with faded gold filigree hung from his rigid shoulders, clasped at the sternum by a gold buckle.
In one hand he held a long black rod, its point sharp as accusation. "My abomination," the old killer rasped, his voice cruel, scratchy, and resonant, "will rule. With a name… or nameless." His tall figure cast an immense shadow across the gray-lit council room as he rested one hand on the black-and-gold hilt at his belt.