An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

He looked further than he was meant to see...

There it was—the thing that kept this whole madness-infused reality together.

Floating in the air, suspended on great hooks so vicious in their nature they seemed to relish the flesh and blood of the being they held in the realms of eternity and eternal torture, they would greedily feast on her pain and agony, growing larger and more vicious with each cycle of feeding they underwent.

Beyond the reality of frozen powerhouses corrupted by their flailing egos, beyond the mirror that fed on the self-imposed future of Fate and her sister...

Beyond all the chaotic distractions that had overwhelmed his mind moments prior.

There she hung—battered and torn, desecrated.

She was ancient—Roemeon could feel it; his instincts were practically jamming knowledge he had no business knowing within his mind. She was wounded—Roemeon could taste the way the air trembled with every minor twitch, each one seeming to take years and months to complete. And yet, with every twitch, a corruption so dense and foul spilled into the world, feeding off it to maintain the balance that had existed for so long, Romeon could not even begin to tell when it had all begun. The world that held the proof of her embarrassment—her fall, her failure, and her shame—all used to torture and break her mind beyond what she would have endured, but maybe her nature had betrayed her long before she fell, and she had never realized it yet. This was a subtle truth that was pushed to the back of Romeon's mind before he could even grasp it.

She was divine. Or at least, she used to be, and even then it was only a simple semblance of her complex nature. But now, whatever she was—was nothing Roemeon, with the little insight he had about this world, could name or comprehend.

Just years prior he had only been speculating about this world, and his instincts being the only anchor to his suspicion, it was only recently that he had officially become part of this world, and now he was seeing the so-called truth about it.

And yet, even as the hooks that had pierced her flesh feasted on her splendor, he saw—they too suffered. They had become sick and twisted, the time they had spent hanging and being drenched in blood that was beyond their nature, warping them beyond recognition.

The very space around her was sick and agonizing. If disease could spread to reality itself, this realm would collapse like a diseased lung.

Then—he saw her. Before, he had only felt her presence. His spirit had perceived her long before his mind caught up. But now that the world around her had collapsed, his eyes truly saw.

And a great sorrow consumed him. Pain like he had never known was born in his heart, clawing and scratching its way from depths he never knew he had. It devoured what little sanity he had left—after seeing the way his wife had looked at him with desire.

But this time, his mind broke from something other than lust.

This time, he felt true sorrow. He did not need to understand it to feel it. It may not have been his—but he felt it all the same.

It came from a past he could not remember, echoing from times not his own, and yet the pain was very real; his body could not stop trembling as his hand clutched at his chest, seeking any minor relief he could afford for himself.

And all he could truly make out were the wings—skewered through by hooks that dwarfed the sky, dripping a corrosive liquid that could only be her blood.

And yet—it dissolved into the world around her, feeding the oppressive shadows that warred against the false light imposed on this reality by the seemingly blooming stars. Bor from the destruction of the Duke's lamp, their purpose being more than simple light.

The stars—ever constant, ever watching—shone with pain; they were the anchor that bore the weight of his existence where his body would have failed. They had been the reason that he did not die, simply from seeing the very first scene, and yet they wailed as though they had really reached their own limits; the weight of what Romeon was seeing was too great a burden for their failing nature. Had he not been so consumed by sorrow and his rising rage, he might have appreciated them for the light they still gave for the burden they had chosen to bear on his behalf.

The wings were so ruined that their former nature was gone, and now they adopted a new form. Traces of the former glory and beauty remained—stubborn, like trees surviving storms, fighting to keep the memory of their former selves from fading into the unseen.

Now, the wings hung limp.Torn.Disfigured.Hooked with barbs that pulsed like infections—rusted, corroded, bearing some disease or mystical infection that was simply beyond equal measure.

It was as if betrayal had a scent—and it reeked of mercy that had been betrayed.

The despair born of it stunk so thick.

Roemeon felt his mind slipping further into a rage that threatened to consume him.

His mind was so clouded that he had failed to even understand why he had always assumed that the thing he was seeing was a woman or even a person at all.

And yet, its eyes—if it had eyes—never opened. But he felt them. He felt them roam over his body. And while he expected hate or vengeance in their gaze... He felt only mercy.

And his anger almost exploded.

But then—it was ripped so forcefully away from him that he had to take a step back, and he even managed to spit a mouthful of golden blood.

And unseen by anyone, his golden ichor was absorbed, its destination unknown.

Left with nothing but emptiness, he could only stare ahead. His eyes glazed. He wanted to feel his heart lurch at the sight before him. But all he had was indifference.

A mild curiosity—the only sign he was still alive.

He felt the world tremble—begin to fade from his perception.

And just when it was going to disappear completely from his sight...

He heard the voice.

It came from the depths of his memory. It bloomed, soft and warm—just as he remembered it from a long time ago.

Still gentle. Still filled with the same care for all things that had once annoyed him beyond reason.

But... he could not recall why. He only knew he knew the voice. But its identity evaded him.

The name was at the tip of his tongue. But he could not say it. It eluded him, as though it did not want to be spoken aloud.

And that frustration—That single spark of emotion—

It almost brought him back.

But it was ripped away again. Fed to the wings that hung limp in sorrow.

Tears like sulfur streamed down his cheeks. He bled again.

But he was empty, almost listless.

And then...

"Do not hold onto anger that was never meant to be yours, child."

"This is my anger—never meant to be yours. Do not despair for me."

"They've betrayed my mercy. And soon... the reckoning will come for them all."

"Watch, child... as I burn this world to the ground. They will never see me coming."

He heard soft laughter. It was pained—yet still warm. But had he been in his right mind... he would've known. It was twisted beyond belief.

Then the world was gone.

And before him stood the aged face of the Duke—the one who had once placed gentle hands on his shoulders, back when he had first brought him to his home.

But now that very hold was like a vice grip, almost piercing his flesh to draw blood, but if he felt any of the pain, he did not show it.

The Duke's eyes were almost crazed as he spoke. His voice was a blend of crazed curiosity and desperation. And Roemeon barely registered the words after what felt like an eternity.

"Tell me, boy!" The Duke's voice rose far higher than it was ever meant to. The gentleness that had once lived in his tone—gone.

"Tell me… What did you see?"

The desperation was clear.

Roemeon, still dazed, still drenched in what made no sense, tried to recall.

He had seen everything—And yet he could not remember. He had seen too much. And yet—not enough.

Still... his mouth moved.

He spoke each word so slowly it was as if his body rippled with each syllable.

His eyes—blank and bleeding golden blood—stared into the Duke's…

…or perhaps through them.

"You..."

"...will..."

"...all..."

"Die."

Then his world went black.

His body collapsed to the stone floor.

And the Duke...did not move.

He trembled—imperceptibly. But his eyes were locked on something far away, far beyond this moment.

As if Roemeon had never existed.

"Alfonso!" the Duke barked, stepping past Roemeon's fallen form, not even sparing him a glance.