The landing was not gentle.

Eliza hit the ground hard, the air knocked from her lungs as she tumbled across the gritty surface. Sand clung to her skin, fine and dark, like soot mixed with ash. She gasped, coughing as she sat up, her head spinning. The world around her swirled with a thick, suffocating mist, the air heavy and humid, carrying a stench that turned her stomach—death, decay, and something faintly metallic, like rusted iron.

When her vision steadied, she took in her surroundings and froze.

The land, if it could even be called that, stretched out before her like a broken nightmare. Once-grand spires jutted into the sky, their skeletal remains crumbling and jagged, casting haunting shadows against a dim and blood-red horizon. The sky above churned with thick black clouds, laced with flickers of violet lightning that illuminated the decay for brief, sickening moments. The ground beneath her was cracked and uneven, riddled with black veins that oozed a viscous, tar-like substance. Pools of it bubbled faintly in the distance, their surfaces reflecting the flashes of light like grotesque mirrors.

Everywhere she looked, the remnants of what must have been beauty lay in ruin. She could imagine how it once might have looked—elegant towers of obsidian and silver, grand bridges arching over glimmering rivers, and gardens alive with strange, otherworldly plants. But now? Now it was a wasteland.

The air was cold and damp, clinging to her skin like an unwelcome embrace. The oppressive smell of rot was overwhelming, and with every breath, it seemed to seep into her lungs, making her cough.

“Where…?” she whispered, her voice trembling. She looked around frantically, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Eliza opened her mouth to call out to him, but before the words escaped, he was already there. He emerged from the swirling mist like a ghost, his pale form stark against the rotting landscape. His glowing eyes locked onto hers, their intensity freezing her in place.

“Remember, you swore,” he said, his voice low and commanding.

Her breath caught as the memory resurfaced. She had sworn, but the weight of that vow now felt like a shackle around her mind. What exactly did I swear to? she wondered, her fear bubbling to the surface.

“What the hell?” she muttered, her voice trembling.

“Call me Tenebrae, Prince Tenebrae,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Not my real name. Not ever, unless I ask it of you.” His expression softened slightly, though the sharpness in his tone remained. “You want to talk, and I promise I want to as well, but this is not the time. My home—this place—is not right. It hasn’t been for a very long time.”

Eliza hesitated but nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. “Alright,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Where…where are we?”

Tenebrae gestured to the decayed land around them, his skeletal fingers cutting through the air like a blade. “This is the Kingdom of Goodnight,” he said, his voice tinged with something between sorrow and bitterness. “In the Realm of Nighttime.”

“Is this Earth?” she asked, her voice trembling, fear laced in every word.

“No,” he replied, his gaze distant. “This is not your realm. But we do have humans. Humans who don’t rely on such poorly crafted… gunners’ tools, as you call them.”

Eliza blinked, confused. “Poorly made? They shot me! I think they did just fine!”

Tenebrae scoffed, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “And that’s all they did—fire small projectiles. No water magic, no fire magic, no ingenuity. Pathetic.”

Eliza stared at him, her mind reeling. The world around her was alien, broken, and unsettling. The air itself seemed to hum with a strange energy, and her vision was… different. She blinked several times, trying to adjust, but the sensation wouldn’t leave. It was as if she could see things she shouldn’t—details about herself that weren’t visible before.

“What’s… greater healing?” she asked suddenly, the words spilling out before she could stop them. She looked at her hands, then down at her body, and saw something impossible: faint, glowing lines tracing the outline of her form, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. It was as though she could see her own health, her vitality, and the lingering effects of the spell he had cast.

“Status effect…” she muttered, her voice shaking.

“What did you say?” Tenebrae asked, his head tilting slightly as he studied her.

Her wide eyes flicked to him, and above his head, she saw it—a faint label hovering just out of reach of reality: Undead Lich.

“Undead Lich?” she whispered, her voice cracking.

He nodded, unbothered. “It’s what I am,” he said plainly. “What I have been for centuries.”

Eliza took a step back, her mind racing. “What does that even mean?”

“It means I am neither alive nor dead,” he said, his tone calm and almost bored, as though he’d given this explanation countless times before.

When they finally reached the castle, the weight of disappointment only deepened. The grand halls of the Kingdom of Goodnight, once bustling with thousands of servants, echoes of laughter, and the hum of life, now stood hollow and silent. The air carried the chill of abandonment, and every step through the desolate corridors sent a faint echo, as though mocking the grandeur that once was.

Eliza followed Tenebrae cautiously, her eyes wide as she took in the crumbling state of the castle. She had imagined something grand and imposing, and while the architecture still hinted at its former glory, decay had taken its toll. Columns were cracked, cobwebs clung to the high vaulted ceilings, and the once-vivid murals on the walls had faded to muted whispers of their past beauty.

Then, from the shadows, three figures emerged.

The first was a doll, her face delicately stitched, her her brown cloth skin flawless despite the fine web of seams across her body. Her eyes, though glassy, were piercingly beautiful, and she moved with a precision that was both graceful and unnerving. She wore a formal librarian’s attire, her every motion as if dictated by invisible strings. Eliza couldn’t tear her gaze away.

The second was a butler—if he could even be called that. He was made of tin, his metallic body worn and dented in places, giving him the appearance of a soldier long past his prime. He wore a tank top that seemed oddly casual, but his expressionless face betrayed no emotion. In his hand, he carried a concertina, its bellows sagging slightly with age.

The third was a centaur-like creature, though where her lower half should have been equine, it was insectoid. Her scorpion tail twitched menacingly behind her, and her chitinous legs clicked faintly against the stone floor. She was beautiful in a haunting, predatory way, her sharp eyes darting nervously to Tenebrae.

Eliza noticed one thing immediately: they all seemed to fear him.

The doll curtsied deeply. “My lord,” she said in a soft, lilting voice.

The butler bowed, his metallic frame creaking. “Welcome back, my prince.”

The centaur shifted uneasily, her tail swaying. “We had no word of your return, my lord.”

Tenebrae raised a hand, silencing them. “I don’t need pleasantries. Gather what’s left of the court and meet me in the throne room. Now.” His voice was commanding, leaving no room for argument.