What a beautiful day.

  A day like this was meant to be observed, appreciated—basked in. The glittering spectacle of the Moon Ring could bring any man to his knees—a beauty so vast, it crushed lesser minds beneath its glory.

  Below, the rabble scurried through their daily routines. The droves of them, driven by every fickle impulse of existence, every pitiful flutter of a butterfly’s wing—free will their greatest folly. Windows yawned open, welcoming the breeze—the breath of life carried on its whistling wings.

  He stood on the highest balcony of the Eternal Spire, the city of Elysium sprawled beneath him, pulsing like a steady, beating heart.

  Magnus, with a gentle smile, breathed it all in.

  He couldn’t think of a more disgusting sight.

  Those fools and their meaningless lives were nothing more than candle wicks, burning away for his sake.

  Disposable.

  Replaceable.

  Inconsequential.

  He could weigh the substance of their souls with just a glance. Only one to know their worth—to feel the weight, the trickle of their essence seeping into the city’s veins.

  His veins.

  Always just a taste of power, but never a feast. His revulsion at the thought stretched his smile wide. An entire city’s population still wasn’t enough. He needed more.

  No.

  He deserved more. So much more.

  What he had now was barely enough to sustain the ritual’s demand. Even the numbers in the lower floors left him wanting. No matter how much of the city he conquered, there simply weren’t nearly enough bodies.

  What other recourse did he have than to bring in more?

  He just needed them inside the walls. They needed to touch the pavement of his design, his perfect web. It wouldn’t matter if they were old or sick or dying. Their spirits just needed to burn for him.

  He despised the refugees' existence, yet still he needed them. All of them.

  Besides… What was a god amongst men if he didn’t have a single sheep to his name?

  What worth was eternity without worship?

  Without even a single soul to kneel?

  Sullivan and his disgusting nest of fleas knew nothing of divinity—they just simply refused to die. The leeches were born with their eternity—unearned, effortless—and not a single one was grateful for it.

  Parasites made divine by accident.

  They could sleep through centuries with blood on their lips and silk on their backs. As if time owed them reverence.

  Magnus was not like them.

  He didn’t endure eternity—he seized it. And he bled for every hour he still walked this world. Gratefully. That’s what the city was made for after all. To bleed the world dry for his sake.

  His grace and his mercy were truly limitless.

  His precious lily twirled over and over in his hand, the scent still as strong as when it was gifted to him. Magnus couldn’t help but bring it to his nose—again, again, again—just to get lost in its soft, fragrant petals.

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  A drop of starlight’s dew caught and twinkling as if to beckon the spider from his den—his tiny diamond in a coal mine.

  He sighed.

  The very thought of his precious little mouse set his heart racing, the ache burned so deep it brought tears to his very eyes. Torn from him far too soon, far too viciously, by that leech.

  He smiled again—wistful, craving. The push and pull of the game, so intoxicating was the feeling that it alone could almost satiate him.

  Almost.

  But hunger was a cruel, unending thing, and nothing satisfied him quite like the thought of supping from the teat of the divine until its well ran dry.

  Snap.

  His teeth nearly sank into the flower in his hands—so desperate was he to tear into that pretty, pale flesh.

  Absolute torture.

  His grip on the stem tightened, a phantom sensation of soft, yielding flesh beneath his fingers. If he closed his eyes, he could see her in Sullivan’s arms, their lips meeting, and pretend—just for a moment—that it was him instead.

  That she gave him the promise of eternity’s embrace instead.

  But then—

  Those rabble-rousers decided to move on their own, to offend and taint what should have been purity for him to claim.

  His victory had been twisted into a grotesque spectacle, and he had been made to watch—made to endure. He would have killed them all if the sight of her melting into that leech’s embrace didn’t make him so violently, achingly envious.

  His smile had looked genuine at the time, but beneath it lurked the quiet thirst of a mourning man.

  It was enough to make him want to—crack.

  His empty fist slammed into the stone beside him.

  A deep dent caved into the surface, impact fractures splintering outward. Pain lanced up his arm as his bones shattered, jagged shards tearing through flesh. Blood burst against the marble in hot streaks of red across pale grey.

  He barely registered it.

  Slowly, methodically, the broken pieces knitted themselves back together. Seamless. Unforgiving. Glimmers of sickly green mana flecked with gold, bled out to stitch him back together, then dissipated into the air.

  He could feel the force of his power trickle away just from this one small injury. A pathetic waste, but even that wasn’t enough to faze him.

  He would need more.

  He would always need more.

  And time would always demand more.

  He would stop it if he could.

  Speaking of which.

  How long had it been since he’d last seen her?

  Five days?

  Five weeks perhaps?

  Even five minutes was far too long a time. He needed to see those jewel-like eyes again. A mirrored surface that could reflect the depths of his desire, an echo that would say his name over and over again. He would never tire of the sound.

  He glanced at the clock on the wall. Its annoying, incessant tick flayed against the atoms in his skin…

  It had only been 5 hours.

  Bits of rock fell as he raised his fist again—but stopped.

  There was the gentle caress of a phantom's kiss—so light, so fleeting—against his bare knuckle. He turned his hand, the lily twirling between his fingers, and saw it: a single strand of beautiful, ghostly silver hair, shimmering in the sunlight.

  His breath hitched, then shuddered.

  He had a piece of her.

  His smile could have split his face in two—an abyss carved into flesh, a chasm with no end. How careless of her, to leave even this much behind. And how cruel, that it was all he had.

  Even now, without her vessel of flesh, the arcane pulsed against his fingertips. Just a hair, and the universe blinked.

  He pressed it to his lips as if in prayer, breathing her in like the first air after drowning. As if all the stars in the sky had realigned just for him. As if the universe itself had whispered sweetly in his ear: they were meant to be.

  — m e a n t t o b e . . .

  And yet—cruel hands had torn her away, forcing him to rot in this wretched half-life. Adrift. Yearning. Incomplete.

  "Aleiya." The name rolled off his tongue so heartbreakingly sweet he could almost vomit from the sound.

  As it echoed in his ears, he retched, the craving almost too much to bear, then breathed in the essence of her hair once more.

  Relief.

  Her memory still lingered against his warm, corroding flesh—a phantom’s touch, a whisper captured in the palm of his own hand.

  But he could wait.

  He would wait.

  He would shape her silence into the perfect response—his name, whispered back to him, over and over, until the world forgot she had any voice of her own. After all, the finest meals were always served cold.

  A knock reached his ears.

  His head snapped towards the door.

  He exhaled once—long, slow—like releasing a coiled spring, unwinding the tension by sheer will alone. With a single fluid motion, he erased the crumbling dent in his wall, his wisps of mana coiling then fading, before his fingers slid through his tousled hair.

  He needed to be presentable. Sharp. Immaculate for the masses. His smile eased back into place—effortless and warm. Welcoming. Practiced.

  With a cheerful, downright neighborly tone, he called out, "Come in! Come in!"