Fantasy ― 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄.

[neon reverie]

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[neon reverie]

Ophelia

the heroine who won and lost.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[mother of sorrows]

Nikolai.

the villain who wanted it all.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[mother of sorrows]

Adorino

the monster of victoria.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[neon reverie]

Deimos

the hound of du leon

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[neon reverie]

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Ophelia

you and I drink the poison from the same vine.

THE HEROINE

Victoria lays sprawled like a wounded titan, its sinews of stone fractured and its heart ablaze with the consuming fires of war. Spires weep molten tears, staining the dark skies in hues of infernal red; grotesque shadows writhe upon walls, mocking what once existed and now doesn't; foreign harbingers stalk the streets, writing elegies in ash and embers. Victoria cries and crumbles, all hollow bones and paper humanity.

All begging for salvation.

Fate rattles Ophelia's bones once again, this time with a weight heavier than the fist of gods. What was once a prophecy whispered through holy lips has now become the loudest chorus of expectation and existence. It strings her bones to the cadence of a tolling bell; echoes of the inevitable chasing every step she takes. Ophelia carries the mantle of her role with a steel resolve, seemingly immune to its suffocation. Perhaps because something else burns brighter— flames might lick the heavens, but it is hatred that consumes her being; spun like all legends, it eats suffering and spits out molten tales of deep grudges. The folklore of friends turned foes is etched into mind and marrow— it always unfolds but never closes.

Ophelia answers the message from Nikolai without hesitation, knowing what he means when he says to meet him where it all began. Not even her best friend, Adorino, with eyes imploring like fading constellations, could stop her. She is gone before the wind could carry the reason. Adorino doesn’t go after her. Maybe because they both know fate is a river that bends to no one.

The church beckons the heroine with a siren's song of destiny. Stained glass mirrors deliverance and death, sacredness and sacrilege. Arches like skeletal fingers of stone weaves a crown that rests heavy upon the brow of the cathedral; its halls, once hallowed, now echo with the macabre chorus of death. The inhabitants lie as lifeless marrionettes, their crimson trails painting the path toward the figure in the center. Memories of old crash with moments of new; gone is the holy march of innocence— its footsteps trampled by something grander and darker than the both of them. Ophelia's grip on her sword tightens as she approaches her enemy, knowing that every moment here falls like a prelude to the end.

It's also here where the cosmic threads wind tighter and tighter.

Closer into a noose that hangs sin and chokes virtue.

{artist name}

night owl

 

[mother of sorrows]

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Nikolai

to name the pain without inviting it back in.

THE VILLAIN

Xirean fights against its death throes like a worm in the palm of a god.

They had not expected the seige; they had not expected their gates to be wretched open like ribs by greedy, violent fingers. Tie the lamb's eyes and it will follow you sweetly to the slaughter, like a dog. Here, if you knock, someone will always open the door. Who would wish the kingdom harm? They've not war for generations, and surely even their enemies are not stupid enough to try a front-face war.

Nikolai had knocked. And Xirean, naive, stupid, bathed in the golden light of his childhood, had opened.

Its favorite daughter lies bleeding out now, her thin neck broken in a violent crush; her vowen streets drown in hot blood, the cobblestone ashen black from cleansing fire. Red, clawing flames rise out on the sky, licking the darkening horizon in uncontrollable rage. Screams hush under the cold steel of his soldiers, their numbers hunting the streets like fever-dream beasts. Bodies, like children playing at being asleep, stare out with questioning eyes at the heavens. Those that hide will be smoked out. Those that fight will be slain, their bodies foundation for the new empire that will stand in Xirean's place. Deimos is somewhere in that city now, bringing an end to the struggle in the brutal grasp of their glove - not every hand is cold enough to bring justice, to do what must be done. Victoria's soldiers are rare, and unprepared, and in a few hours she will be no more.

This will all be over tonight. If Xirean is the worm, then Nikolai is the god. Slowly, brutally, he clenches his fingers around it and squeezes.

Fate echoes here, the strings weaved in invisible patterns across the air he breathes. The church moans like something alive, as if mourning the words it spoke and the words it will continue to speak. Like a mother-animal with her offspring slain, she mourns; the smoke carried on by the winds gives her breath, her windows shaking in primal fear. Here, the beginning unwinds; Nikolai watches it from the stained-glass windows, hearing the end in the creak of the door.

Nikolai does not look back. They are a rivers; even when splitting into the primordial, icy ocean, they always somehow find their way back to the skies. For a long moment he does not speak, even as he feels fate pull at him like an encouraging hand. Come now, to settle this. I need you to go on. His tone distant like the day of the prophecy, he starts;

''So. You've come.''

Nikolai turns to face her, the last pillar he has to push over. The last brittle, desperate hope Xirean has, like a sailor crashed upon foreign shores searching for a familiar star. She stands there like a heavenly hero, or perhaps an attempt at one; no gentle stand to lead colors her features anymore, her expression exhausted and shadowy like gritted teeth. He thinks that, when he kills her, he will look at her lifeless body in a vague sort of pity and satisfied contempt. If only you had stood by me. And then, then - there will be nothing in his way.

They're going to finish this once and for all.

''With only a sword and the wind of hope at your back. I'm disappointed, Ophelia.'' Echoing, like the church bells above them, his quiet footsteps resound down the marble stairs. Blood cradles his cheeks in a violet splatter, his eyes the quality of stone; her name is like a curse on his lips, a bitter taste that travels down his throat to his hidden heart. His expression is piercing like a knife, brutal and frigid, like a prayer to a stone idol. Nikolai watches her, the last string to his past, and his hand squeezes around the handle of his sword in anticipation of cutting her loose. Fate, the cruel, wandering mother, watches them with unreadable eyes. ''I thought you were going to give me a challenge.''

There is no going back now.

{artist name}

night owl

 

[neon reverie]

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Ophelia

you and I drink the poison from the same vine.

THE HEROINE

Somewhere, in an age long strangled and tombed, these walls have witnessed laughter louder than the screams of war. It was when everything still looked better in the light, with no fate lurking within the horizon that brought dawn. Back when falling only meant falling down— never apart. It was when two children could still taste sweetness on their tongues, when they could dance and dream before god’s eye.

But they are no longer small, and their mouths are full of ash and smoke. And gods, it seems, are only entertained by the spectacle of something dreadful, the unraveling of innocence into jagged edges of depravity. Reverence, which once lay nestled within the stone walls, holds no presence here any longer; their hatred rises higher than the arches themselves, reaching for a sky that remains indifferent to the tumultuous turmoil below.

Ophelia despises this ruinous transformation, the desecration of something she once considered holy. But more than that, she despises him. They could have been better, could have stayed good— but life cannot be pushed back into phantoms, nor can shattered hearts be pieced together again with the same delicate intricacy. A tarnished knot they have become; too tightly wrung together, too easily torn. They could have waged war against fate, and yet, they decided to make war out of each other.

With every word he spews, Ophelia thinks about tearing that throat of his. She wouldn’t be surprised to find it hollow if she does, for all she sees is a shell of the person she once knew; a sick monster crawling beneath skin, pretending to be something human. Venom drips down her lungs like graveyards in liquid nights, patience having worn itself thin between these bones.

“ Silence. Save your words for the gods Nikolai. Perhaps they will grant you more mercy than me.” She hisses, pointing the end of her sword towards his head, the same steel he bears. Whatever fate will befall upon him after death is none of her concern; the heavens can judge him after her. All she cares about is delivering retribution, not absolution.

“You will pay for what you have done. For your crimes and treason against Xirean.”

Against me.

{artist name}

night owl

 

[mother of sorrows]

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Nikolai

to name the pain without inviting it back in.

THE VILLAIN

You will pay for what you have done.

Silence, dead and terrified, stretches on like a rope made for a noose. He watches her now like a stranger, a hero created from clay by a foreign god; as if life was breathed into her only a second before, and he has not known her name before. Cold, like the distant teeth of fate, he stares at her, trying to remember just what it was he saw in those eyes years ago.

Nikolai is not the same fool anymore. The naive, blabbering noble, standing in the tall grasses and watching the birds dive. Youth rots on his tongue and he spits it out, deformed; like a changeling snuck under the covers, biting familiar hands and making the food spoil, ravenously violent. A sickness that refuses to leave no matter how much you cut out of your body, puppetering his form like a parasite. What did he see? Trust, probably. The distant sea and the way the sky stood above him, the veil over the cradle of childhood. He was so very stupid.

And what does he see now?

Laughter, unamused and low, echoes off the ruined stairs and the weeping, dark stone; like a serpent it curls around their ears, the promise of unimaginable violence. Nikolai watches the divine gleam of her sword with grim satisfaction, wiping away the hot blood that splits his face. His gloved hand grips his matched weapon, muscles tensing with preparation. Choice sits between them now and like ships to harbor, they drift towards it. Ruin form a chorus, watching with blank eyes torn from skulls. If he closes his eyes now, he can almost hear the chanting.

He makes a decision. Or, he thinks he does.

''As will you, Ophelia.''

Her name drips out of his voice like poison, like something vile that crawled out of his lungs by force. He sneers to, looking half-mad in the dying light, a ghost finding its killer to haunt. Ophelia stands like a memory he has tried to drown, pale hair a halo and expression brutal, and he wishes for no more than her ungentle death.

You will pay, as I have done.

{artist name}

night owl

 

[neon reverie]

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Ophelia

you and I drink the poison from the same vine.

THE HEROINE

Pay, he commands back, each syllable a caustic drop that corrodes the air— but had she not paid enough? In the darkest corridors of a mind, a family lies strewn across the cold floor; their lifeless limbs contorted in an unnatural dance of finality, their colder hands outstretched towards the killer as if they were begging for mercy before death. A mercy never shown, despite everything.

Ophelia’s sword is the one that moves first, all gleaming and pointed. Her weapon shimmers like a blade of tempered starlight, its edges lighting up as her powers begin to seep into the steel, creating a celestial marvel poised to carve through darkness. It looks as if light has been woven into something tangible, something that could slice and pierce should the owner wish to. And oh, does she wish to. Rage fits the corners of her heart well enough now, its intensity having replaced the feeling of home that he once gave her. What once was gentle has long been mocked and eaten; crushed between blood-stained teeth and devoured by pits deeper than hell's stomach. Perhaps, this is what happens when smiles come before sneers— when love comes before hate.

Ophelia’s gaze burns like molten lava trapped beneath ice, her strikes as calculated as a hawk diving for prey. White seeks red, and mad becomes madness. Although, could you really call it madness when a whole kingdom hungers for the same? Nikolai’s death is the sweetest thing Ophelia and Victoria could taste on their ashen tongues. It is the only thing they could crave, starved and hollow.

Right.

Had she not paid enough?

For loving him so.

{artist name}

night owl