Underland

The Institute’s Hall of Rituals had turned into an art gallery.

When the time came to finally complete the Painted Door project, Hermann decided to have multiple pictomancy works set on the room’s walls; especially pictures associated with death, the Silent King, or doorways. The troglodyte hoped that the presence of so many art pieces in close proximity would somehow enhance the planned ritual.

It took hours for the Institute’s golems to transport them all. In total, the ‘exhibition’ included twenty pictures, from Hermann’s cubical, geometric designs to a copy of the famous Pickman’s Supper macabre painting. Meanwhile, Valdemar only offered one contribution to the exhibition.

“So, if I understand,” Valdemar asked his grandfather’s portrait, switching from his native Azlantean to ‘English’ while writing down notes in his notebook. “I need to add ‘ed’ to the end of a verb to speak about the past. Like ‘I goed to the church last month?’”

“Yes, for most verbs,” his grandfather’s shade replied. The painting looked outwardly the same, but Valdemar’s true sight identified the countless magical wards protecting it; Lord Och had personally outfitted the artifact with his own protection spells to ensure it would survive whatever may come. “But some verbs change entirely if used with the past tense. The past of ‘go’ is ‘went.’”

“Huh? Why?”

“It’s an irregular verb. There are many others. Like how the past of ‘make’ is ‘made.’”

“But… What is the point?” his grandson asked in confusion. “If you have a simple rule, why make common verbs abstain from following it? What higher grammar purpose does it serve?”

His grandfather’s portrait smiled in embarrassed silence.

Valdemar sighed. “Is there a way to identify an irregular verb from a law-abiding one?”

“No, but… I remember most of the list.”

So Valdemar would have to memorize them all? Damn it. “Alright, could you give me the list, grandpa?” the summoner asked as he scribbled on his notebook. “‘Go’ becomes ‘went,’ ‘make’ becomes ‘made’...”

His grandfather listed all the irregular words, or rather the few that he remembered. Valdemar had noticed a few other ‘irregular’ words in the journal, but when he pointed them out to the animated painting the portrait couldn’t identify them.

Curse the inquisitors for interrupting his ritual the first time!

Besides the occasional oddities, mastering the English language had come easily to Valdemar. Contrary to his grandfather’s native French tongue, the grammar rules were relatively simple, with only one word for each concept and little reliance on outside context to get the meaning of a sentence across. French had less ‘irregular’ verbs but harder conjugation, more flexible use of word placement, and differentiated between a ‘formal’ and ‘informal’ dialect.

He still had no idea why the British tribe called their language ‘English’ rather than ‘British’ though.

The holes in his grandfather’s memory unfortunately made identifying specific English words difficult. Valdemar was confident he could decode most of the journal’s coded pages given time, but not all of them.

“I am glad to see you are making progress, my apprentice,” Lord Och’s voice suddenly echoed at Valdemar’s left. By now, the summoner had grown used to his mentor teleporting into his presence without warning. “Time is the most precious currency of all. The only one we cannot get back.”

Valdemar closed his notebook and offered a nod to his grandfather’s portrait. “I need to go, grandpa,” he said while bowing. “We’ll continue another time.”

“Be careful, Valdemar,” the portrait advised. “Don’t talk to strangers.”

A bit too late for that, Valdemar thought as he glanced at Lord Och. The lich carried the spiral mask his apprentice had recovered in Astaphanos. “Are you returning it to me, my teacher?” the summoner asked.

“It is yours, my apprentice. Though I thank you for bringing it to me for study.” The lich’s skeletal fingers trailed on the mask’s spiral design. “Your intuition was once again correct. The material making up this artifact comes from the surface.”

“From the Whitemoon itself?” Valdemar had suspected a connection after his dream.

“Yes… and no. This mask was made from the hide of a powerful creature that traveled to our world with the Whitemoon, and now roams the surface above our heads. I suspect you already heard of it.”

Valdemar gritted his teeth. “The Nightwalker.”

This Stranger was infamous for roaming the desolate, snowy surface above Underland. The entity had attempted to descend underground in the past, only to be repelled by powerful magical wards set by the Dark Lords. Cults worshipping it often attempted to travel to the surface, to be rewarded with transformation into ‘higher’ beings that could thrive in the eternal night and bitter cold.

Did the mask create a psychic connection with the creature? It would explain Valdemar’s dream. The summoner had seen the surface through the eyes of another, gaining a glimpse of the horrors that now inhabited the ruins of ancient civilizations.

“Why are you giving it back to me, knowing the danger this artifact represents?” Valdemar asked his teacher. “Iren couldn’t find any receipt or transaction papertrail in the shop’s registers. The mask found its way to the shop on its own.”

“Of course it did. It was a gift, Valdemar.” His reluctance amused Lord Och. “How ungrateful of you to spite another’s generosity.”

“I am not fond of poisoned gifts.” For all Valdemar knew, the mask could give the Nightwalker a foothold into his mind.

“All gifts are poisoned, young Valdemar, because they are never free. They always come with a subtle string called the law of reciprocity. I give you this ring, but in exchange, you must share your life with me. I offer my friendship, but you must help me in return when I need it. Together, all these obligations form a web that we call society.”

“What about selflessness? Helping someone because it’s the right thing to do, without expecting anything in return?”

“Oh, but help is never truly free,” Lord Och replied, his ghostly eyes flickering like candles. “Sometimes, the reward is one’s own gratification, the addictive drug we call self-righteousness.”

“That is a very cynical vision of the world, my teacher,” the summoner replied with a frown. Somehow, the discussion had become a philosophical debate. “I hope that I never come to share it.”

“Naïveté is the privilege of the young, my apprentice.”

“And cynicism is the last refuge of the old?”

The lich chuckled. “I should remove your tongue for your insolence, but I will indulge you for now. Age, and the world we live in, will teach you wisdom soon enough.”

Wisdom? Where was wisdom to be found in such nihilism? The world was not a fine place, true. Valdemar couldn’t deny it. But someone seeing only the bad parts of it was just as blind as those who only wished to see the good ones.

Lord Och gave Valdemar an indecipherable gaze. The lich’s skull was an expressionless mask, but for a moment his apprentice saw the light in them vacillate; as if his very thought had struck a chord with the Dark Lord.

“How old,” the ancient undead rasped, “do you think I am?”

Valdemar considered the question thoughtfully. Lord Och predated the empire’s foundation, and was probably a lich already by then. Some said that the undead warlock was older than the Descent itself, though his apprentice doubted it; humans only discovered the Blood and undeath after fleeing into Underland’s depths. “Between eight and six hundred years old?”

“Eight or six or ten, I had learned all I needed to know about our species by the first two,” Lord Och replied coldly. “Some philosophers in my youth said that peace would be achieved when everyone lived in comfort, that we should give all citizens a voice in the government. I’ve listened to rulers making speeches about how, if they were granted ultimate power, they could bring eternal order and prosperity to mankind. I have survived more wars than you had years, watched nations turn to dust. And across the long centuries, I have seen our kind make the same mistakes over, and over, and over again.”

Valdemar listened in respectful silence, trying to see where the lich was getting at.

“Human nature—no, the very nature of sentient life—is unchanging like gravity,” the ancient Dark Lord explained. “It always pulls us down. The ancients complain about the good old times, while the young believe they can do anything. The weak envy the powerful, and the strong sow the seeds of their own demise through their willful indulgence. Empires rise and fall apart as easily as republics and democracies. The system we Dark Lords have created is the stablest one yet because we understand human ambition and keep it tightly leashed. But even so, for all of our efforts, this great undying pyramid is always one slip, one mistake away from collapsing.”

By now, Valdemar couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “So what?”

“So what, he asks,” Lord Och replied with a laugh. “You are working under the delusion that bringing the sun back to our fellow humans will make them happier. You are wrong. It will make their lives more comfortable, yes. They will swear to make it right this time, to change their ways because they feel regrets about the sacrifices they had to make… until they do not. They will fight for resources, for glory, for the color of their skin or for a useless patch of land. You could give our people everything, and they would still be unsatisfied.”

“I do not have the benefit of your age, sir, so I will trust your expertise,” Valdemar replied calmly. “But if we abandon hope for a brighter tomorrow for our kind… what’s left to believe in?”

“Power,” the lich replied immediately. “Knowledge. And yourself.”

“So, giving up on everyone and everything else? That’s a lonely path to walk.” And not one Valdemar wanted for himself.

“Perhaps, but it is a less painful path than the one you are treading on. Only bitterness and disappointment lie ahead of you, my apprentice.”

“With all due respect, my teacher, I believe my beliefs and magical potential are unrelated,” Valdemar argued. “Whether I face success or disappointment, I will carry on regardless.”

“I hope so for you, but I have seen too many promising sorcerers wallowing in self-pity. The only way to become powerful, truly powerful, is to stand above the petty squabbles of mankind. The sooner you free yourself from others’ expectations, the better.” The lich chuckled. “Except mine, of course. Do not disappoint them.”

Do as I say, not as I do, Valdemar thought. “Is that why you became a lich, my teacher? To transcend human frailties?”

“It played a part, alongside immortality and magical power.” Lord Och glanced at the paintings, and especially Valdemar’s portrait of his grandfather. “I do not need to feed or drink. My thoughts are unclouded by dreams and lust. I have time, enough time to learn all there is to know. I hope to improve myself and achieve a higher state of existence without the weakness of a phylactery one day, but lichdom is an acceptable intermediary step for now.”

Valdemar immediately saw the flaw in his logic. “If you believe cutting yourself from others is the key to power and freedom, why become a Dark Lord? Why rule a country? And why take apprentices?”

“Because there is a limit to what I can do alone,” Lord Och replied calmly. “I could rule a kingdom of the mindless dead and learn what all the ‘Masters’ of this place are uncovering by myself… but it is more efficient to delegate. As for our relationship, young Valdemar, we are simply useful to each other. Your talent serves my purposes, and I reward you with knowledge and power. We lift each other up. That is all.”

“Sir, with all due respect…” Valdemar took a long deep breath, unsure how the lich would react. He considered keeping his mouth shut, but silence couldn’t protect him from mind-reading...

“Speak your mind,” Lord Och ordered, his tone colder than before. He had already glimpsed Valdemar's answer in his thoughts. “I do not punish honesty.”

“I do not believe you,” his apprentice stated.

“You accuse me of lying?”

“If you are free of others’ expectations and feelings, why try to convince me?” Valdemar pointed out. “If you are truly confident in what you say and believe, then you don’t need to prove anything.”

Lord Och chuckled, though Valdemar sensed the falseness in his voice. “You are unshakably convinced of Earth’s existence, young man, and yet you’ve been trying to prove its existence to all the people you have met.”

“I know Earth exists,” Valdemar defended himself. “But no, by your own logic, I’m not free of others’ expectations. A part of me wants to prove the truth to others, and it will bring me joy when I am inevitably proven right. Just as a part of you wants to convince me because it will make you feel better.”

For the first time since the conversation began, the lich became as silent as a tomb. The air became colder and dryer, as if an invisible force sucked the warmth out of it.

“Lord Och, I will take your knowledge and wisdom with gratitude,” Valdemar declared with honesty as he stood his ground. “But I won’t become like you. I do not want to.”

Maybe his path was one of failures and disappointment, maybe his efforts wouldn’t change anything in the long-term. But Valdemar would try to make things better, not only for himself, but for others.

The lich didn’t answer immediately. For a few seconds, the ancient undead remained as still and silent as the stone walls around them. His eyes flickered with otherworldly light, as if his very soul waved in power.

And then he spoke, his voice echoing with the weight of centuries, each word resonating with ominous power.

“We shall see about that,” was all the Dark Lord said.

Valdemar shivered as the temperature returned to normal. So did Lord Och’s voice, as he summarily dismissed the matter with unnerving ease.

“In any case, to go back to our original discussion… Why would anyone send a gift, young Valdemar?” Lord Och asked, though he didn’t wait for his student to answer. “To catch your attention. Strangers and powerful entities are not so different from any powerful patron. Some are whimsical immortals who try to lead men astray, and delight in watching their destruction unfold. Others offer power and knowledge for service. Dealing with the Strangers can be very profitable for a lucky few, which is why so many fools try in spite of the dangers involved. This mask may be an opportunity to unlock powerful secrets and gain more strength.”

“Or a trap to take away my free-will,” Valdemar pointed out. “The risks are high.”

“Life is full of dangers, young man. There is a chance that the ceiling above your head will collapse once you step outside, but would you spend the rest of your existence hiding in your home?” The lich shook his head. “I suggest that you minimize the risks to yourself, but study this mask with a rational mind. We cannot hope to conquer the Strangers and make their powers our own if we do not understand them.”

Valdemar glanced at the paintings, and in particular, at a large wood panel at the Hall of Rituals’ center. The support on which he and Hermann would paint a door to another world. It’s no different than studying this mask, Valdemar thought as he grabbed the artifact, its surface cold to the touch. I’ll just have to avoid putting it on until I understand what it does. “My teacher, if I may ask… Do you know why the Whitemoon came to our world?”

“Of course I do,” Lord Och replied with a smug tone. “Though I believe you gained a glimpse of its motives already.”

Motives implied sentience. “Does it hate us, humans?” Valdemar asked. “Or the eyes we share tunnels with?”

Lord Och’s skeletal face morphed into a ghoulish smirk. “You should find that out on your own, young man.”

Of course. Why had Valdemar expected anything else but a cryptic answer?

“Because you do not listen,” Lord Och replied with a mocking tone, having read his student’s thoughts. “In any case, I hope you enjoyed your little vacation in Astaphanos, because you will not leave my fortress in the near future.”

“Am I grounded?” Valdemar frowned as he put his mask and notebook beneath his scholarly robes. “Is it because of the derros?”

“You will remain here for your own safety.” The lich put his hands behind his back, his voice deepening. “I have received worrying reports from young Marianne and my colleague Lord Hagith. It appears the inquisitors were not as thorough as they thought, and a cultist from your grandfather’s group escaped the purge. He is currently at large… and aware of your existence.”

Valdemar froze. Even twenty years later, his family’s ghost still haunted him. “You think he will come for me?”

Lord Och gave his apprentice a curious look. “Would you want to meet him?”

“No, of course not.” That loathsome cult had already made his life hard enough. Were it not for the reputation he inherited from them, Valdemar might have already opened a pathway to Earth by now. “I could help catch this man, if you want. Act as bait.”

“I considered this course of action, but I fear it might get out of hand and put you at risk.” Lord Och sounded halfway concerned, to his apprentice’s surprise. “Besides, I would not call a wererat a man. More like a beast gifted with human intelligence.”

“A wererat?” Valdemar asked, his eyes widening in surprise. “I didn’t even know that kind of monster existed.”

“There is a lycan variant of almost every animal alive today, and even some extinct species. Young Hagith outwitted himself when he created his Beast plague. It is far too flexible and resilient to my liking.” Lord Och let out a shrug. “Lycans are an annoyance. You leave one free, and a dozen pop up in your backyard the next week. Someday I might create a virus to exterminate them all and be done with this nonsense.”

“Why haven’t you tried that with the derros?” Valdemar asked with curiosity. After seeing the grey dwarves at work, the summoner understood why the empire had such a harsh foreign policy towards them.

It had taken days for the lightning scars to vanish from his body, and while Liliane got to see the dark elves’ embassy gardens, Valdemar spent his days in Astaphanos in a hospital bed.

“Oh, we tried germ warfare before against the derros, but their government massacred all their infected countrymen while their alchemists developed a cure.” And the lich said that with such cheerfulness too... “Believe me, young Valdemar. Anyone complaining about our political system hasn’t spent a day in the Derro Kingdom. Their ruler values life even less than I do.”

Well, at least the Dark Lord didn’t pretend to care.

But Valdemar couldn’t help but find it incredibly creepy how Lord Och could switch from cold-heartedness to amusement so easily. It felt like watching someone go through masks in quick succession. Or maybe Valdemar had yet to see the lich’s true self.

“We face a dozen lycanthropy cases each year,” Lord Och said dismissively, as the buzzing of flies and echoes of heavy footsteps resonated in the Hall of Rituals. “I don’t expect this one to be any different. The wererat does not worry me half as much as the forces he helped unleash, or the scrutiny his foolish actions might bring you.”

Valdemar could live with that.

Hermann and his master, Loctis the Swarm, climbed down the Hall’s stairways to join them. The troglodyte carried pots of paints, two ceramic palettes, and paintbrushes. “Lord Och… Valdemar…” the troglodyte nodded before the other master-apprentice duo. “Sorry for the… wait.”

“No need to apologize, young Hermann,” Lord Och replied, though his eyes focused on Loctis alone. “A few minutes are nothing to the likes of us. Loctis, my friend, how is your research going? Any new breakthroughs?”

Valdemar couldn’t help but notice that Lord Och hadn’t used ‘young’ to qualify his colleague… and he sounded even a little respectful. They’ve known each other for a very long time, he guessed. Centuries maybe.

“The cancer theory seems to be the likeliest explanation for the biological oddities we observed, Lord Och,” Loctis answered, the countless flies and insects making up his body buzzing beneath his tattered cloak. “Mutant cells breaking off from the body, weakening it and causing a reaction.”

Lord Och thoughtfully touched his chin with his bony fingers, as if stroking a nonexistent beard. “How will the body react to these cells’ behavior? Destruction and replacement? Forceful assimilation? What consequences will it have on the host?”

“It is too early to say yet.”

Valdemar didn’t fully understand what they discussed, though it seemed they were talking about biomancy… until Lord Och mentioned the derros. “I suspect Otto Blutang shares our hypothesis,” the lich said. “His men gathered many brain tissue samples recently, probably for the purpose of comparative studies. My spies among the dokkar enclaves and troglodyte tribes informed me that the Astaphanos incident wasn’t an isolated case.”

Did… did the derros abduct dark elves and troglodytes too? Valdemar exchanged an uneasy glance with Hermann, neither of them willing to interrupt their teachers.

“For what purpose?” Loctis asked cooly. “His kind shouldn’t be affected.”

“From what we know,” Lord Och replied. “They have been here for a while.”

Loctis pondered the lich’s words, and Valdemar sensed his countless eyes gazing at him and Hermann. “May we speak privately?” the swarm asked.

After a short silence, Lord Och waved his hand. A bubble of crimson mist formed around him and Loctis, and when the lich’s mouth moved, no sound came out of it. None that Valdemar could hear.

Whatever they discussed, they didn’t want their students to learn it. Maybe it was a state secret about the Derro Kingdom’s ambitions.

Well, in the end, it didn’t matter. Valdemar shrugged and examined Hermann’s painting supplies. “Is everything ready?”

“Yes…” The troglodyte’s tail waved behind him uncontrollably as he handed Valdemar his palette. “I’m… I’m nervous and yet… excited too.”

“Same.” Valdemar glanced at the pigments. His blood mixed with that of his fellow pictomancer, for the red; Colophryar extracts for the blue; and the Collector’s blood for the yellow. Hermann had mixed various combinations to create other colors, from green to orange, even a deep shade of purple. “I’m taking a risk by bringing my grandfather’s portrait to this gathering. Frankly, if Lord Och hadn’t warded it himself…”

“I swear it… it will not be in vain. It will improve our odds… I know that.” Hermann glanced at the exhibition. “Where is... Frigga’s portrait?”

“I barely started it,” Valdemar admitted while shuddering. Frigga had proven to be a wonderful model, aesthetically speaking… but the more he painted for her, the more she asked for ghoulish alterations. “She wants me to represent her with half her body rotting now. To ‘show life’s fragility.’ Between us,I would rather paint Liliane or Marianne. Frigga just rubs me the wrong way.”

“You know… some of my kindred eat… dark elves.” Hermann handed him a piece of charcoal, so they could make a sketch of the painting before starting with the paint job. “I… frown on these practices…”

“But you wouldn’t mind making an exception for Frigga?” Valdemar chuckled. “I wouldn’t recommend it. She probably tastes bitter and rancid.”

“It’s not about… the taste.” Hermann’s lips pursed to reveal the fangs beneath. “It’s… about pleasure.”

By now, the two pictomancers didn’t even need to argue about the sketch. They acted as one, drawing a charcoal picture of a wide gate opening into a foreign world of sand dunes with a black sun in the skies. The wood panel was two meters seventy centimeters tall, with a width of two meters; large enough to let both humans and troglodytes through.

“You know…” Hermann cleared his throat. “The harvested poplar tree we used… was recreated from a fossil. There is… no other support... like this one.”

“We gathered materials worthy of a god,” Valdemar agreed. “If the Silent King snubs us, I will be mad.”

His remark made Hermann thoughtful. “I… I hope it will work. I researched… I researched him for years. If we fail… if we fail, I’m considering an… an alternative.”

“Create a painted world?”

“Yes. Create a world for my kind… piece by piece.” Hermann hesitated. “But I… I will need help. To bind the creatures… to use as fuel.”

“Say no more, I will help you depopulate the Outer Darkness,” Valdemar vowed with a smile. “Each Qlippoth piece will have its place.”

“Thank you…” Hermann’s inhuman lips morphed into a smile. “Maybe we… could link the painted place to… your grandfather’s portrait. Let you… touch him.”

Valdemar’s heart skipped a beat. “It’s possible?”

“I do not know… but we can try.”

Their respective masters finished their conversation, with Lord Och canceling his spell to oversee the sketch. “Are you ready to begin?” he asked, both Valdemar and Hermann nodding at once. “Then proceed.”

Both pictomancers grabbed their paintbrushes and began to work.

Their blood mixed with the pigments as they applied the first coat of paint. Valdemar sensed the gaze of his teacher on his back, the invisible pressure of his expectations. But his arm remained steady, as did Hermann’s. Their paint brushes followed the outline sketch, creating sharp colored lines.

Then, once they had completed the outline, they started filling in the various shapes. A halo of blue for the door; a pale hue of yellow for the endless desert beyond; a dark shade of red for the sky above it. They mixed the colors with expert care, choosing the right composition for the most vivid result.

At this point, they should have let the painting dry before moving on to the next phase of the composition… but the pigments seemed to do it on their own. Fumes came out of the black sun at the composition’s center.

Hermann’s hand approached the dark star without touching it. “I sense… heat.”

Yes. The center of the painting radiated warmth, drying the paint by itself. A fount of magic erupted from the black sun like a fountain; a power similar to the Blood, and yet subtly different.

A spell that neither Hermann nor Valdemar had cast. They glanced over their shoulders, Lord Och giving them a nod while Loctis’ swarm remained unnervingly silent.

The pictomancers switched from coating the wood to adding texture, depths and thickness. They added layers to the gateway and to the sun, filled the skies with blood, and gave shape to each grain of sand. The portrait’s lines shifted on their own, the magic of both sorcerers suffusing every shade, every hue. Valdemar noticed his grandfather’s portrait fidgeting at the edge of his eye, alongside the other pieces exhibited. They sensed an invisible pull, something that the painters could barely perceive.

The Silent King walked on the painted dunes, beyond the door’s threshold.

He was small, so small that Valdemar could barely see him. His robes were a shade of dark green, tattered rags fluttering in the wind. A mass of multicolored tentacles squirmed beneath his hood, obscuring the light of his eyes. The creature took a step, and then another.

The Silent King was moving closer.

By now, Valdemar painted entirely on instinct. His hand was no longer his own. Something other than his will guided it, as gentle as a parent’s hand, as cold and alien as an otherworldly outsider. An invisible bond connected the summoner to the creature on the other side, using the painting as a medium; the same way Valdemar used a circle to bind Qlippoths to his will. Hermann was as transfixed as his colleague. The rest of the world no longer mattered. Only this painted door, this perfect magnum opus, deserved their full attention.

Even when the ground started shaking beneath their feet.

A deep rumble echoed through the Hall of Rituals, and dust fell on Valdemar’s shoulders. The walls trembled, but he didn’t care, didn’t let that interfere. His hand turned into festering flesh and sick pale eyes opened all over his arm, but he didn’t care.

He only had eyes for the alien world before him. The ruins of an ancient city rose from beneath the painted dunes, alongside floating structures of stone rising in a cloudless sky and spiraling staircases that no man had ever seen. Statues of alien, defaced giants appeared all over the horizon, all of them in awe of the black sun’s radiance. The Silent King walked closer and closer, his open eyes revealing stars and a glimpse at forgotten cosmic secrets. Beckoning the painters to take a step into this brand new and terrifying world.

An alien howl echoed across the hall, and Valdemar’s paintbrush snapped between his fingers.

Only then did the summoner regain awareness of his reality, to see it blurring with a nightmare. His hand had turned into the same festering flesh and eyes as the walls beyond the Institute, and a fanged mouth snapped its jaws inside his palm. The Hall of Rituals had gained new colors, reality blurring like a chaotic canvas. The other paintings in the exhibit appeared like islands in a sea of fresh paint.

Lord Och’s voice cut through the noise, as sharp as a sword.

“Carry on.”

The lich remained imperturbable, while Loctis cast spells at his side. Though he appeared an eternity away from Valdemar, Lord Och’s voice reached his student’s ears just fine.

“Carry on,” he repeated.

And Valdemar returned to work. His paintbrush broken, he used the same technique as the blood bullet to solidify his body’s fluids into a crystalized wand to carry on. Hermann had switched from using his brush to his tail, while his eyes shone with feverish madness. They added shadows on the city, highlighted the black sun’s dark radiance, and worked all the disparate details into a single, unified whole.

An invisible force pushed against his face as he gazed into the painted door, small grains of sand hitting his cheek.

Wind, Valdemar thought in his creative fever. Not the cold, howling blizzard that his mask had shown him, but a dry, warm breeze.

The Silent King looked tall beyond the threshold, so close he was but one step away from crossing it. And yet, he did not. The Stranger stood on the other side, gazing through the portrait as he did with countless others.

The Silent King didn’t say a word, nor did he need to. His meaning was clear as springwater, as all pieces fell into place. His visits to painters and madmen had never been a call to summon him to the material plane. Silent or not, a true king did not visit foreign courtiers.

Come.

A true king invited.

Hermann and Valdemar weren’t the summoners.

They were the ones being summoned.

And so the two pictomancers answered the call. They couldn’t resist, even if they had wanted to. They had poured their blood and soul into this masterpiece, and it wouldn’t come to life without this final commitment.

They stepped through the painted door and into another world.