Night had fallen over the Durand mansion with an exhausting slowness. Antoine, barely held together by his frail frame, tried to keep his eyes open at his desk. Books piled up like literary ruins, silent witnesses to his intellectual imprisonment. A warm breeze came through the window, and yet, he shivered.
"Hey, Frérot. Today you'll write," said Dante, entering with the arrogance of someone who already sees himself as king.
"What should I write?" Antoine asked in a whisper.
"A vision, Mon ami!" his older brother declared pompously. "You know... a vision of rulers. Of two supernatural entities, invincible, eternal. I imagine you understand what I mean."
Antoine looked away. He did understand. And he also knew it wasn't a request. He nodded, barely glancing at his brother.
"You have until dawn."
Dante left, laughing, off to some decadent revelry. Left alone, Antoine picked up the pen and began to write. Every word was heavy as lead. Every description, a wound. The horror flowing from his mind wasn't imposed — it was his. It came from deep within, from what he feared and barely understood. Time lost meaning.
It always happened when his eyes grew hollow, his skin paler than usual, and his arm moved on its own, possessed by a terrible force — ethereal, yet close. A part of him, after all.
At some point, Antoine came back to himself. The work was nearly finished. His eyelids surrendered. He fell asleep at the table, pen still in hand.
And it began. As always, the creation of the day would take over his dreams.
The air turned dense, humid, unbreathable. Before him rose the pillars of a black temple. The walls wept ink. At its center, two figures descended bone-carved stairs.
A massive creature appeared. He knew its name, had written it: Môr-Thaël. A faceless entity made of documents and metal. Each step rewrote laws, though its feet were charcoal-like sketches. It was hard to define — yet its presence was absolute. If left unchecked, its influence could shape the world.
Beside it came another figure. Equally imposing, though more a satire than a horror. Zôl-Akûn. Applauding itself with many hands while its face morphed into countless portraits of glory. A golem with ego, grinning, growling, moaning with delight and rage. Each of its expressions wielded a different weapon — all destructive.
Antoine collapsed to his knees. He had created two overwhelming forces. Nothing in books, dreams, or Dessendre memories compared. These two were masterpieces — and his greatest sin. Proof that he too was a monster, just like them.
"I didn't... I didn't mean this!" he cried, covering his face and curling in on himself.
But the malformed gods ignored him. Too busy basking in their own magnificence. They did not look at him. They simply were — waiting to terrify, dominate, consume. Not a trace of humanity remained.
Then came a white light. First a timid flash. Then, in an instant, it burst — like a dying star, but gentle, creative.
From the far side of the temple, floating like a living memory, came another sacred being. One he had thought of but never drawn. Her name was Nyssia-Ael. Her dress, a stream of air. From her hands extended strings leading to a massive crystal harp suspended over the void.
She plucked a note. The monstrous figures trembled.
Another note. Their movements slowed.
The third note sent them into the abyss. They were still alive, Antoine knew — dormant, imprisoned.
The goddess hadn't destroyed them. Only contained them — at some unknown cost. Antoine looked up at her, understanding who she was without needing a name.
"As long as I play the harp, they'll remain trapped," said the divinity, her voice a breeze and a lullaby. "Their sources of power are exposed. And you, Antoine, will choose what to do. These are your creations. The day you decide, with true conviction, you'll know what must be done."
Antoine sobbed. He understood. But it wasn't time to decide. His duty lay with his family — even if Dante and Carlo were entangled in power, pain, and revenge. For now, he could only follow.
He pulled himself from those thoughts. She was there, in front of him — the one person he could truly open up to, share his joys, fears, and longings. And so, as fragile as ever, Antoine stepped closer.
"I don't know if I can, Mamounette... I don't know if I should. They're my family too, despite everything."
The woman leaned in. Her gaze — the most tender, the most loving — reached him like a distant warmth. When she embraced him, it was the same tenderness that once cradled him through childhood nights — in stories, in fingers dancing across piano keys, over harp strings, or tracing soft lines on a canvas.
"Don't be afraid, Mon cœur. I see you. I hold you. Whatever you choose, I'll make it mine too. It will be ours."
She kissed his forehead. The harp's sound merged with his heartbeat. Just like those nights — when real sleep came, with stories, laughter, and unconditional love.
Even now, despite the endless nightmares, he felt free — from himself, from the moments when he erased his own will and became something close to death incarnate.
The light faded. The current of vile essence he had been forced to create pulled him back, only to eject him from the dreamworld.
Antoine woke abruptly. Gasping. The pen had fallen to the floor.
To his surprise, those final pages were full of words he didn't remember writing. They bore her touch. She had written with him — a continuation of his horror tale.
He raised a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. The pain was there again, as always. Yet this night felt different. He approached the window, humming. There was a full moon. Her moon, always watching — that's what he used to say. And now, seeing it, he believed it more than ever.
"Your melody has never left my mind, Mamounette," he whispered. "When you guide me, let it be in harmony."
And the moon was no longer just light and shadow. From that night on, for Antoine, moonlight — Clair de lune — was also melody.
That night, he understood he had to act. He had to face not only his guilt, but that of his family — even if they had manipulated him time and again.
He wrote a brief note. With clumsy hands, he folded it into a paper airplane. No one would bother inspecting such a scrap. A trivial thing from a boy — a nobody, if not for his talent to shake reality with ink.
He didn't even know how he got into the Dessendre mansion or strolled through their garden. But it didn't matter. All that mattered now was to throw the airplane toward the window where he felt Alicia's presence.
He wrote on a scrap that this awful airplane, barely able to glide, would reach her window with ease. And when Antoine launched it — it wasn't an airplane at all. It was a beautiful, restless paper sparrow. It landed gracefully at Alicia's window, singing its playful tune.
Meanwhile, there she was, in the midday light, holding a small canvas. Fear of painting again pressed down on her. Then she heard a chirp and turned to the window. A paper bird landed, twitching like a living creature. Then, it laid still, a strange little corpse of folded paper.
"What the… hell?" she thought, staring at the once-living work now still. She knew it had to be something important. And only one person came to mind. The one Clea had spoken of — at length.
Antoine.
The time to face the Durands had come. And Alicia would answer the call.