Chapter Text
[Eight Months later]
The kingdom was no more.
What remained was ruin.
Once-proud spires lay collapsed, jutting from the ground like broken bones. Marble columns, once polished to perfection, now split in half, buried beneath scorched bricks and charred remains of bookshelves.
The air was thick with the stench of ash and blood. Smoke hung low, curling between rubble and ruin. Fires still flickered across the wreckage, casting shifting shadows over shattered glass and warped steel beams.
Scrolls drifted through the wind like falling leaves, their pages blackened and torn.
Beneath Burning Spice’s feet, the Great Courtyard had shattered. Its celestial mosaic—once a map of stars and constellations—was cracked beyond recognition, dusted in soot and dried ink. Quills lay crushed under his heel, their ink staining the broken stone like spilled thoughts.
This had been a kingdom built on intellect. On structure. On soul.
Now, it was nothing but debris and ash.
And gods, it was beautiful .
Burning Spice stood atop a fractured column, his silhouette draped in flame-scorched robes, the wind tugging at the frayed ends. Ash clung to him like snowfall. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak.
He simply watched.
He had seen cities fall before. Watched empires choke on their own hubris. He had witnessed firestorms dance across marble streets, listened to kings beg for mercy in voices that once commanded armies. But none of it—none of it—tasted like this.
Nothing compared to the unraveling of this place—this self-righteous, hypocritical sanctuary of scrolls and sermons. It hadn’t fallen to an army.
It had fallen to him.
To the jester. The liar. The madman in white and blue.
Burning Spice’s gaze drifted downward, to the ruined courtyard below, where that very creature danced in the embers. The jester twisted and twirled between the broken stone, lit by the flickering flames of torched corpses.
Strings of pure shadow spiraled from his fingertips, puppeteering a line of shivering prisoners—former councilors, professors, clerics. The ones who had judged him. Starved him. Stripped him of his name.
Now they danced.
“Waltz, dears!” Shadow Milk sang, his voice ringing high, clear, and laced with madness. “That's it! One-two-three, one-two- scream!”
A sickening crunch snapped through the air as one of the marionette strings yanked hard, dislocating a shoulder. A councilor shrieked in agony, the blue strings slicing into flesh like piano wire. The others stumbled, eyes glassy, mouths trembling.
Burning Spice watched in silence.
Theatrics. Poetry. Tragedy. All of it sewn into the jester’s dance. His bells jingled with every twirl, and ribbons of blood streamed from the spinning limbs of his victims. Their feet tripped over rubble and their own sobs. When his gaze finally snapped upward—toward the lone figure atop the crumbled column—he beamed.
“Oh, behold! ” he cried, arms outstretched, voice ringing high like a fanfare, “ The King has arrived! ”
In an instant, reality twisted.
Shadows curled upward, peeling from the ruins to form a grand archway of scorched stone and melting gold. Spotlights—false and flickering—cut through the smoke and fixed themselves on Burning Spice’s silhouette. From the dust, a crimson carpet rolled out across the rubble, winding down the column like a serpent and halting at Shadow Milk’s feet.
A parade of illusions slithered into being: twisted peasants carved from smoke, their hollow eyes wide with reverence as they bowed low, trumpets made from rib bones squealing out a garbled fanfare.
Shadow Milk threw his arms open. “You’re late, darling! I was just about to start the final act without you.”
Burning Spice descended with measured steps, his boots sweeping through cinders, untouched by the blood beneath. He said nothing.
Shadow Milk pranced forward, radiant in ruin—paint smeared across his cheeks, blood spattered across his coat like confetti, soul jam pulsing with violent fervor in his chest.
“You missed the prologue, but don’t fret,” he purred, circling him like a stage partner waiting for his cue. “I saved you the best scene.”
Burning Spice tilted his head, voice soft and indulgent. “And what scene is that?”
Shadow Milk’s smile split wide, eyes wild with delight. “Oh, only the grandest performance I’ve ever directed. Tragedy, irony, a bit of improvisation—and our cast is very enthusiastic.”
He gestured to the line of trembling prisoners behind him. Former councilors. Scholars. Professors. Their hands shook where they hung suspended by strings of pure shadow, bodies contorted into mock bows, mouths sewn with silence and terror.
“They’re naturals,” he added with a wink. “Even the ones who tried to choke on their tongues.”
He leaned in close—so close Burning Spice could feel the tremble of his breath.
“Now then, my king,” Shadow Milk whispered, gaze bright and reverent, “what sort of ending are you in the mood for tonight?”
Burning Spice leaned backward, just slightly. Creating distance. The glint in his eye was unreadable, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Guess,” he muttered.
That single word struck like a match to oil.
Shadow Milk froze, breath catching in his throat—then erupted into motion, hands flying to his face like a giddy child unwrapping a gift.
“Ohhh, a guessing game!” he sang. “You tease! ”
Shadow Milk clapped once—sharp, electric.
The strings jolted the prisoners upright, their limbs jerking like poorly wound dolls. Bones cracked from the sudden tension, and a few of them sobbed openly, blood dripping from their stitched lips.
“Well then!” he sang, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Let’s see, let’s see, what tickles your fancy…”
He spun on his heel, snapping his fingers again. The courtyard morphed—shadows blooming into crude set pieces. A paper moon drifted across the smoky sky, and cardboard stars hung crooked above the broken pillars. The air reeked of blood and burnt parchment, but Shadow Milk moved through it like a seasoned director on opening night.
“ Comedy! ” he declared. “Everyone loves a laugh, don’t they?”
The strings forced the prisoners into motion. One slipped on a patch of ink-slick stone, collapsing in a heap. Another was yanked into a grotesque pratfall, their limbs flailing like a broken wind-up toy. Laughter tracks—fake, echoing, soulless—spilled from nowhere as Shadow Milk mimicked their movements with exaggerated flair.
He mimed wiping away a tear. “Truly, I’ve missed the classics!”
Burning Spice said nothing. His expression remained unreadable.
Shadow Milk’s smile faltered for half a beat, then he snapped his fingers again.
“Ah! No? Romance, then!”
Two of the prisoners were yanked forward, bodies crashing into one another. Their arms were twisted into an embrace, but their eyes screamed—one was missing an eye, the other could barely stand. Still, the strings forced their lips together in a mocking kiss, their jaws creaking, bleeding where the contact tore open wounds.
Shadow Milk clutched his chest like a swooning lover. “A tale of forbidden love! A kiss across enemy lines!”
Burning Spice still didn’t speak.
Shadow Milk’s smile twitched, manic energy bubbling beneath the surface.
“ Tragedy! ” he cried, voice cracking with glee. “Oh, yes, yes—we’ll do the one with the cursed crown! You love tragedies!”
The strings yanked hard. With a grand sweep, he summoned a crown from the ash and jammed it atop a trembling professor’s head. The prisoner was forced to sit on a makeshift throne made of shattered scrolls. Another prisoner, shaking, weak, was handed a fake dagger.
“‘Long live the king!’” Shadow Milk narrated.
The string puppets enacted the scene, the “assassin” plunging the dull prop dagger into the crowned man’s chest again and again until blood began to bubble up from his mouth— real blood this time. Ribs cracked under the impact, echoing amongst the rubble.
Shadow Milk turned again, panting, eyes wild.
“Well?” he said, breath hitching. “What do you think, my love? A genre? A theme? A name? I’ll rewrite it all for you. Just say the word!”
Burning Spice stepped closer, his voice a soft murmur in the smoky haze.
“I like endings,” he said, “where no one survives.”
Silence.
For a heartbeat, all the world stopped moving—no fire crackled, no bell jingled. Even the shadows held their breath.
Then Shadow Milk shrieked with laughter.
“Oh, delicious! ” he cried, twirling. “You always pick the best ones!”
He raised both hands.
The strings surged.
With a single motion, every prisoner was yanked skyward—bones dislocating, limbs snapping, bodies twitching like dying birds caught in a storm. Shadow Milk turned in slow circles beneath them, conducting the symphony of death with elegant, exaggerated flair.
And then, he spoke.
Voice-rich. Sharp. Rehearsed.
“In the final act,” he declared, “the kingdom falls. The saints betray. The scholar burns. And all that remains…”
He looked at Burning Spice.
“…is the sound of silence.”
With a flick of his wrist, the strings snapped.
The bodies dropped.
They hit the ground like sandbags—limp, broken, twitching once before stilling completely.
A silence swallowed the courtyard.
Shadow Milk bowed low, arms sweeping wide.
“ Encore? ” he whispered, his voice nearly reverent.
Burning Spice stepped forward, eyes on the corpses, on the courtyard, on the jester.
He began to clap—slow, deliberate, each one echoing like thunder through the ruin.
“Enchanting,” he mused. “When’s the next play?”
Shadow Milk spun into his arms with a giddy laugh, smearing blood against his chest like war paint. “Oh, darling, you always say the sweetest things.”
He pressed in close, bloodied fingers curling over Burning’s shoulders like a lover’s grip. Burning Spice caught his wrists mid-motion, guiding his hands downward and interlocking their fingers.
Shadow Milk blinked, confused by the restraint, “What are you–”
Burning Spice placed a hand on his waist and stepped into his space.
Shadow Milk’s words died.
The flames around them seemed to pause, caught in their own breath.
Then—movement.
Burning led.
One step. Another.
Measured. Intentional.
A waltz.
Shadow Milk faltered at first—feet slipping against rubble, unsure how to exist in a rhythm that wasn’t manic, unpredictable. But the hands holding him were sure. Grounded. Demanding.
And slowly, his body responded. A sway. A turn. A quiet surrender into something softer than screaming.
They circled the shattered courtyard, their silhouettes turning in the emberlight. Burned books and crushed crowns crunched beneath their steps. Blood soaked the fabric of their robes. Soul jam shimmered like glass between their chests, catching the firelight in warped hues of red and blue.
“Did you like it..?” Shadow Milk whispered, his breath brushing against Burning’s neck. “I could write another”
Burning Spice didn’t answer at first. He only pulled him closer.
“It was flawless,” he murmured.
That was all it took.
Shadow Milk melted into the touch, his grin softening into something fragile, something almost human.
And in that final turn, beneath a sky of falling ash, the jester and the king spun together through ruin.
Through madness.
Through something that might’ve once been love.
Shadow Milk tipped his head back, breathless. “You always know how to end a scene,” he whispered.
Burning Spice caught his gaze—and leaned in.
Their mouths met, slow and searing, but not gentle. Not kind. A kiss steeped in smoke and blood.
The jester sighed into it, melting like wax in his king’s hands.
And in the ruins, as the fires burned low, they held each other close.
The final curtain rose.
On the Ashes of Knowledge.