Between the folds of reality, beyond what scholars call our dimension and mystics deem the demon realm, there lay a forgotten space. A threshold. Neither fully here, nor completely there. A realm between worlds—or perhaps, the original wound that tore them apart.
In the past, theorists named it border, brink, the third shore. Others, bolder still, claimed it was merely a shard of the true world, violently severed when the dimensions split. Not a bridge—more a scar.
No one knew for sure. But one thing was certain: today, no one—or rather, almost no one—remembered it existed. Save for a few archaic records that called it:
The Threshold.
And it was in one of these thresholds, where the Black Forest of Dracknum brushed the edge of the so-called Demonic Forest, deep within a forgotten chasm beneath an ancient ravine, that a structure stood. Something between a cave, a pit, a temple, an altar, a mausoleum... or perhaps all of them at once.
To the old tribes, it was nothing.
To demons, a slaughterhouse.
To one particular family... it was the Mausoleum of Blood.
Carved into the world's entrails, this place was not built with ordinary stone. In one of its chambers stood a temple whose enormous, pale pillars resembled polished marble—but when touched, they quivered like bone.
Doric columns bore the ceiling like silent giants, choked by red moss, the floor etched with runes long erased by time.
At the entrance, no doors. Just an open archway, exhaling a motionless cold, as if time there had stopped—or died.
There was nothing before the temple.
Until...
Click.
A dry snap. Almost a breath.
And in the blink of an eye, he was there.
A solitary figure.
He wore a white suit, tailored, pristine, without a single crease. A plain black lapel. The cut was elegant, modern, but without excess. His inner shirt was dark, buttoned up to the collar. No tie. His leather shoes were far too clean to have touched soil. There was no wind, yet the air around him seemed to hesitate, as though afraid to brush against him.
But most disturbing of all was his face.
Or rather… the absence of it.
His skin was smooth, like freshly-molded porcelain. No features. No eyes. No nose. No lips. His face was a living mask—expressionless, identity-less. Inhuman.
And yet… he looked.
Even without eyes.
The figure calmly adjusted the sleeves of his white overcoat, as if shaking off the dust of time, and took a single step.
The sound of his shoe echoed—sharp, dry, alone—through the vastness of the temple.
Then, he entered.
✦ ✦ ✦
Inside, it was vast.
More than vast—disproportionate.
The ceiling vanished into the darkness above, as though reaching for the sky of another world. The walls, broad and slanted, supported colossal columns that seemed carved by forgotten titans.
Massive tapestries, faded with time, hung like veils of eternity—depicting wars, rituals, and oaths, dyed in darkened red, deep blue, and ancient gold.
Frames made of black bone lined the sides, displaying portraits of opaque-eyed figures and shattered thrones.
There were statues larger than carriages, sculpted from dark stone and rusted iron. Some bore gigantic weapons of polished gold, others held spears of a black, lightless material—seeming to drink in all light around them.
Each sculpture felt alive. Not because they moved, but because they carried weight—not merely physical, but symbolic. Guardians. Martyrs. Somewhere between heroes and ghosts.
Yet nothing compared to what lay at the end of the hall.
There, at the heart of the temple, raised before a tapestry stained black, stood the Throne Statue.
It dwarfed all the others—not just in height, but in presence. Hewn from a single block of living stone, the raw base still jutted out around it, as if the world had been carved around this monument. Seated on the throne was a colossal figure with a stern countenance. His face was hidden behind a cracked helm, a deep fracture running down half his chest.
Embedded around the base and behind the throne were countless weapons: two-handed swords, spears, whips, banners, axes, chains, scepters, books, crests—even fragments of stone hearts and eyes sealed in glass.
Everything that could harm or protect was there.
Before it, a living figure stood—motionless, but pulsing with presence.
A man.
Hair white as the first frost of winter fell in well-kept strands to his neck. A short beard of the same hue framed a strong, proud jaw. His face bore sharp features, as though hand-chiseled. Stern, but not cruel.
He wore a ceremonial overcoat, deep blue, interwoven with black accents like ancient ink, and adorned with silver trim that glinted like steel in candlelight.
The coat flowed to his heels, open in the front over a light white shirt and heavy black trousers. His broad shoulders were reinforced with aged leather stitching, and a high collar rose like a lion's mane ready to roar. Metallic buttons lined the sides in uneven pairs, and a wide, faded silver sash crossed his chest.
He stood tall, with a regal bearing—but it was his gaze that seized all attention.
Golden.
His eyes glowed gold, like embers buried under frost.
Fixed.
Not on the visitor, but on an ancient tapestry that hung at an angle from the ceiling, its aged threads forming symbols that looked more like scars than art. He stared, not as one who sees with the eyes, but with memory. As if deciphering not words, but echoes.
✦✦✦
The white figure, still for a moment, finally stepped forward. Light. Precise. Irreverent.
"By Velmior's beard—no, by the hairy annals of Pózar!" The voice rang out theatrically, arms thrown wide in exaggerated flair as he advanced between the columns.
"To think that you, of all people, still breathe… or something close to it!"
The pale man didn't turn. His voice came dry and steady, like ash carried on wind:
"I am only a fragment of a soul." Only then did he turn, slowly. His golden eyes met the eye-less face of the visitor.
"…Surprising to see you alive… Cain."
Cain, now fully revealed, lifted a bony finger to his smooth, featureless forehead.
"A soul fragment, huh?" His tone was sharp, mocking, almost fond. "Trying to fool who, Galdrick? Fragments don't retain full consciousness. Much less hold a physical form this long."
He crossed his arms, stopping just two steps away. "Sure, you're a golem now. But a golem with a soul. And where there's soul, there's life. Stop lying to yourself."
Galdrick didn't answer. But something twitched at the edge of his mouth. Irony? Or was it sorrow?
Cain tilted his head, surveying the place with affected disdain. "And I must say… lovely job." He circled the old acquaintance, his steps gliding over dusty marble. "An arcane golem, perfectly crafted. Sealed in a mausoleum. Cut off from the world. Almost poetic. Almost."
He made a grand gesture toward the torn tapestry.
"And to think, if it weren't for that book-addled brat, I'd never have found you."
'I owe Thadeus a favor when I return, Cain noted inwardly, for the help his son gave me.'
"This place was hidden so well, even the dead forgot it." He tapped his own chest twice. "But here I am. Persistent as plague. After all, in Dracknum, nothing escapes me."
Galdrick finally spoke, quiet but resolute: "You haven't changed."
He turned fully now. "Still talkative as ever. And still impossible to fool with those… eyes."
Cain laughed. A sound barely a sound.
Then, with theatrical flair, he pointed to his own smooth, featureless face—still utterly expressionless: "What eyes? I don't even have a damned pair!"
And yet… the eyes were there. Present in their absence. Felt by anyone who looked at him.
"But let's set that aside, shall we?"
His voice shifted, adopting a ceremonial weight. He straightened his posture and gave a deep, exaggerated bow, one arm folded across his chest:
"These days I'm called: Thanatos Loki Ke Dracknum. The Guardian Beast of Dracknum."
Galdrick arched a brow.
"You?" A near-laugh escaped him. "The world really has gone mad."
He took a step forward, dust kicking up beneath his boots: "Since when did you become a magical beast?"
Cain answered with a shrug that teetered between irony and pride.
"Shapeshifter, to be exact."
And in a blink, his form changed.
His face stretched, features reformed—until he bore Galdrick's face in perfect detail. Every contour. Every flaw.
Then… it snapped back. Or nearly.
Galdrick now smiled for real—not with his lips, but with the contempt flickering in his golden eyes.
"A shapeshifter, no less?" he said, circling the other like a predator toying with its equal.
"To think the great Cain Dracknum, hero of the ages, ended up a magical beast…"
He turned with theatrical flair. "…A mimic. How the mighty have fallen."
"Finished?"
"Not quite…" Galdrick feigned deep thought, fingers brushing his artificial chin.
"Weren't you the 7th Patriarch once?"
He paused, then murmured, voice heavy with reverence and mockery all at once: "Hi Undráðinn Vígðrengr" — The Undying Warrior.
Then, louder, with words that echoed in a tongue coarse as carved granite:
"Hi Drekasprengir."
Cain didn't answer immediately.
"Haaah…" A breath slipped out—a sound aged by centuries before it ever reached his lips.
"You talk like an elder… but act like a senile fool trying to outwit the new generation," he said, sarcasm intact, though a tremor, faint as breath on glass, haunted his voice.
Galdrick turned his face slowly, eyes narrowing, golden.
"And since when have you ever respected elders, Cain?"
"Not Cain anymore," the voice struck like a gate slamming shut behind ancient stone walls. "That name… is dead. As is the one who bore it. Just as you are, Abel."
"He was taken by the echoes of time."
Galdrick said nothing.
The silence between them weighed more than a thousand accusations.
Cain—or Loki, as he now called himself—strolled to a pillar and leaned against it casually, as if making idle conversation. But his eyes… they held storms.
"I came here because I need to know… will you intervene?"
Galdrick tilted his head slightly, as though weighing the value of a lie.
"Why should I?" he asked, his tone almost indifferent. "They carry the blood of the Dragonsbane, don't they?"
Loki chuckled. A dry sound, absent of joy.
"Blood of the Dragonsbane…" he echoed, like a bitter memory savored and spit out.
"It's been a long time since I heard that name."
Silence followed. Then:
"But now that I know you won't interfere—not yet, at least—that's one less burden."
The smile that emerged was unsettling. His face was still blank, featureless—yet somehow the cynicism was unmistakable.
"Though I know… in the end, you will."
Galdrick didn't deny it.
Loki stepped away from the pillar, turning again to face the grand tapestry behind the throne. The worn threads swayed faintly, stirred by a breeze that didn't exist.
"The cycle nears its end."
"And you seem… very committed to your new role," Galdrick remarked, voice laced with irony.
"The real surprise," Loki shot back, "is that cursed Stargazer's still breathing."
For a brief moment, Galdrick's golden eyes flared brighter.
"He still lives?" His voice held surprise, but no alarm. "Now that… is unexpected."
"Him. And that thick-headed Heisenberg." Loki turned his back, walking toward the temple's exit. "They bring back memories… far too many."
He raised a hand, and just before vanishing with a sharp snap of the air, he added:
"Careful, Abel.
Sometimes… even fragments bleed."
And then, he was gone.
Galdrick stood alone, his golden eyes returning to the tapestry.
Silence reclaimed the temple.
But now…
something had shifted.
✦✦✦
Galdrick remained silent long after Loki's departure.
The air itself seemed heavier, colder—like even time within these walls had chosen to stand vigil.
His steps echoed softly as he approached one of the side statues. Old, chipped in places, yet still commanding.
He raised a stone-stiff hand and ran it slowly along the sculpture's surface. The gesture wasn't nostalgic—it was respectful. Remembering.
But it wasn't the statue that truly held his focus.
Not entirely.
It was the tapestry behind it.
Slowly, silently, he lifted his gaze to study it.
The woven cloth was faded at the edges, but at its center, the colors defied time—like they'd been dyed in blood and light.
It depicted a man standing amidst a field of death—black hair with reddish gleams, tousled by chaos. Eyes of burning gold, setting the fabric alight with their fire. And in his hands, a massive sword, wielded with the ease of instinct—an extension of his soul.
Bodies lay around him: magical beasts, twisted monsters, demons of every shape and age.
The tapestry captured the moment before the clash, the warrior charging toward a colossal creature—a predator beyond all others, with crimson scales, spiral horns, furnace-like eyes, and wings wide enough to shadow the world.
The beast roared. But the man… smiled.
A fierce, wide smile. Not arrogant—but the kind of grin worn by those who embrace fate's fury and waltz with death as equals. A smile of pure exhilaration.
Below the scene, stitched in thread darkened by time, was a title:
"Hi Drekasprengir."
Galdrick let his fingers rest briefly on the embroidered letters. His face remained unreadable, but within… something stirred.
"No matter how far we run, the past finds us."
His whisper was swallowed by the cold stone walls.
Then, he stepped away from the tapestry—not out of disregard, but reverence.
It was, in itself, a sanctuary.
A silent memorial, stitched in cloth and blood—where even echoes dared only whisper.
Galdrick turned, the sound of his footsteps reverberating between the columns like a restrained lament.
His golden eyes—the only flickers of life in a face carved by everything but flesh, slowly lifted toward the great statue at the center of the temple.
It watched him, as it always had—motionless, yet burdened. With history. With guilt.
Silence stretched long. Dust hovered like the remnants of dead stars, spinning slowly in the stillness.
Galdrick stood unmoving.
The quiet around him was as dense as the ancient dust suspended in the air.
No sound.
No presence.
Only him.
Then, in a voice low, deep, and ancient as the stone itself, he murmured—perhaps to no one, or perhaps to all things:
"Cain… No matter how much we try to deny, to change, in the end, we are what we leave behind.
And even if forgotten, erased… our names shape what we become."
Silence.
And then...
something shifted.
Not a sound, but a feeling. A tremor in the fabric of the world.
As though time itself had paused—to listen.
Behind the grandest statue in the temple, the tapestry once thought entirely black stirred with subtle revelation.
From the ancient folds of sacred cloth, an inscription began to emerge—woven not in color, but in memory:
— Hi Fyrstr Blóðfellir —
"The First to Spill Blood."