Harlotte’s boot soles felt as if coated in slick, damp moss, each step like sinking into molten wax. Behind him, the soft-bodied creature’s writhing drew closer—its wet, briny sound seeping into his ears, spreading a ticklish itch up his spine that made him tremble.
He dared not look back and ran as fast as he could, yet the corridor’s curvature warped continuously. Though he headed toward the stairwell, the flagstones beneath his feet writhed like living things, dragging him ever deeper into darkness.
The relief carving on the wall had wholly twisted into something alien: cracks split the knight’s armor, slender tentacles slithering forth; beneath the saint’s hem, dark red ichor oozed, sizzling corrosively as it hit the floor. Transparent tendrils suspended from the ceiling snapped taut, their eye-like ends swiveling toward him—in their pupils he saw not his own face but a strange silhouette bristling with tentacles.
His temples throbbed violently, and countless fragmented whispers flooded his ears, as if innumerable voices chanted strange prayers inside his mind. Their volume swelled until it threatened to tear his consciousness apart.
“No… don’t come any closer!”
He stumbled into the wall, and his palm met a sticky surface. The stone had turned soft, as if covered by damp skin that pulsed beneath his touch. Harlotte jerked his hand away, only to find the residue on his palm slowly congealing into tiny spiral runes—identical to those on the human-skin scroll he had burned.
In that moment, a flicker of strange gleam caught his peripheral vision.
A key hovered at the corridor’s end, suspended in midair. Its entire form gleamed with mercury-gray rust, its surface etched by mysterious vine patterns reminiscent of Arabic calligraphy. Though the motifs seemed static, they shifted slowly—morphing into warped star trails, then into indecipherable archaic glyphs, as if whispering secrets from the universe’s birth.
No visible support held it aloft; a faint cold mist swirled around it, within which countless pinpricks of light glimmered like captured shards of starlight. Most uncanny was its texture: part ancient, millennia-rusted relic, part otherworldly metal’s gentle warmth, as though forged from solidified aether of the starry realm.
More soul-shattering than the key was the door.
It was embedded within the void, only revealing itself when Harlotte shifted his gaze. The silvery panel glowed softly yet chillly, bearing no handle or keyhole; its surface bore spiraling patterns matching the key’s vines, their center a hazy mass of countless light points. Surrounding the door, myriad opalescent bubbles hovered, cocooning its frame.
Whenever he tried to stare directly, the panel dissipated like mist, leaving only empty darkness; but when he looked away, it reappeared in his periphery, its points of light pulsing as though alive.
“Key… door…” Harlotte’s mind clung to those two objects, and the whispers at his ears waned. He stretched out a trembling hand toward the key; unnoticed by him, his boots lifted from the floor, and an unseen force guided his body slowly toward that mercury glow.
Just as his fingertip neared the key, he saw the vine patterns accelerate their flow, coalescing into a line of silvery script.
Yet no matter how hard he tried, he could not comprehend the words. He recognized the characters, but their meaning eluded him—like trying to bottle an elephant. A chill, born from the depths of his soul, swept through him.
At that instant, a clear voice rang out, like mountain water flowing over green stones, dispelling the chaos in his mind:
“Harlotte, what are you doing here?”
It was Lorelei’s voice.
Harlotte shuddered, his senses snapping back. The whispers vanished, the soft-bodied creature’s squelching ceased, and the surrounding darkness receded like a tide. He forced his eyes open to find himself standing before a familiar oak door, its lintel carved with a silver star trail motif—Lorelei’s tower room.
As her voice echoed, the twisted corridor, the grotesque reliefs, the floating key and door all vanished without a trace, as if a horrific illusion. The only evidence remained the congealing ichor on his palm and the moss clinging to his boots.
The door clicked open from within, and Lorelei stood behind it in a moon-white silk robe embroidered with tiny silver stars. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, its tips faintly scented—an aroma a world apart from the castle’s blood-chill.
Seeing Harlotte’s ashen face, she knit her brows with barely perceptible concern. “What are you doing out here? You look terrible.”
Harlotte parted his lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His brain ached so fiercely that he knew he must keep the vision to himself.
“It’s… nothing,” he stammered, voice trembling, eyes avoiding hers. “Maybe the corridor was too dark and winding. I got disoriented running.”
Lorelei’s gaze flicked past him but she said nothing further. Instead, she reached out and lightly clasped his wrist. Her hand was cool yet reassuring, instantly calming his panic. “Come in. Stay with me tonight.”
She guided him inside and closed the door behind them, as if oblivious to his furtive movements.
Inside, the room contrasted starkly with the castle’s gloom.
A thick woolen carpet muffled all sound, and in one corner sat a large chaise lounge beside a low table bearing a half-finished cup of steaming hot milk.
Lorelei helped Harlotte into the chair and knelt beside him. When his head settled against her thigh, he felt the silk’s softness against his cheek.
The silk caressed his skin with a faint scent of her, her thigh warm beneath the thin fabric, its gentle curve palpable. He could smell her subtle fragrance, feel her warmth, even sense the soft rise and fall of her waist beneath the robe.
Yet he knew nothing of her motives or why she chose to help him—and that ignorance fed his fear.
The silver key’s vine patterns, the void-embedded door, the whispers—all seemed tied to the castle’s deepest mystery, one Lorelei might not share, even though she had rescued him.
“Did something happen in the corridor?” Lorelei’s voice was soft, like a feather drifting through starlight. Her fingertip traced his hairline without betraying emotion.
Harlotte’s body tensed, then relaxed. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Really, nothing. I must have just been tired—and the darkness… it got to me.”
He clenched his palm, nails biting into flesh. He dared not reveal the key or the door, nor the whispers, even to her.
As a world-walker, he understood their significance: this world had twisted when that dark red star fell. According to eldritch rules, knowledge breeds danger. These unspeakable beings were unknowable, unnameable, unseen. Whether Lorelei meant well or ill, he should not risk telling her.
Seeing his exhaustion—and the hint of madness in his eyes—Lorelei ceased questioning, instead tracing his temple to ease his lingering headache.
After a moment, she spoke quietly, as if remarking on something trivial: “The castle’s night is different from its day. After nine-thirty, it becomes very dangerous. Don’t wander so late again. But if you do run into trouble, come straight to me. I will always protect you.”
Harlotte murmured assent, still silent about his vision. He recognized her warning but feigned ignorance, leaning into her lap.
“Why… why am I here? I was on the mid-level corridor—how did I end up at your door?” he asked.
Lorelei pinched his earlobe gently, a subtle indulgence in her tone. “Because little Harlotte can’t help but seek out his sister.”
She hummed a strange lullaby, its tune tender and soothing.
Harlotte said nothing and closed his eyes, letting himself bask in this rare comfort. He felt her fingertip circle his temple, heard her gentle hum, and the room fell silent save for their breathing.
He buried the nightmarish visions, the twisted hall, the uncanny key and door, deep in his heart. Whether Lorelei sensed them or concealed ulterior motives, he did not know. For now, he allowed himself to set aside fear and suspicion, resting with her.
Otherwise, he feared he would truly lose his mind.
Late-morning sunlight filtered through his eyelids, rousing him. He blinked and realized he was not on the chaise but curled in Lorelei’s embrace.
Ah… Sister, this is dangerously blurring our bond. What are the customs on incest in this world? he thought.
This can’t be right.
He shifted and noticed Lorelei lying on her side, arm draped around his waist. It was clearly past ten. For the first time, he skipped the original protagonist’s automaton-like daily routine—wash, morning prayer, exercise, breakfast, lessons, lunch, nap, tea, study, vespers, dinner, library, then bed.
Lorelei’s embrace was warm, exuding a maternal calm. So I treat you as my sister—do you wish to be my mother? he mused.
But this closeness… isn’t she afraid I might revolt against her?
Just as he stiffened, unsure whether to escape her hold, Lorelei opened her eyes. They were clear and bright as she looked at him calmly. “Awake? You slept deeply—you must have been truly frightened.”
His cheeks warmed under her gaze. He tried to sit up, but she gently pressed his shoulder: “Lie back. There’s still plenty of time.”
Her touch was soft but firm.
“Your spirits are still too low—your complexion hasn’t recovered.”
He did as she commanded, fearful of defying her protective care. Every nonhuman here had its own rules; perhaps he was bound by Lorelei’s as well.
“Sister…”
“Did I trouble you yesterday?” he whispered.
“Trouble?” Lorelei’s lips curved in a smile that spoke volumes: rely on me more. “It pleases me that you came to me.”
Her next words confirmed it: “Depend on your sister. If you face what you did last night again, don’t tough it out—come straight here.”
She kissed his brow and stroked his hair. “Lilith brought your wash water to the outer room. Rest a bit more; your face still looks unwell.”
He must have slept over an hour, for when Lilith escorted him to wash, Harlotte glimpsed his reflection in the copper basin.
Its rim bore entwined vine motifs. The water rippled, revealing a ghostly pale face—eyes shadowed with bruised hues, bloodshot as if he had endured sleepless nights. Most piercing was the look in his eyes: obstinate, timid, yet frenzied. Frenzied? Madness? How could he be mad? He was lucid—madmen do not recall so clearly.
The whispered thought lingered: the mentally ill never think they are mad.
Harlotte froze, staring at his reflection without moving.