And then stepping forward together they cross the threshold into the final unknown.

The threshold closes behind them without a sound. Not a door, not a seal, just a pause in space that no longer includes where they came from and what remains is a kind of hush dressed up as grandeur. The floor beneath them is marble, veined not with stone but with something that glows in long, slow pulses, like a heartbeat given too much freedom in variation. The air is cool and tastes faintly of brass and citrus rind. As if something, someone, somewhere, decided this was the proper way for sanctity to smell.

Adjusting her shawl out of habit Eileen pinches the corner where one of the buttons sits a bit loose, its yellow thread fraying into a small halo. Xozo stands just beside her, still blinking, still unready, as if the air itself has taken offense at her presence, but says nothing while she stands next to Eileen. Her expression too is a practiced sort of dread, but softened now by something smaller: awe, maybe. Or the realization that awe is not the same as welcome.

Looking forward the two of them find themselves standing before a golem, tall and smooth and unnervingly still. It is vaguely human in the way a wax seal resembles a kiss and its face is etched with ink like runes that animate only when it speaks, as though the words are writing themselves across its features from the inside.

"Welcome, Honored Participants," it says, the words cold but not unkind. "Preparation has begun. But as the distinguished delay such a thing is to be allowed."

Eileen nods, not deeply, just enough instead to suggest she's been greeted properly and will be gracious in return, provided nothing explodes or insists upon her having to kneel.

The golem turns, its joints clicking softly like bones reciting old prayers, and begins to walk. The hallway ahead is curved and generous, with arching walls of pale stone that seem lit from within. As they move, the floor warms by degrees, like a well worn path learning the shape of familiar feet.

They follow without speaking. Not because they are afraid, but because the air here has that library hush, the same as when they had visited the Ebony Quills, something between reverence and surveillance as if silence itself wants to be kept silent.

On either side, subtle mechanisms hum to life. Lenses blink open behind the stone. A panel breathes as they approach it, the wall shifting in recalibration to reveal a corridor of mist. Of fine silver fog which spills out across the floor like someone poured moonlight too slowly.

The golem proceeds through, "Ritual Decontamination, Intent: Remove the Residue of the Outer Dungeon."

Eileen follows in suit, the mist curling around her shawl, lifting the edges as if to examine the stitching. It clings a little near the hem where the fabric has been reinforced by Audry's sewing skill reinforced by unyielding love. And noticing the attempt to analyze it, Eileen brushes the fog away, noting casually to Xozo how much such a simple thing means to her, "She always wants me to feel warm, even when she can't be close enough to give me a hug."

"It's not just her, you do that for all of us too, even me. Even when it would be easier to do nothing at all." The comment makes Eileen blush more than she fully realizes which makes Xozo laugh in that warm kind of way.

A laugh that lasts until the mist fades behind them like breath let out at last. The hall that follows is narrower, its walls less grand but somehow more attentive. Light resting along the seams of the stone, flickering not in brightness but in tone, a kind of waiting, that makes the whole place feel like it was made to be observed.

Until they round a soft curve in the corridor to come upon a small chamber set into the wall, that is neither marked nor cordoned off. And when they stop to view the niche, a tray emerges slowly, with gravity, though no hands or hinges move it. It is oval and black, trimmed with a ridged edge of oxidized silver and a strange shimmer like old pearls. Which floats at chest height in the open air and waits.

The golem stops and turns to address them, voice unchanged, tone still courteous. "Please deposit sacramental tokens for acceptance."

Eileen waits a few beats and when the golem says nothing more she shifts her basket to her hip and opens the flap. Wherein Eileen retrieves a single cookie, still wrapped in soft waxed paper, its corners slightly crinkled from the journey and sets it in the center of the tray. Along with no offering speech, no invocation or prayer, just the warmth of something made with intention.

The golem leans forward ever so slightly, the way a polite person might lean in to see if something on the table was meant for them. "Single item presented? Curious, a minimalistic oblation, unusual."

Eileen nods once, unbothered by the news, "Well, it's warm," she says. "And it's mine to give, seems right enough given that we haven't discussed terms."

The tray hums then, softly at first. A low tone that vibrates more in the center than in the edges. From the black surface, pale lines of glyphwork spread outward like frost, curling and pulsing. A narrow beam of light, colorless and slightly sharp, scans across the cookie in three clean passes.

The golem reads the output, "Object, Charred Grain Disc. Compounds include cinnamaldehyde, isolated chalcone, trace myristicin and vanillin extract."

The walls change tone in response, and for the first time since they arrived, Eileen feels the air thicken with a recognition that does not seem appropriate for a simple cinnamon cookie.

The golem continues, "Classification, Unknown. Possible Uses, Planetary Defensive Warding Device. Intent, Uncertain. Significance, High."

The golem's arms shift slightly outward, as if confused whether to bow or brace itself. Its voice softens by half a register though. "Offering accepted… with great reverence."

The golem then bows deeply.

Following the golem again, they soon find themselves standing beneath a domed ceiling that carries the shape of someone listening. The floor beneath their feet is smooth, colorless stone with faint patterns etched in faint light, geometric and unfinished, as though the room has not quite made up its mind what it wants to be and is perhaps waiting for advice. Which is odd because there is no furniture either, not even a single bench to sit on. Only air and space and the attention of something unseen lurking behind corners unseen.

Until the room suddenly starts up, the golem waking it with a loud sarcastic clap. All at once, the seams along the room's walls shift as they open with noise and ill timed flourishes that do little to wow the audience. Fabric appears from within, unwinding itself from invisible recesses, not in loose rolls or crumpled robes but in structured garments.

Each hung in the air as if suspended by unseen thread, turning gently. One looks like it was grown from shadow, hemmed in silver. Another gleams like molten wax, too smooth to be practical. Others flicker between designs, unfinished patterns rewriting themselves as they search for a purpose. Inspired perhaps by the rooms' unfortunately bland taste.

Then from the mess, one of the robes glides forward and stops in front of Eileen. It is black, not dull but deep, like some dark metal that forgot how to reflect itself. The trim is a thread bare spiral of constellation maps and hollow sun symbols. In the center of the chest, a design shifts gently between forms, settling finally into a sharp, radiant eye set inside a cracked circle.

The air waits with unearned approval, the light too begging Eileen to touch it.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

So she does, because it would be rude not to and so she feels the fabric in her hands, how it is heavier than it looks. Yet also too fine to be practical and too serious to be worn by anyone like her. But she was still polite so she turns it in her hands more than once, more than twice before offering it back without a simple excuse. "Sorry love, I brought my own," she says simply, adjusting her shawl.

The robe though hesitates as if confused, until something yanks it and it folds inward upon itself, disappearing into the air.

Another robe floats toward Xozo, plainer and smaller. Soft gray, the shape is modest, formal without being important but unlike Eileen, Xozo hesitates when she touches it and so in a flash Xozo finds herself wearing the robe which replaces her old cloak without fanfare. Until the sleeves of the robe suddenly become too long and yet still Xozo doesn't seem to complain.

"It fits," she mutters. "Weird."

Eileen watches her with a small smile, "It's okay dear, we'll find you something else, maybe an evergreen…"

Xozo puts up her hands, "No, really. It's… It's great!"

At her statement the remaining robes fold and vanish back into the walls which seal again in barely any visible motion. So Eileen turns to the golem, "Open it back up please, adjustments need to be…" A tug on Eileen's shoulder brings her attention to Xozo who looks at her with a pleading gaze so she turns back to the golem. "Nevermind please show us what is next."

Nodding, the golem takes the pair down a hallway that opens without sound, the space behind sealing with a sigh, like a curtain closing on a children's play that no one of them wanted to perform. Underneath the floor glows faintly, etched with shifting lines that suggest unfinished geometry, and the walls rise in slow arcs like waves paused in mid breath.

Light too filters down from no clear source, soft and cool, colored faintly and so Eileen walks without urgency, her fingers brushing her shawl while Xozo stays close in her new robe her gaze darting along the corridor's sides where shapes press themselves into the walls, murals not painted but remembered, shadows bound into obedience.

The golem speaks. "He who empties stars of the systems they are bound within. The Seventh Silencer. Father of Final Cycles…"

The titles fall like beads on a prayer chain long since worn smooth, each name offered not with awe but obligation. The golem's voice is neither proud nor reverent, more like a mechanical device set to loop.

"He who burns meaning from memory. The Warden of Unknowing. Binder of Life's Final Names."

On the wall to their right, a vast scroll curls upward in a shape not bound by gravity. Words flow across it, thousands of them, though none remain readable. For each line is rewritten in real time by looping runes that spiral tighter and tighter until they erase themselves completely. At the base of the mural, a figure holds a quill with no tip, dipping it into a well that contains no ink, only fog. While around the figure kneel faceless beings, each one wearing a nameplate etched in gold.

"The binger of first entropy. He who renders grief fertile. Whose silence unames kings. Whose breath ends timelines. Whose thoughts change the seasons."

Eileen does not stop, though her expression tightens at the word grief and she finds herself glancing to one of the walls. Where a procession of shapes kneel toward an altar made of stars or perhaps the pieces of stars as viewed by something too abstract to be human,

"He who orchestrates the Myria Annum Deathsong. Whose arrival graces each world for its final awakening. Patron of the Hollow Feast. Devourer of the Last Bite. He Who Makes Hunger Sacred."

This mural before them is a banquet. The table stretches the length of the corridor, burdened with plates that carry only the shadows of meals. Silverware lies untouched, save for the knives which have been used, dulled, and used again. At the head of the table, a figure reclines with its mouth open wide, wider, impossibly so, devouring not food but the memories of it harvested from others such as a single child who sits across from it. The child holding nothing, not even a crumb and who looks directly at Eileen and Xozo, the child's stomach drawn as a spiral. Its eyes, two mirrors.

Xozo walks more slowly now, gaze traveling across the murals. The next wall shows a planet split open like an egg, a tide of ash pouring outward into a ring of kneeling figures. Each figure holding a token, one a scroll, one a crown, one a fruit turned to stone. Until the mural reaches the last figure which holds nothing but it is screaming, or crying or laughing or sobbing, it is unclear which.

"The First Mourner of the Last World. Collector of Echoes. He Who Measures Reality in Ages."

One wall opens into a sea of slow blue. In it floats a single sphere, a planet split along its equator, bleeding not lava but something that glows like grief drawn in ink. Surrounding it are mourners without faces, each holding an object, a child's shoe, a cracked lens, a lullaby written in dust. One leans forward and opens its mouth, but nothing emerges. Instead, from behind them, an immense hand reaches down, not to touch, but to weigh as if the sorrow itself, the guilt of being alive would be measurable enough.

"He Who Dreams the Sky Shut. Painter of Blind Horizons. The End Before Beginnings."

Another mural follows then of goblins, smaller than the rest. Each one holding a thread, each thread tangled together into something like a nest that is funneled away. Above the goblins, is a knife, not held by a hand or flame or a crown or a throne, just an empty circle, drawn again and again as if the painter had nothing to fill it with but repetition.

"He who unmakes reality with purpose. Giving each world the peace it needs to move on."

The golem says with finality as it moves them a few more steps into a grand processional gallery, lined with obsidian sconces and high arching beams that meet overhead in a fragile lattice. The chamber, centered by a chandelier of glass and metal which hangs above them. Large, deliberate, unnecessarily ornate that glows with a kind of borrowed grandeur that makes Eileen pause.

Her hand hovering in the air for a moment before it finds Xozo's sleeve, stopping her, her stomach already throwing out a warning. Neither of them going forward even as the golem does.

The moment answering with a tiny break, high in the chandelier's mechanism, the kind of flaw that could have held for decades longer or given out an hour sooner. But is choosing now to fail and so the great fixture trembles, its frame humming like a harp string drawn too tight.

Crashing just ahead of them, it rips what it plummets through, glass and metal blooming outward as it hits the stone floor where they should have been. Shards spreading in all directions, a scattering of broken stars and prayer etched crystal, sharp with a beauty that makes the moment feel dangerously like love.

The golem pauses three steps ahead of them, then turns, not out of alarm but protocol.

"Environmental irregularity logged," it announces.

Xozo looks at the wreckage, her face pale but her voice even. "You'd really think a VIP would be protected from things like this."

The golem turns now to Xozo, and for the first time gives her actual attention. Straightening it quickly turns its full attention back to Eileen. Its eyes blinking open wider than before, glowing faintly, not with light but with script. A scan begins, soft and silent.

"Scan complete. Status, VIP access detected. Clearance tier, Impossible. Reclassifying, Honored Participants as Cosmic Delegates. Host entity notified. Beginning emergency wake protocols."

The golem then turns and resumes its walk going around the massive chandelier as though nothing else has changed. "He who grants mercy through unmaking. He who silences without sound." Its voice repeating the loop it started with, "He who empties stars of the systems they are bound within. The Seventh Silencer. Father of Final Cycles…"

They follow the golem into one final turn coming to rest their eyes upon a massive, colossal, gargantuan door that rises thousands of feet into the air, farther than any human eye could ever see. It is like nothing either of them have ever passed before and it does not glow or hum. It is not adorned in gold, platinum, diamonds, gems or bone or the usual declarations of authority. Instead, it is made from something pale and unassuming, a white powder that feels like ash, like pages of a sacred text scraped too many times clean. Or would be if the surface wasn't covered in maroon symbols, slow, looping scripts that look like handwriting copied through too many generations.

The golem stops and it turns to face them again, now speaking with the full weight of its liturgy.

"You now stand at the threshold of Orrynthal, Lord of the Last Breath, Host of the Hollow Song, the Final Petitioner of this world's fate." The words fall into silence like stones dropped into a bottomless well.

Its hands lift, palms open. "May your offering be acceptable. May your witness be brief. May your form remain intact."

Eileen nods, quiet and unreadable. She shifts her basket in her arms, adjusts her shawl like a mother who brushes off lint before stepping into a parent teacher conference that has been scheduled by a god. She glances once toward Xozo, who offers no words, just a sharp nod and the smallest grip on Eileen's sleeve.

"Finally, I can speak to this Orrynthal and find the goblins' Darkest Lorth."

A flicker moves across the golem's face, like a rune unsure if it's allowed to change.

"That is not a standard intent," it says, more to the air than to her.

"Neither is abandoning children, especially young ones." Eileen replies as her hand meets the door and light begins to thread around her fingers, the golem's voice slipping quietly into her mind as she teleports forward.

"Alias acknowledged, Darkest Lorth. Classification mismatch. Still applicable to host entity, Orrynthal."

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