Perhaps the villain winning wouldn't be such a bad ending after all.
The barrier looms before us, beautiful and terrible. Through its translucent surface, I can almost see shapes moving—shadows that might be Cassius and Gwenivere, or might be something else entirely.
"Together?" I ask, looking at my companions.
They nod, even Nikki straightening with determination that pushes through her fear.
We step forward as one, trusting in the invitation of a child who is not a child, following a path laid by someone the world might call villain but who I call friend.
The barrier parts for us like silk, and we pass through into whatever waits beyond.
The Crown Of Nothing
~GWENIVERE~
Laughter.
Pure, crystalline joy that rings through darkness like silver bells. It starts soft—a giggle between conspirators—then builds into the full-throated delight that only children can produce without self-consciousness.
Three figures dance in a circle, hands clasped, bodies spinning with abandon that makes their forms blur at the edges. They're in a pasture, but not one that exists in any realm mortals know. The grass beneath their feet is shadow given substance, each blade a different shade of twilight. Purple mingles with midnight blue, while pink—the color of dawn filtered through obsidian—provides accent notes that shouldn't exist but do.
The darkness here isn't oppressive. It breathes with life.
Butterflies made of compressed starlight flutter between shadow-flowers that bloom in eternal night. Their wings trail cosmic dust that hangs in the air like suspended glitter. Fireflies join the dance, but their light is cold—blue-white sparks that exist in the space between real and imagined.
Fire crowns the leftmost girl.
Not touching her, never burning, but hovering inches above her dark hair like a halo of living flame. Orange bleeds togold bleeds to white at the edges, the colors shifting with her emotions. When she laughs, the flames dance higher. When she spins, they trail behind like a comet's tail.
The boy wears purple light.
His crown is gentler—amethyst luminescence that pulses in rhythm with his heartbeat. It casts no shadows because it exists in harmony with the darkness rather than opposition to it. Sometimes the purple deepens to wine, sometimes it lightens to lavender, but always it marks him as something special. Something chosen.
The third girl has nothing.
No crown of fire or light marks her as different, as special, asdestined. But she doesn't seem to mind. Her laughter rings as true as the others', her movements just as free. In this moment, in this dance, she is simply one of three.
Equal. Loved. Included.
A call echoes from the hilltop.
The sound doesn't travel through air—it resonates through the fabric of this strange realm, felt as much as heard. The children react instantly, heads turning in unison toward the source. Their dance breaks apart, but their hands remain clasped as they begin to run.
As they move, I notice the strangeness of their forms.
They're silhouettes more than children—shapes cut from reality rather than existing within it. Their eyes glow with hollow light, empty sockets that somehow convey more emotion than any ordinary gaze. When they smile, their mouths become caverns of brightness, as if joy itself burns within their shadow-forms.
They crest the hill, breathless with excitement rather than exertion.
Three beings await them.
The parents—for that's clearly what they are—tower over their children with presence that goes beyond mere height. The woman wears a crown of burning crimson that makes her daughter's orange flames look pale by comparison. This is not fire playing at royalty—this is royalty that happens to burn.
The crown hovers with weight of absolute authority, each flame a decree, each spark a judgment.
The man's purple crown matches his son's but amplified to the power of mountains. Where the boy's light pulses gently, the father's throbs with force that makes reality bend around it.
This is shadow given purpose, darkness that has learned to rule rather than merely exist.
