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Dancers pranced across the stage. Jugglers tumbled to the crowd’s delight. Then came singers and acrobats, comedians and bards — the night stretched long. Yet not a soul strayed. They dared not miss what was coming. Waiting, breath held and eyes wide, for the main event: Kru and the Machine of Jur!

"Silence!" The compère tipped his hat, twirled his mustache, skipping on the stage. "The time's come! Gather close! Kru, Sovran Thaumaturgist, will reveal his discovery! A relic from Jur! Jur the maker, Jur the wonderful! Such a thing has not been seen for an age! Prepare your eyes! Cheer! Rejoice!"

With a light heart, he strode on stage. This was the peak of joy; he would reveal the wonders of Jur the world only dreamed of! Then, he stumbled. His mind kicked and bucked. A flash of fear, then dread, took him. His wife stood by, lifting him up. His mind instantly calmed, and all worries receded.

He looked across the sea of wide-eyed people, all locked on him in awe. Kru felt a need, a desire, to give them what they wanted. The glorious! The never-seen! The remarkable! His mouth opened, his hand reached into his pocket; touching the coin. Rage, blood, and flashes of death scored his mind.

He spoke, and the world listened. The words flowed like silk and all praised Jur. The crowd gasped, their eyes alight with ardor and hope. Inside, his mind was screaming! This was false. These were not his words, not the tale he told the king—this world, this construct was ripping through his mind.

Kru roared! The crowd recoiled, falling silent. Tearing at his head, the rhythmic pounding fueling his agony. "I am master of my mind!" he shrieked into the night. A cool breeze; his hands dropped, and a calmness settled on his mind. He felt the soothing and with a last burst of will — rejected it.

He wrenched the coin from his pocket. Flames shooting out of his hand. The heat scorching his face. Gears connected and clawed their way across his palm. The more he fought, the more the coin sought to lull him into submission. Pain was his resistance, and he pushed into the pain. The crowd cheered!

As the light flew from Kru’s hand, little gears drifted, swirling, connecting, breaking apart, flying off, bursting into pops of color. The crowd called for more! The gale of applause was an assault on Kru’s senses while his mind reeled. “Fools!” He shouted, a futile attempt to extinguish it all.

His mind was his own. Kru would tolerate nothing less. Over the cheers of the crowd, the pounding in his head, Kru pushed back. No one saw the danger; no one saw the cataclysmic power. All they saw was the false wonders of Jur. Kru would have to force them to see the horror of their utter ignorance.

Kru turned on his wife, grabbing her. “I know not this world you have crafted for me. But like in the halls of the king, I will use it the same. It seems my destiny is to use you, I am sorry.” “No!” She shouted. “You are supposed to embrace the wonders of Jur!” Kru slammed the coin onto her head.

Her skin aglow from the sheen of this world, began to ripple. The coin's dark gears grew as they gnashed and interacted, merging into one cold, unfeeling mass. She screamed as it draped her body. "Stop this now!" she shrieked. “Kru! Give them the wonders, give in to happiness! You must love — obey!"

A tear fell from Kru’s eye. While this wasn’t his wife, his mind knew she was a construct of Jur, still, his heart yearned for her. Jur would destroy them and only he could see that. To change that, he had to change everything, even in this world. What they saw, what they believed… what he loved.

The gears covered his hand like a gauntlet as they veiled his wife. Cogs floated on light, dancing between them. As it was on that day before the King, so would it be here. This way he could control the device of Jur, use it. She was now a mear puppet on strings. He embraced her. He shoved her away.

His hand ignited in a blaze of flame and spinning gears, his eyes glowing with an eldritch light. He moved his hand; her body followed in a sickening mimicry. She swept her arm wide, and a cloud of burning cogs slashed through the air like shrapnel. Cheers of wonder became a cry of blood and death.

Eyes alight, his hands wove a pattern of death; his wife was the reaper, and the people her harvest. Cogs shredded the night air, sparing no one. He hunted them all until the last cry faded into the wind. As the final soul stilled, the fire in Kru’s eyes flickered out, leaving only a cold darkness.

Kru, son of Apto, forced his eyes open with trembling palms. The darkness was total, a force against his sight. He clutched his skull, nursing a rhythmic, violent throb. He reached out to steady himself, but the world dissolved. His stomach surged into his throat—a sickening heartbeat of freefall.

Pain lanced his shoulder, scratches rending his face as he hit the floor, bounced and rolled. He slammed flat on his back, his skull snapping on the ground, that headache now surging front to back. A splash of water, a biting cold in his hand. He desired to move, but the will to do so was gone.

His eyes were open, but he could not see. Lying on the ground, one hand tested the water, feeling its cold surface as it gave way to the stony floor. His other hand explored cracks in the earth. Their grit, their jagged bite. He giggled, then he laughed, for he knew this place. Home. Cell number 9.

He crawled the cell, checking, he had to be sure. This was the real world, not another construct of Jur. Satisfied, he lay against a wall and smiled, for a thought had slipped his mind. His magic had returned. No longer was he confined; no longer would he endure the darkness. He let his mind bloom.

The darkness would not subside. Kru’s hands shook, teeth clenched so hard blood seeped from his gums. Eyes darting from hand to hand. Slamming them together, again onto the ground. He pushed violently—but the magic would not ignite. He shrieked into the void, and the darkness answered with laughter.

Images flashed like lightning in his mind. Magic with a best friend; a friend turned lifelong love. Then the tower—Ava’s face, no, Aza. A flash to the square: people dying by his hand, no, his wife’s. The same face repeating. His love, his equal, his wife… “Ana.” Around him the darkness laughed.

Kru sat up and drank. The water was metallic, bitter. Starving, yet too broken to even search for the bread. “If you are Ana, why do you torture me? Your illusion was guile. I saw through it. That’s not how it happened.” He whispered, knowing that it was a lie. The darkness answered with silence.

His mind was void, and his body followed, wasting away. Hunger had been ‌constant for so long that it dulled into oblivion. The darkness hammered at him—crushing him, shattering his will, unmaking his soul. He wanted only to save his people from the evils they could not comprehend—and he had failed.