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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.

“Ava?” Kru croaked the words. “Is that you?” “No! Not Ava.” The darkness hissed back. Kru shook his head, digging his fingers into his brow, trying to focus his mind. Not Ava… but “Aza?” Laughter boomed through the cell, Kru clutched his ears curling up—the sound shaking his soul. “Foolish man.”

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.

He would have screamed, but lacked the strength. He longed for the final silent god, willed himself toward them—and failed. Instead, Kru waited, lost in darkness, for misery to consume him. A clunk at the door and a soft pat; it brushed against his fingers. Forgotten hope returned to Kru as bread.

The bread came like clockwork—Kru was sure. The chute clunked. A pat as the loaf hit the floor. Mere pittance to sustain him, but it was a wonder! Dough, a bit of greens, and a ghost of meat. He screamed at the guard; no answer ever returned. He loathed his own weakness. Never again. Never again.

He sat, ate, and pondered. This was surely just another of Jur’s tests, a puzzle he would master like all the rest. Unseen shadows stirred in the dark—wrapping, pressing, and driving him forward. Their whispers escaped his ears but reached his soul: “Your time will come.” They laughed and laughed.

The shadows whispering to his soul surged, expanding, clawing past his sanity to assault his mind. “Why do you haunt me? Release my bindings. I can still save us. Jur will kill us.” Kru shouted, his words rising. "Return my magic!" “Fool,” the dark spat back. “Nothing blocks you. Save yourself!”

The darkness yielded no secrets. Kru paced, stamping his feet and hammering the walls. He scoured every inch—again. Nothing. "Enough! Help me!" "Oh, Kru the mighty," whispers stung his ears. "The intellect. The willpower. The fool. For all your might, did you ever think to simply try the door?"

He stared at the door in the dark—time lost all meaning. No sound of guards or food dropping. He strained his eyes, hoping to see—it wasn’t necessary. He knew every seam and crack, where the grain was smooth and where it was rough. Minutes or days might have passed before Kru finally pushed forward.

A deep creak that rattled his ears. A light that started like a flame and then blinded him like the sun grew before him. Tentative steps pushed him forward, hands shielding his face, eyes peeking out between his fingers. The light faded, and shadows formed into shapes. He didn't recognize any of it.

He remembered dim halls and cold, dingy stone. The staircase was gone. In its place: marbled floors and whitewashed walls, 40 feet wide and 100 feet high. No torches remained, yet the space pulsed with its own pale interior light. “More illusion,” he mumbled. “More reality,” a whisper shot back.