Infected, blistered, warped. My skin was bubbling with sickly yellow boils that burst and oozed. I pulled away, clawing at my arms like I could erase the sickness.
“You’re no daughter of mine,” the illusion snarled. “I didn’t raise you to be a whore!”
The words hit like a backhand across the soul.
That…that wasn’t him.
My father never—never—spoke to me like that.
He never raised his voice. Never used cruelty. Not even when I broke the Reaper code to help someone.
My heart thundered as a memory broke through the fog.
Two hellhounds. Running. Guiding me.
The room.
The cursed room I’d entered…The door that locked behind me. The green light. The dread. The whispers.
“The room,” I gasped, heart racing. “Or what’s in it.”
I extended my arm and summoned my sword. It appeared instantly, solid and familiar, and I gripped it like a lifeline.
The sadness came hard and fast.
Of course he would use Dad. Of all the things to shatter me, the monster chose the one figure I couldn’t bear to question.
My sword trembled in my hands.
I should feel hatred. Instead…there was grief.
Still, I let the grief burn into something sharper. Rage seared through me, cleansing, purifying.
I wouldn’t beg for truth.
I’d carve it from the walls if I had to.
“How dare you defile my father’s image,” I spat.
Dad’s—no, the creature’s—eyes flashed a sick yellow. Its head jerked to the side, sensing something I couldn’t.
That confirmed it.
It wasn’t him.
Never had been.
“I’ll tear you to pieces for this.”
Dad’s eyes flashed, and then his head snapped to the left.
I braced myself, ready to lunge, to strike, to scream—
Only I never got a chance to charge.
The ballroom shattered like glass under pressure, disappearing with a single blink. Warm light turned cold. The floors beneath me twisted, folding into cracked black stone. The world reverted to the green-tinged chamber from before—the room that breathed dread into my bones. The illusion evaporated as if it had never been real at all.
Dad was gone.
