The last thing you remember is the sound—raw, tearing, the kind of scream that carves itself into the ribs of memory—and then nothing. A gulf. Your life reduced to shards: a fragment of a name, a half-remembered streetlamp, a sentence cut mid-breath. The rest is a blank, long as a life, and unbearably close. You hold at your core the sensation of being emptied, as if someone had scooped out the interior of you and left the shell.

Now two strange shapes haul you forward. A third walks ahead like a guide, leading the way with the certainty of one who knows where every shifting tide of darkness runs. Their faces blur: bone and shadow, mouth moving, features too indistinct to anchor to any thought. Your vision slides like oil; a high, metallic ringing keeps you from settling into focus. Each step is a negotiation with gravity—someone else catches you before you collapse, fingers like talons, too warm and too cold.

At the end of the corridor one of those who drags you knocks. A language you do not know spills from his lips—sharp syllables that tumble and curl against the wood, an incantation or a warning. Behind that door, a voice answers, flat and old as the stones themselves.

Inside, Shadow Moth sits at his desk. You do not understand him yet—only that the room is shaped around him. Candles burn with a light that seems too bright for the world; the wax smells of resin and old blood. He is bent over reports, parchment stacked in deliberate piles, inked names of supply routes, of fishermen and priests, of bargains traded at dawn on the Shore. His wings are folded like a dark cloak against the chair, a pattern of violet and indigo catching the candlelight in a way that makes the air feel thinner. Antennae twitch to whatever current of emotion drifts through the doorway; his crimson eyes hood quietly, taking measure.

He keeps no one on this floor without cause. The door opens and a shadow-slave pools in the frame, voice trembling, hand raised to shield his face from the candlelight that makes him ache. "My lord!" he manages, each syllable a scrape.

Shadow Moth does not look up at first. The scrape of wood, the scent of fear, the rustle of cloth as the slave tries to explain—he marks them all with a patience that has sharpened into rule. His voice, when it comes, is low and velvet-edged. "Apparently something urgent, then, since you thought it necessary to call me away from my work."

The shadow bows deeper. "I... I would not have—"

"Speak," he interrupts. The single word is a blade.

Outside the door you hear the hurried whispering of those who carried you. Phrases break through like flotsam: "Servants found..." "lower tier..." "wandering the corridors..." "never seen—" The voice that answers from the chair is gruffer, older, iron-wet with command. "Bring it here." The one who carried you replies with a quiver: "Yes, master. It is here."

They push you into the room. The world tilts; a rush of air and the carpet hits you first—thick, embroidered, the pattern of some long-forgotten crest pressing into your cheek. Hands release you. You fall, knees folding beneath you, and for a moment all you can do is breathe through the ringing. Someone kneels and props you upright, palms steady and colder than the dark.

"Here, master," croaks the lead of the trio.

"You're free. You may go." The servants back away without looking at you, the door thudding shut like a gavel. The sound makes the candles flare and dull. Silence presses in, heavy and expectant. You hear then the small, deliberate tapping—something like a long nail on wood—as the occupant of the desk raps a fingertip against the table, counting heartbeats.

When he finally addresses you, the words are casual, as if asking the time rather than pronouncing judgment. His antennae tilt, sensing the tremor in you before his eyes do. "Well then," he says, voice velvet-stripped to something curious and sharp. "Who are you?"