Some say the prison holds a ballroom. Not of stone, nor of time, but of the mind.

The music was strange and unending. Arcanists drifted through the ballroom in half-finished costumes: tattered gowns, bloodstained lace, masks of bone and broken glass. They danced with shadows. Whispered to absent partners. Laughed at jokes only they could hear.

They would not listen. They would not stop. And then, your eyes were drawn to the towering center of the hall.

There he stood. It was Aleph. No—the Idealist. No—the Doctor. No... it was all of them. One mind, three voices, bound in flesh, moving in rhythm with the broken waltz of this masquerade of the lost.

Before you could speak, before you could command order as the warden of this prison, the figure turned.

“Ah... Warden! You’ve come to our little ball. You see how splendid the night is... Tell me, do you come to join us, or to wake us?”

That was definitely the Idealist.