The corpse of the Eclipse King still floated between realities, his golden System-light bleeding into the void like a dying star. Lyra prodded the remains with her boot, her violet eyes reflecting the fading glow.
"They'll send more than Thronebound after this," she murmured.
I flexed my silver-veined hand—the one that had tasted the First Hunger. It ached in ways flesh shouldn't. "Let them."
The void trembled.
Not in fear.
In laughter.
A sound like shattering glass and screaming children echoed from everywhere and nowhere. Lyra went rigid.
"Oh no."
The stars went out.
One by one.
The Invitation
It arrived on a platter made from a folded universe.
A single slip of living parchment, its edges chewing themselves as it floated toward us. The words burned into reality itself:
YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED
TO THE
GRAND CORONATION
OF THE
LAST TRUE KING
Lyra's fingers dug into my arm. "Don't read it aloud. Don't even think the words too loudly."
Too late.
The parchment exploded into a swarm of winged teeth that circled us, chanting:
"Come come come come come—"
A doorway ripped open—a gash in reality lined with pulsating veins. Through it, I glimpsed:
A banquet hall larger than galaxies
Chained gods used as chandeliers
A throne of still-screaming heads
The Voice inside me growled:
"The King of Nothing. He remembers what was before the Makers."
The teeth-swarm dove at us—
—and the world flipped inside out.
The Feast of Forgotten Things
We fell through layers of unhistory—eras erased so thoroughly even the cosmos forgot them.
Lyra's scream fragmented: "Hold on to your—"
Then: impact.
Marble floors cold as entropy. Air thick with the perfume of dissolving timelines.
The banquet hall stretched infinitely in every direction. Tables groaned under dishes no sane mind could comprehend:
Black soup that wept in seven-dimensional anguish
Roast voidbeast, its many mouths still singing funeral dirges
Finger sandwiches made from the first sins of extinct civilizations
At the head table sat Him.
The Last True King.
His crown was a collapsed singularity. His robe, woven from the last breaths of dying universes. His face—
Don't look don't look don't look—
Lyra vomited silver blood. "Don't meet his eyes!"
Too late.
I looked.
And He smiled.
The First Course: Amuse-Bouche of the Damned
A creature of writhing light clapped its appendages.
"Guests! Our first course!"
The floor liquefied. A thousand hands dragged us toward the table—
—where our own heads already sat on silver platters, mouths moving in silent screams.
Lyra's eyes rolled back. "Nononono—"
I bit the hands.
Not with teeth. With the absence of teeth.
The Void Where My Bite Should Be.
The hands screamed and dissolved.
The King chuckled, a sound like planets colliding. "Ahhh... the Rulebreaker arrives."
The Second Course: Soup of Lost Causes
A tureen the size of a solar system descended. Within swirled:
Every choice I didn't make
Every path abandoned
Every "what if"
Lyra clawed at her face. "I see myself happy—why does that hurt?!"
The ladle moved toward us.
I seized it—and drank the concept of thirst instead.
The soup curdled. The tureen wept.
The King applauded. "Marvelous! Next course!"
The Main Course: Roast of the Prodigal Son
The platter unveiled me.
Not a copy. Not an illusion.
The me who accepted the throne.
Glistening with cosmic juices, an apple stuffed in my mouth, my hollow eyes pleading.
Lyra collapsed. "No no no—"
The King leaned forward. "Will you eat yourself, Rulebreaker?"
The other me whispered: "You were always meant to—"
I ate the plate.
Not the meal. The idea of the plate.
The banquet hall shrieked as geometry unraveled.
Dessert: A Single Frozen Tear
The King stood. Reality bowed.
In his palm floated a teardrop—the last one shed before the Makers remade existence.
"The prize," he crooned. "Swallow it, and unmake all they've built."
Lyra gasped. "It's a trap! That's how the First World died!"
The Voice inside me hesitated.
The King's smile widened. "Or... refuse. And be served as tomorrow's main course."
The tear pulsed with:
The first sunrise
The last sunset
The moment before the first death
I reached out—
—and ate the King's outstretched hand instead.
The Aftermath
The scream reshaped time.
The banquet hall folded inward, the King's roar chasing us through the unraveling:
"YOU'LL REGRET THIS, RULEBREAKER!"
We crashed back into the void, now missing pieces:
Lyra's left pinky finger never existed
My memories of the soup tasted blue
The Eclipse King's corpse now sang lullabies
Lyra trembled. "What... was that?"
I examined the new hole in my being where the King's hand had briefly resided.
"A warning," the Voice whispered.
Somewhere beyond existence, something older than gods stirred.
And it was hungry.
Epilogue: The Crumbs Left Behind
Three days later (or was it three eternities?), we found the crumbs:
A napkin with the King's crest—now a living thing that whispered treason
A fork that stabbed reality when left unattended
And...
A single teardrop-shaped seed.
Lyra paled. "We need to destroy it."
The Voice inside me disagreed.
I pocketed the seed.
"Not yet."