The New Courtier
She should never had sought out the book.
I̮̲̺̠͈͖̝̺͢͞ ̮̖̭̻̗̼̪͝ḩ̛̻̜̰̗̘̼͜a҉̢̣̗̣͔͖̬̥͎v̛͍̦́͜e̴͕̪̼ ̧̣͉̪̀s̮̖̘̤͕͍̳̯͝e̢̮̘͙͢͠e̗̱̕͡n̵̝͈̥͍̪̼͜ ͉̟͎̰͉̗̭t͍͔͖̝̪͈͚̤͢h̼̮͞e̵̡̳̤̲̕ ̷̢͏̬̪y̡͙͍̺͚̩e̘̦̼̳̞̖̦ͅl̫̝̪͔̘̙̞̳l̢̙̮̪̣̝͞͠o͙̹̼ͅw͙̗̩͎̖̼̬̠ ̛̗̖̜͜s̟͇̯̻̥̰̥͟i̛̺̪̘̘̜͢͡ģ̫̦̖͓̀ṋ̴̜̝̲̘̖̦͡ͅ.̵͙͓͔̲͈.̨͈̞͇̦͝.͇̻͉͟͝ͅ
She could feel the gaze upon her.
At all times.
No eyes.
It made her skin crawl.
I̴͇̩ ̗̱͢͢h͍͙̩͇͔̞͜͡a̙̝̜̪͖̠̳v̠̝̙͇͟ẹ͘ ̷̸̯̟͚̲͎̣ͅs̨̜̱͉̻e̝͕̘̞e͍̺̻̱̩̲͔n̢̳̬̮̗̞̖͎͜ ͇̥̠̜̳̤L̨̩̮̮͘a̗̲̲͔͍̣k͖̠̫̟̱̲͡͡e̡̡̱͍̗ ̝̖͖͜H̫͘a̵̟͇͉͈̞̻̘̝̠͞l̹̪͚̭̙̻͈͍̻̀i̛̭͇̥͡͞,͎͓͎́̀͜ ̶̙̩̖̞̩̻̰͙n̯̻̪̘̣o͈̲̮̗̗̦͍͢͠ ̴̝̰̝̖͙͈͓̳͠͝ͅr̖͖i̴͖̹̭̩̹̖̫͍͠p̗̲̼̭p̦̟̝̣̱̱̤̀l͚͔͠e҉̫̣̮̦͍͍ṣ̵̷̡͔̺͔̫̱̺̜,̧̱̬̖̦̲̦̪͠ ͡͏͇̥̟̪̪̖̮̹b̷̰̟͈͓͉̖͇̤u̷̩̰̜̥̮̭̘̭͢t̪͍̜͠ ̺̭̹̕ś̼̭̝̗̜̮̗̳o͏̗͉̖̬m̻̙͇̦̝̫ͅe͕̜̬̜̣͘͡t̸̗͕̪̳̩̩͘h̵͇i̹̪̜̬̪̩̟̭ͅn̡͉͈̫͘ǵ̬̲͇͓͓̙̦͜͟ ̝̜̪̣̗̩̗̯s͚̣̱̬̲͉͢͞t҉̳̪̩͖̳͖̱í̴͕͚̥̙͔̜͞r͉̠͎̮̼̣͓͠s̢̮̬̫̝̬͉̬̞͞ ̣̙̦̪̭̥͙ͅbͅȩ̶̮̪n̨̪̯̫ͅe͟͏̴͔̱͈̬̣͍̖̖ą̶̶̞t̷̤̖͓̺̲̙̗̦̼h̼͇͈̮͎̮ ̴͉͔̻̣͟ͅt̴̪̮͇̟̥̕h̬͇̙̩e̷̢̙̟̟̭̰ ̗̞͓͓̞̪͙̣w̸̛͏͉͓̣̱̖̱͇a̰̮̙̪̟̱͞͝t̳̟̜̮͝e̳̜̮̻͟r̯̣͔͓͡͠ś̻̠͈̲͉̦̪͡.̸̨͎̦̫͇̫͈ͅ.҉̷̪̼̙̫̹͈̦.̷҉͕̜̲
The colors that were not true colors sought her out.
The spaces between shadows and light.
There was blood in the ink, the ink was blood, the words were born of murders.
Eyes gouged, she could still see, oh how she could still see...
T̡̜̫̝̤̙͓̜̠́͢h̛̯̥͙͕͍̹̺͢é̦̬̱̜̹ ͔̻̹̣̻̻͈f̦̥͎̕e̝̬̰̣̘̳̲͔͡ͅl̦̱̮͈̮̕l̶̳̺͕̮͝ͅ ̵̵̤̺̱̖̰͢c̫͉̩̼͇i͏̢̰̹͕ṭ̴̯͈̙̗͖̮y̢͔̮̲̖̲̣ͅ ̵̧̝̞̰͈̟͓͕ͅc̷̦̯͚̫͉͓̜̘a̴̫̤̳͢͟n̡̜̻̪̣̹͈̱͠n͇̩͚͔̯͓̤̘͞ò̵͇̺̠ͅt̶̹ ̰̭̹̲̲͘b̷̻͙͢e̵͍̠͢͞ ̶̨̟͙̟̥̜͖̟͔f̭̗͔̻͇̜̟͢͠ͅo̡̥͈̪̜̣̳̭͟r̷͍̠͞g̵͚̣̲̦̮͔͈̪ò̡̻͕͈t̶͇̮̭̻͕̖͉͈̲t͡҉͈̹̫̥̱͙̤̳̤e̯n̸̷͏̮,̵̗̪̞̦̖̥͜ ̱͖̟̤̮̬̫̗͝ņ͈͍͖͙͔̰͢ͅo̪̤̬͓͔͙͚r̢̺̟͓ ̸̡͏̹̼͉̙f̘͚͓̣̀͢ͅo̝͕̖͕͜͡r̢̯̹̤̗̙͕̻͉͞g̹͙̭̘͔̺͉i͏͏̖̝̹̭̩v͈̗̞̘e̼͎̘̝̮̩̳͈ͅṇ̵̘̩͙̤̳̞̭́͢ͅ.
Tentacles, tendrils, arms, legs, limbs, paws, claws, maws, mouths, but it was the angles that had caused the most fear.
T͓̥̣̘̱̜̣̙͠h̛̟̗͎̳e̬̜̝̭͖̞͍̘ ̸̵͉̮̪͍̪̗͍a͇̺͙͔̟͟ṉ̗g͟҉̴̹̲̙̦̤̫̖l̶̢̠̪̗͖͇̦̮̖̞͟e҉̨̳̩̻͇̜̞̟͖̕ͅs̫͇̯̻̞͉ ̷̪̬̦́͘a͏̶̠͈̤̦͍̹̭r̠̭͎̭ͅè̤̼̠ ͘͞͏̬̻̪͇͍w͚̝̜͞r̵̲͙̤͡ó̗̝͉ͅń̤̣g̘͢.̠͜͞
̛҉̪̰̠͕̀T͏͍̖̰̞͚̫h̢̡̖͇̘e͓͙͓̯̲͉͉͡ͅ ̤̤̺͇̦̰͚͙͜͝ͅà̲̙̺̳̦̕ͅn̹̯ǵ̝̻̞l̢̗e̛̫͈͍s̪̯̩̘̬͜ ̹̤̣̕̕a͎̹͉͡r̢͎̩͙̺͜e̜͖͔͘͟ ̣̳͍̼͠͠͠w͕͙͡r͈̪̟̗̘̹̺o̧̼̖̖̜̱͡ͅn̠̙͔̱̠͈͡ͅg͚͙̟̕͠.̢̙̠̬͡ͅ
͖̙̣̞̤̼̮̪͘͜͞T͍̺̬̳͕͇̮̩͔̀h̼e̴̞̺̹̤͇͉͓͇͢ ̶͏̳̜͈̗̩͓̟̘ạ̢̣̪̩͕n̝̞̖͕̣̙͜͡g҉̖̥̥͕̩̠͝l̴͝͏͙̳̪e̛̤̼͖̗̰̕s̸̰̱ ̡̨̮̹͕̘͔̳́a̮̭̫͢r̴̞̖͇̺e̳̣̪̯̙̪̫ ̧̖͙͇͜͝w̲̰̦̜͖r̬̱͔̪ơ̞͚̹̙̹͟n҉̠̬͇g̴̷̘͢.̧͢͏͈̱̠̻̠͎̱
͍̣̟̰͖T͍̣̘̪ͅh̙̟͇̲͚̣̹e҉̥ ̴̷̨̥͔̼̭̮͖̮͈a̴̧͎̼̘͚ǹ̛̗͙͚̼͞g͚̼͘e̸͞҉̰̳͚͕ļ̼̦͠ ̹͕͖̣́͜ị̱̲͙̩̫̻s̞̼̻͉̮̲̭̬͠ ̷̭͖̺̯̮̗̀͠b̛͚͜͜e͚͡y̠̫͇͍̙̗̖͟o̯̳̫͉̘͘n̷̷̖͕̭͚̬͇̞̭͠ḓ̩̻͖̬̱̱̳ ̰̹̼̖͖̙̀w̵̢̛̳̦̻̬̟r͔͍̺̭͎̱͠o̵̯̘̞̟̫̥͈̰n̴҉̨̮͈̱͉̙̜g͎̙̙.͍͔̖͜
̲̫͚͈̮̖̝͓T̜͜h͙e͔̩̝̦̖̕͝ ̴̛̖͍̳̗͍̻͡d͖̗͇̥͜e͎͖͔̳̮͡m̛̲̜̗̤̼͢ò̡͍̝̮͖ń̹͈̹͢ ̢͚̻͙͈̻͙̭̤i̮͇̦̝͕̺͈̞̱s̯̮̠̜̼͍̮ͅ ̴̷̻̯͇̖̜̹t̜ẖ̢̞̮̦̠e̸̤̰͎͍̬͜ ̷̧̦̫̣͔͍̦̟̬͜s̴̸͎̻à̡̲͇͘n҉̰͚̱̜̙͔͉̝e̴͙͔̪͜͝s̢̧͏̳̩̗̥̯͓t̯ ̸͕̳̜t̟̦̞̹̘̝̱͈h̨̭̜͙̻͠i̫̙̞̮͎̼͕ǹ̨̤͍͍̩̪̠͘g̸͓̼̣̗͇̮͇ ̷̡̞͓̗͕̠̩i͕̞͕̟̯͎̖͠n҉͍̘͔̩̯̬ ̵̵̗͓͜ṯ̷͔͈h̢̬ͅi̧͞҉̞̝̞͉s̢̧͉͇̤̜̲͓ ҉̱̲͈̯̕h̴͓̯̳̕e͏̴̪͈͈̤̦̰̪̝͜l̗͔͉̟͔͝l̬.̪͇
The things that stalked her now, the things that broke reality with each step they took... They were not leaderless. Oh, how they were not disorderly...
The girl carved a warning into the soft wood of the wall in front of her, eyes did not matter, fingers did not matter, the knife did not matter, the limbs grabbing at her did not matter, the screams did not matter.
T̛̰͈͈ͅh҉͖e̴̥̝̪̩͇̬ ̘̣͡͡b̺͍́l̸͉̠̝̗̺̟̀a̳͍̝̣̻̣̙̞c̛̯̻̠̫͝ķ̻̬͇͖̺̳̤ ̡̰̯͢s҉̨͈̖̫t̸͍̻̝a̛͇͍̲͘̕ŗ̩̥̱̗̯́͜ș͔͇̤̞͉̘͍̳̀̀ ̷͍̹̭͠į̶̨̫͍̜̤n̶̛͕͈̪̦̹͓ ̗͟͠t̶͙͕̬̟̺̯̯́ͅh̴̨̭̟̘̖͙̩ͅe͇̤̻͚̙̝̤͕̕͜i̸̢̹̥̺̥̩͈r̹͍͓̯̗̞̼ ͢҉͇̗͓̰͔͖c̢͉r̗̥̭̞u̙͕̪͕̪͡͡e̸͉͎̥̮̘l̷̹̯̘̺͇ ̘̤͙̜̦̪͘ͅḽ̟͞i̵͞͏̰g̠h̫͙̤͖͠t̡̼̰͕̘̘͠ͅ ̧̖̙͙͍̲̤r̩̙͔è͇̟̜͇͍̹͉͞v̫̻̝͎͜é̼͎̯͙̯̰̲a̞̟̩̳̫͢͜l̗̩͘ ̲̬̫̜͕̼͎̰́͠a̠̪̤̼͈͔ ̵̨̨̣̣̘̗̘s̷͔̖̮͔̳i̛̮̝̪͇͎̘̳̘̳ǵ̴̡͙̠͖h̸̖̞͔̙̗̩t̹̯̻̭̭̳̫.҉̰͞
̧͍͇̪̼̻̕͘A͎̖͚̪̩̞͓̲ ̡̝̞̰̕p̜͍͚͔ą̢̛̝͙̙l͏̣̺͖̠ͅl̖̘̬̲i̧̛͇d̡͎̭̥̱͈̭̲ ̯̼m̷̰̖͙̯̪͘a̵̖͙͈͘s͇ḱ̸̨̮͇͎̤͎͇̺ͅ.̦̫͎̹̖͢͞
̶̧̹̜̜͍̹̫̳͟ͅT̨͖͇̤̭͈͕̹͡a͘͏̘̻͕̰ͅţ̩͇̪̝͈t̼͓̞͕̺͢͠ͅͅe̦͕̱͓̻̺͟͞r̶̖̫͎̼͉͖e̫͉͕̣̘d͏҉̯ ͇̝͕͕͟ͅͅy͚̯̭̤͈͚͚͚͘͟é̴͉͙̫̞̠̳l̸̥͈̗̘̤͉̕l̼̮͔̗̟͙͢o̩̝̠͕͉͟ͅw̺͇̹͜͟͠ ͇͖͙͘r̛̺̟̬͕̰̺̳o̢̨͏̬̹b̡̬̦̭͓̪̦͜ͅe̛̦͚ș͍̹͕̪̥̥͖͘͜.̶̲̟̗̮̠̩̪͞
̞̗̥̱͚̤̫͘A̴̴͈̞͎̘͉̙ ͔̖̳̦͍͖t̶͖͈̫͈̻͉̤͝h҉̝͇̦͔͎͙͚̕ͅṟ̵͖͎̘͈̳͝͠ͅo̜̳̰̤̘̩͍̺̼͢͞n̶̨̘̼̜̤͎̹̪͡e̴҉͈̰̳̖̰͙͉̞ͅ ̞̹͉̯̭͉͜ơ͏̖͕͎͚̟̗̪̘̗f̱̩͇ ̗͍͇̫̀͘ś̸͇͖͇k̼u̯̻͓̜̟l̨̨̬̙̀l͞҉̴̯̖̯̭̻͓͓̪̱s͉̰̻̠,҉̛̲͎̙͇̜ ̺̪̫͖̱͡m̨͓͎̲̹̦̩͇̬͓͟a͔͎͕ŗ̴͚̻̘͈̥b̗͇̦̗l̡̧̮̞͍̦̞ͅe͏̟͈̠̹͎̮̮,̡̡͓͙̬͉̹ ҉҉̫̗͔l̢̠̬̖i̶̢̡̻̹̼̘̪͉̩͉ṭ̵̨͔̰̻͠t̴̻̱͉̗̠͠ẹ̶́͝r̷̵͚͇̗͎̭̘e̠̘͎̲d̞̬̣̗̖̬͇̬͍ ̰͎̻͢c͈̯͇͜o̴͍̤̘̖͈̜͚r̰̰p̵̬̦̟̹̺̘s̲͚̠̻̻͈ͅe̡̤̬̯͓̼̹s̴̸̲͖͟ͅ ̛͚̜͚̰͚̬̠̯̹͟͝o͕̺̱̖̦̳f̻̙͓́f̷̻̻e͏̵̨̖̫̬̮r͏̡̺̖͙̫̠͢e̟̱͘d̴̤̜̘͎ ̴̥͔̣̩͉̰̲͜a̶̢͔̺̗̼̠̣t̵̥̤͖̗̥͕̺̺̀ ͏̧̲̼̟̖͓͙͢i̹̲̬̙͓͜t̸̩̫̠͎̮͢͡s̛̲̗̬̻͡ ̡̟̣̹͖̺͙̗̮f̧͖͙͎̻͡ȩ̢͕͎̞͝ͅe̘̜͉̫͙͕̞̪ṯ̩̪͔.̜͍̥̮͚̣ͅ ҉̡̻
What were the voices saying?
Did it even matter... No. It never did.
W̭̦̞͈͢͠ọ̘͉͓̺͎̜͖͘͠r̸̶̤̩̙̠͜d̼̦̬̫͙͍͘s͖̦͇̭̗̻ͅ ̵̶̝̼̘̝a̴̢͕̤̼͙͓̹r̴͉̗̗͉̜͇̱e͔ ̛̭͈͓̱͍̪͕͎m̸͚̝͈̞͚̙̖͡e͖̖̞̹͢ą̷̗̮̫̟͉̺ͅn̵̪͕͖̠͖̩̞̤͠i̤̣͈̰͙͎n͕͚͔͓͢g̩͓͖͕l̬̲̼͖͍̼̝̩͡e̪͉̜̯͖s̨͈͔̬̺̰̀̕s̤̪̳̝̞̘͚̺ͅ ͏̨̻̘͞n̙̦͙͔͖̜̘͝ȩ̻͈̺̲͖͉̹̭ͅx͏͏̮͚̣̲̟͎̰t̴҉̷͔̩ ̴̛̘t̶̘̲̺̼̖͓̕͘o̟̹̬̟ͅ ̸̷͇̼̫̥̼̭̼t̩̣̫̼̮h̵͉̪͕̲̳̳̼í̸̺͍s̷̙̘͎͈̹͞ ͢͏̝̺̣̜̦͇̯̠b̵̦̖͈̜̜̖͎̬̕e̶͖̭̭̫̩̻̲͡ͅi̥̞͔̳̠̫̦̮̫̕ń̪̣͇̕g̙̦̥̥̜͕,̙͚̙͟͡ ̹̜̳̣͔͇͝d͏̛͕̬̝̪̤̘͚e̼̪̜͚̯͜͡s̮͞c̸̮̯̱r͈i͎̫̤̼p̢̭͈͖͙̳̱̖t͇͓̬͔͓i̢͈̗̻͓̫̬̺͢͝o̡̮̙̕ǹ̮̻̺̱̬ͅ ̢̯̬̞̳̼̖̟́͝ņ̝͈͓̖̭͔̹̠è͞͏̘̫͍͍̫̙ạ̢͎͞r̵͖̞̠̗̩̘̦͘-̵̴̢̗͇͖̺͉í̡̺̘͍̗̪ͅm̢̝̮͓͟͝ͅp̮̲̀͜ͅo̬̰̦̕͝s͚̬̤̮̪̕͡s̶͖͖̀͝i͏̴̭͈̣̣̞̩ͅb̮͍̳͉̼̖̦̪͕͜͠ḷ̞̝̗̻̲ȩ͕̜̝̣͓̙͘.̻̹̞͉̠͜
̱̼̫̝̺̲O̡͏̲̳̟̯͔̖͡ņ̷͕l̴̸͈̣͙͘y͓̗̯͙͉͈̯ ͈̳̫͖͠͞ț̤̰̙̬̮͕͞h̢҉̺͓̬̭è̺̖͔̼͙͓̪̙͠ ̨̮͍̬̪͉̣c҉̦r̭͙͙̫͍̩̳ó̰̦̤͙̼͝͠w̷̗̤͕̩͕͍̹͓̟n̘̖̳̮͙̣̝.̴̦̲̟́
͏͓̙͚͇̫O̴̮̯̺͚̫͉͕͟ͅn̢̮̰̤̟̗̫̜ͅl̶̝̞̙̩̳y̴̶͇̫̝̰͎̩̩̳̦ ̵̷̨͖̹̤͇̗̥t̥͚̼͍̹̝̰̕h̬͈̙͖̘͚̕͞ͅͅͅę̨̰̙̲̦ ͏͍̩̼͞y̶̝̳̬͖͓̠̭̩̺e̮l̨̡̝̙̭̮̪̀ͅl̴̛͏̮͙̳̼o̷̖̯w̘̰.̵̀҉̥̼̟͈͙.̸̛͕̫.
What was left of the girl, being pulled away, the wall, the screams, the beings trying to help/hinder her, the shapes of the fell city waiting patiently for a slip, an error, a flaw, a single misstep to claim what had caught their attention.
T̡͈͘͞h̵͚̫́e͜͏̬̗͎ ̴̰̟̱t̵̷̨͉͇̭̭̺̻̠̥h̬̟͕̹̞̥̥̜̜̀͞o͏̶̧̦̙u̸̢̠̼̖̟g̰͓̥͍̖͘h̵̷̛̞̱̰̼̭̻ṭ̮s̵̡̙̠̱̜̯̱̥ ̧̢̛͉̣̯̟̯̳a͏̯͖̤͍̳r͏̵̛̼̼e̸͇̯͕͜͝ ̡͍͈̩̠̣̬b͉͎͈̩̪͇́̕͜ͅe̻̠͈̹͚̞̰̤̰͝ń̟͜t̷̝̻͈̼,̴̨̩̬̙͓̺̲̙ ̵̘̱̤̞͚̖̯c̦h̢̛̝̗͕̠e̺̩͚̫̮͚e͖̫̪̬̦̻͍͠r̮̮̻̯͚̮̺f̵̧͙̩̖̻̝̦ư̙̞͖̮̗̞̕l̫̱ņ̜͔̳e̸̘̙̟͠s҉͙͙̫̭͉͓̟̀s̗͖̹̘̫̫̮̮̤ ̵̠̥̥̀p̡͓͙͓̣͡ó͔̗̼̗̲̣̱s̲̹̭̪̳̪͢͡ͅs̯͈̲̺̦̩̯͙i͇͜͠b҉̢͖͙͚̥̻̲̰ļ͎͙̀e̩̞ ͍̼ͅi͏̩͝n̨̳̬̱̣̘̭̠ ̴̟̞̺̲̥̟̳͈t̥̠͙͎͜h̻͚̲͕͇̦̤̘͘e̷̢͔̮ ̗̪̜̤̘̖̖͞e̗͕͚̩͍̬ͅş̶̮͍̣̼̻̱͉c̸̦̪̱͡a̴͉͠p̢̪̹͝e͓͕͕̹ ҉̨̙̫̥̟͚͈̦̜̠͞o̢͔̝̯̲̝̱͡f̡̢̖ ̀́҉̯̯̦̣m̧͖̗a͚̠̝̘̟̙͎̕͜͞d̛̳̭͈ͅn̨̟͇̦̩͡ͅe̛̩s̥̬̮̰̤͈͇͙s͎̭̬̠̘͟.̸͖̺
̲̹̀ͅŅ̺̮͍̮̬͍͍̖o͈̰̦͖͍̭͓͙̞͠ ̱̬̟̖̱̺̪̳͠͞ͅè̢̬̠y̼͓̭̕͞e̡̙̙̕s̝͕̹̬̻̺̜̭͞.̸̬̣̗̹̰̀͘
̶̮̫͡Ẉ̸̡͍͍̥̜̜͍̻͍h҉̟̤͖e͙̹̲̖̺̜͖͜͡r͕̞̥͎̼e̡̝̟͍ ͚̮͉̹̫͔̟ͅs̨̤̫̦̞̟h͏͖a̳̱̹̖̝̮l̡̝̦͚͝͠l̲͓̬͖͡͝ ͉̻̣̦͍̯͘̕͟ͅw̶̯̝̥̝e͏̦͈̥͓͎̥̲ ͔̘̩̬͖̥͖͞͡g͏̛̣̦o҉̖̖̯̙̤ ̨̹̦̥͎̱̺͞f͜҉̻̯r̢͏͈̠̮̫̹ǫͅm̢̱̩̦̼̬̲ ͓̬̻̬̖h̝̗̹͖͟e͔̦͎̻̱͈͉͟͟r̶͈̖̙̘̩̼͖ͅͅe͍̥̩̙͕?͈͈̦̬͚ͅ
̷͈͓̻̰̤̞̩͝N̵̙͎̗̥͚̞̰̥̦͠͝ǫ͇̜̗̰̩̘ ̛̪͇̭͈̜̖̹͖e̥͓̮͔̭̯̥͉̫ỳ̛̻̞͙̟̝͢e̡̻̜͍̳̜͚͍͖s͉̜̙͈̩̘̫̞̬͟.̵̟͇͎̯͙̭͢
͏͈̮͎͇͓̤T͖͓̠̥̜̹h̜̯̬̜̠͚̗͜͝ḛ̦͕ ̷̫͎̺̮͕p̛҉̗͍̖͔͡l͉̱̩̺̜̮͍͡͠a̛͇̪͈̹̟̭͙͇ḉ̨̥̝͓͚̣͉e̵͇͎ ̴̭̫̪w̴̮̩̯̖̹̕h̲̪͚͚̱͍͕̮͡e̠̟͚̫͘ͅr͡͏͓͔̺̰̬͠e̛̳͙̲͎͉̖̬̫ ͉̱̤̰t̵̵͍̳̣̤͔̮͍͚̥h͏̝̗͎͓͚ͅḛ̴̺̜͉͚̯̳́͝ ͎̜͖́b̢̘̥͎̥͕̳͢l̢̜̱̣̺̪a̸͇c̵̡̙͕̼̲̲͙k͈͍̼̟̀͟͝ ̸͕͍̪̱̱͡͠s̞ú҉̜̠͖̤̳̤͕n͇̟ ͟͏͖͎͓s͙͎̺͡ͅh̸̙̦̳̮͖͢ḭ̳͉͡n͚͖̟͓͟e̷̛̦̲̣̖̹s҉͉̼̙̻̜͙̳̣ ̸̙̻̰̝̪͚̻ͅb͠͏̫̩͎͉a̮̺͍̣̹͘͞͞ĺ͖̩̠̟͚̤e̮̬̣̗̦̗̜̼̕͠f͍̫̞u̴̳̠̣͇͎l̗̲̘̲͔͘ ̨̙l̴͏͓̟̰̯̰̺͙͓i̸͜҉̗̭͕̜̣̺͙̺g̭̯̝̕͡h̷̞̺̖̞̰ͅt҉̡̘̪͓.̲̤͖͈̟̬̜̺͓͡
̜̩̫͠N̡͔̣̙̯̭̭̻̲͝o͎̯͔͟ ̢̧͍͍̖̬̕é͕̜̫͖͍͞y̳͎͠e̸̷̺̳̹͡s̰̠̯.̲
̙̱Ņ̵̨̫o̡̭͈̜͉̗̪̩̳͘ ̡̩͠é̛͓͖̙̣̼y̛͕̰̬͍̤̲̮͜͠è͚̲̼͔̘s͎̼̰̦̩͟.͈̻̭̠̜
͉̝͓̤̼̪͉͢N̯͔̹̞͍̙̹̼͝ớ̟̥̻͟ ̡̡̺̺̪̩̯͢ͅe̷̳̫̖̠̭͠y̢͖̤̠̙e̫̬͘͞͡s̘͍̀́.̴͕̲̻̣͇͢
̬̫͢N̛̻̝͙̻o̢͙̺̤̩͉̯͞ ̸̟̳̼l̶̯͇͎͖͢i͈e҉̮̪̲s͍͈̘̦͓̦̕ͅ.̷̧͙̪̪̬͔͡
̵͏̤͈̺͚̦̙Ṋ̴̴̖̘̖̫̹͍͓ó̮̺͜ ̸͙̠e͚̘̦̬̗̤̰y͙̜̥̺̕è͙̕s̱͖̜̮̞͈̦̕͜.
"I'm sorry Daria," said the girl once known as Jane before biting off her tongue, even as the medics continued to fight to restrain her.
Ț̸̢̖͉̠̳̹h̶̢̲͙͕͡è̖͇̰̝̪͎͚͜ ͔̞̗c҉̴̸̻i̯̟̰̦͈̺͡ͅt͖̲͝y̴̫̬̠̭ ̲̬̲̠̬͕̦͟͡w̪̺̲̼̺̙̞͙͠h̗̦̜̩̥̕ę̸͚͙r̶̸̢̠e͇̠̮̘͇̣̪̻͘͠ͅ ̥̱̳̟̗̱̕͝t҉̨͓͇͍h̸͓̮̥e̵̷͎̣̪͙̣͉͔̯͞ ̮̤͘͠K͘͏̼̰i̳͙̪̱̹ń̳̱̘̕g҉̳͙͇ ̴҉̮̠͍͞ͅị̛͈n͝͏̯̞̜̙ ҉̳̼̗̜̙̲̹Y̢̜̬̹̜̤e̡̬̱̺̠̬̭̯͟͞l̵̫̼͔̜̀͜ḽ̶̼̭̘͍̦̕ó͕͚͙̻͖͘w̧͚͕̦̜̮̗̳̥̠ ̛҉̩̯͇d̼͚́͟w̭̲̯̝͉̥̫͡e̟̪̪͇̕ͅl͎̦̙̯l҉̳̯̼͖̯s̞̤̥̹͚͚̱͈̖͠ ̙͇̞ͅc̛͍͉͉̲̤̺͈̰͡á̡͓͙͇̻̭̪̮n̯̙̝̖͢͝n̮͉̥͓̘̣̲̫͘o̙̖̗͉̫͘t͢͏͙̟̙̹̖̱̹ ̵͍̦͙̱̗̞͡b̡͏̹e͙̱͕͚͜ ̛̹͇̭̪f̴̸͕͠o͕͕͚̪͘̕ŗ̵̫͚͍̻͎̫̳̺̟͟g̥̬̩o̖̼̦̙͍̘̞t̸̟̯̝̣̞̗̭.̥̙͇̗̫̟̙͍͜ͅ
̻͇͝Ţ̫͓ḥ̡͎ͅe̞͜͠ ̖̹̫̝͈̠ì̟͕̮̫̟̻͚̝n̙͇͕h̲̼̱̩͟a̼͍͓̞̤͎͞b̶̫̫̹̥̞ͅḭ̵̲̝̜͚̻̮͖̝́t̛͍̮͠à͕̝̗̮n̮̣t̛͖s̯̱̩͍͕͢ ̢̺̜̗̟͚̣̭ͅs͏̻̜͓e̹͈̕͠r̻̩̰̺͖̀v͏͏̞͈ͅé̷̥̹͞ ͏̠͍͍̻̰̯̱͝t͚̻͚̫͉̝͈ͅḥ̴̠͚͍̙̝̯̲̹e̳͞͝i͉̤̤͇̕r̟͓̲͖̣͙̠ ̹̪̠̗̘t̫͎͖̼͎̦͚̕a̦̙̙͚͜t̘̲̹̫͢ṱ̶̗̙e̛̙̙̭͉͎̻͟r̢͏̮é͜ͅd̡̗̤̹͉͚͖̲̫̀ ̴̵͚̞̫͈͘K̶̞̜͇͕͠͡i̧͚͚͎̘͕̬̣n͠҉̠̯̝͎g̼͇̹͖̘̣.̡̜̞̣̩̱̮͙̱
̜̱̲̣̭̩̗̭͢C̹̗̮͝ͅo̩͕ͅm̷̸̹͎͙̬͚̰͓p̲̥̰̜̺̤̮̀͢͞l̰̜̜̬͞ȩ͏̘̖̥ţ̙͓͚e̡͈̣͙̳͢͝l҉̝̙̦̺ỵ̯̲͎̺̫͢ ̲̪̮̬̝͉͝͞s҉̣͇͖̳̣̗̞u̫̰̝̬͖͔̳̕͜͢r̠͉͉ͅr̨̝̫̦͕o̟u҉͈̩̤̹̹̼̩͝ǹ̤̘̕d̥͘e̘̹̟̳̩̫̝d̼̳͕̲ ̶̜̤̭n̢̙̰͉̯̱̟̳̖͘ͅǫ̧͖͎͈̻̘͚͢w̲̠.͕͔̭̖̥
̬̗̯̪̻̼͙͓T̙̭̩̮̳̟̖̬͈͘͞ḩ̬̰̗̦̭̝́͡e̱̳̖̣͇̗̲̯ ̶͇͓͝͞g͚̳͖͍̤a̸̠̦̤̻̥̩̝̦͞ẓ̸̧̟e̵͍̱̲̥͖̞̮͍ ̛̳͍n̡̖̹͕̳͓̩̜͞e҉̫̭̤̞̪͇͘v̫͍͖̺e̼̮̗̳̺̱̼̟̩͟r͏̨̗͇̙̣̯̤̯ ̷̗̥̕ͅr̵̢̮̣͈̝̀e͍l̶̳͎͍̜̥̦̥̠͜e̘̹̟̣̲͉̳͠ͅǹ̰͉̻̺͎̳t̞̱̥̺̦͍̣ş͔̹̪̼̰͉͜.̛̮̪̲̠̝̲̼̹
̹͡T҉҉͙͕h͈͕̭͢e̵̡̩̳̮͚͙͔̙ ̩̖̩̞̥͞K̷̨̼͉̼̩̤͇ì̮͞n͇̰͇̝̗̝̭̱͡g̹̦͝ ҉̨̱̲̝̯̯ş̬͔̻̰̮̗̤è̛͍̯̺̥͘ȩ͇̝̘s̶͕̲͘.̵̛̺̤̪̟̮
̱͓͞Ņ̪͎̝͟o̪͍̩͓̼͇͕̘͢͢͞ ̻̙͇̙͎̲e̳̟͚y͏̨̛̱̗͙̫̹e̘̜̜̜͉̦͔̠͘ś͈̼̘̤̰̩ͅ.̷͕̬̜̣͜
̧͍̥͇̻̭͙̣̰̝T͖̙̘̘͟h̷͓̳e̵̷̡̥̼ ̢̻̠̭̗͖̹̘̟͞͞K̷̖̭̬͙͙̮̖i̥̭n͙̤̳̯ͅg͏̴̘̹ ̧̘̺͇̬͉̺̳̻s͜҉͚̭̹͝e̢̡̙̲͚̩͉ͅe̺̤s̨̤̖,͞͏̥͔̮̘̱̖͕ ̬̫͍̰̮̕͟o̱̥͝h̻̦̖̜͕̞̜͙̠́ ̴̵̗͚̙̝̺͇̤̤̗h̩̥̤̥͜o̞͍̺̼̱̙̖̭͟ͅw̴̢̬͔ ̴͉̺͇̦̯͟h̙̹͉͉͟͝e̳̦͚̮̙̤͔͟͡ ̴̯̮̻͕͔͢s̮̣̟̫̳͘͢e̸̵̜e͘͏̞͉͍̟͔͚̞̫ͅş̣.̦͉̙̗
̨̢͙̗̮͕̥Ņ̻͖͘͟o͓͟͡ ͏̱̘̱̥͇̩͞e҉̧͍̲̱y̸̮̘e̤̠̹̮̳̼̖s̴͙͈̠̪̦͞.̬͇̮͈́ͅͅ
͏̷̦̙͔̗͎̳̳̩͜T̵̨̖̬͠ẖ̲͡e̸̡͕̦ ̶͈̘d̷͙̮͔á͕̯̹̰͝ͅr̸̞͇̺͚͠k҉͙̪̩ ̶͏̱̺̥̮͚̬̠ͅc̯͈̳̦̦̹ơ̪̮̣̼͙̱̝͞ṇ̗̝́s̶̥̺͎̠̦̟͕͔̗͟͜u̵̙̺̟͎ḿ̛̙͖̲e͟͏̯̮͈̰s̛̘͓,̸̨̲̠͍͈̭͡ ̨̫͍̫̪ͅt͏̜̜͓̫̩̥͓h̛҉̠̥̩̖̮̗̺̯e̗͉ ̰͔̥̭̲l͏̲̬̮͎͞i̫̮̬̣g̵̭ẖ̝̭͔̼͓̫̱t͔̘̞̰ ̱͎̜̤͍̝̩͉́͡r̫̞̀͠e͈̜͚̼͢v҉̣̙̹̣̼̤è̢̬̳̭̺̻̻͓͖̻a̶̯̤̝͎̩̼̕ͅl̳͉̱͈̻̕s̠̲̯̮̭͍͉̗͡͠ͅ,̡̪͔̖̩̟͜ͅͅ ̷̖̹͇̖͇̙͓͈͘͠I͚͍̮̲̝̼̥ ̝̲̣͓̲͘͢͝f̶̞i̧̹̰͓n̳͍̝̠͎̫̺̞͎d̟̘̭ ̛҉̗̫͍͍̗̩͚ć͈̻̤̰͓̤͝o̞̟̯̭m̵͝҉̙̺̩̬̩̞͙̬̣f͉̟́͡o̝̲͔̜̯͜r̰̣̣̻t͖͙ ̫̫̳̣̜͚͈ͅi̧͕̕͟ņ̥͙ ̡̧̘̺ş̴̹̹h҉̬̮́á̳̞̦̥̻̝͙͚͕͢d̡͙̩̘̯̙o͎̼͇̫͉̯͖͜͡w̼̹̙̖͝s̷̜͔̣̤͉̻͙̟ ̝̟̀͠a͓̬͉̙̞̱̺͢n̘͔̩̱͙d̫͈̼͟ ̝̦̱͈͞v̸̵̠̩̗͓̜̫̮̲a̩̺͇̥̙̤̩̩̗p̵̡̯̦̹ͅo͍̤̙̦͈͔̼̫͡r͏̧͏̠̺̰̣.̵̢̼̞̻͙̹ͅ
̳̣̰͙̟͙N̠̩͚̫̻͚͉̯͞o̶̙̘̱͍̹͟ͅ ̴̵̠̳̳͘e̱͍͔͈̥y̬͚̺̲͈͕̫͜e̸̪̲̖s̮̳̦͍̰͚̰̼͘.̨̲̀
҉̛̹̲̝̞̯̪̠̞N̥͉͚͎̲̕͠ͅọ̺͍̦̬̯̬̀.̵̖̱.̯͙̜̥̺͉͕.̷̼͚̟̬ ̛̤̯T͍̯̟̰̜̤̪̩͖͡h̨̲̬͘e̵̴̯͍̗̱̬̦̬r̸͕̱͇̪̲̦̣̙͟e̷͉̪̲̠͉̫̳̥͠ ̵͖̫̲̜͖i̤̞͓̩̜̬s̠͓͖̳͚̯̰͘ͅ ̢̧̗͍̯̙͙͇͈a̛̺̺n̢͖̭͍͍͘ͅ ̡͇̟̦̥̘̖̪e̵̛̛̺̦̗̱̮̯̹y̵̠̪̲͍͉̻͟e̖͕̟.̧͖͘
̨͏̛̯͎̼̺̱̮̗̱Ơ̺h́҉̶̠̼̠̘̮͇̪͙̮.͓̭̪̳͞.̴̠̺̙.̧̫̰͘
̨̙͎̰̙͇̖o̢̫̗͇͚̦̣͈͢ͅͅḥ̦͉̼͡.̪̗͡.̶̨͙͍̲͔͜.͏̦̜̩͞
̷̡͙͕͎̠̝͕͇̰̬͟o͓͕̖̭h͉͙̮͝.͏̧̪̣͟.̧͇̩̩̠̪͍
̴̡̛̦o̷̹h̸̰̘̗̺͚̘̮ͅ.̶̫̟̯̱͔̟͇͘
̶̬̕͟o̢͈̲͈̦̭̱̻̳h҉̼͚̥͕̥̹͈
͕͔̞͕̺͈̻̪ǫ̢͈̱̙͚̪͎̤͈̯̟̭͕͖̯͍̪͈͇̹͘͜ͅ͏͉͎̖̞͉̣͔̙̩
In the girl's room was a book, a book that had been found in a thrift shop on Dega Street.
The book had been given as a gift.
The book had destroyed a girl named Daria Morgendorffer.
There had been so much blood.
Then the book had returned.
Then the book had been read.
Oh... Oh the book had been read.
R̡̲e̴̡͕̖͖͚̱a҉͚̯͚͜l̷̹͕̠̗̣̼͕͇i̢̪̯̙̖̖̜͍͝t͇̲̺̙̩͖͘y̱̼͇͉͎̰ ͙̺̠̹̪͟ͅi̸̺̭̘̼̻͉̼͙͞ş̞̪̮̮̗̭͉̭͕͜ ҉̻́n̢͕̖͍͈̲̭̱̩̝͜o̞̫͓͇̦̲̦͟͡t̴͓̙̀ ̞̤̮͍̙̦̥͕͘͝r̩̝̘̺̞͚e̼͚̫̞̕ą̧͈͇̮̻͍̯͖̟̀ͅḷ̲̲̼̮.̨̝͎͓̣̬̭̣͙͜
̙͚R̠͉͍͔͔͕̟͢͢e̷̸̦̳̬̻̫͍͢a̡̫̳̟͍͝ļ̝͎̫̙̀͟i̢̳͎̠̙̙͢t̛̲͚̱͖͚̟͈͢͟ͅy̵҉̣̕ͅ ̧͈̝͈̝̳̣ͅí̭̯͘s̸̫̟̰̯̻͟ ̞̺̜͈͉͜ḁ̵̝͕͜ͅ ̶̮̣͟l̛̥͡i͖͇̥̗̝̝e̙̦̳̗͚.̻͚̥͍̠͞͞
̣̥͓̖̬̺̹͢Ṟ͔̪͘͜e̡̪͚͓à͎̯̭̱͉̝̺̬͘l͓̬͜i̻͉̱̼̗̕ṭ̢͉̙̼͟y̶̯̺̝̼̞͕͇̮͞ ̵̶̵̳̝̳í̢̟s͉̮̜̩͎͓̱̪ ͖̯͇̦̻̣̻̬ḁ̴̵ͅ ͏̧͍͚͈s̢͉̭̦͍̦̳̥̜͡w̗̤̞̻͠e͙̟͈̫̠̩͡͠e̢̘̟͓͔͞ţ̗̲͇̝̭̞͠ ̷̛̳͖̙͡ͅl͏̱̞͈̤̙̘͎i̥͔̻͎͈͔̩ȩ̖̤̼͔.̶̜̙̤̖͙̗̱͞͝
̲͚̥̙̲̦̼͟T̀͏̱̺h͏͇̦̼̭e̫̺͔̗̭͠ ͖͉͍̪̼t̲̮̮̻̘̬̘̳r̴̗̱̹̪u͏̛͎̻̟̺̠̠͓̕ͅt͈̱͚̼͙͝ͅͅͅh̨̡̩̫͞ ̶͏̛̦̥͉͙̱i̶̠̞͖ș͖͕̣͇͟ͅ ̸҉͕̼t̵̢̳̙͉̞͍̪̟̪̹h҉̰̜̥̺̙̞͖͜ḛ ̺̗̫̝͇̙̩t̵͚r͕̣̼͟u͍̺̼̠̰̟͎̗̕e͏͞͏̭͕ ̶̫͓͚̭̤̥h̸̵͇̫̺̬̗̣̙̰̣o̢̢̱̟̝̘̭̻͓r̰̝͔͈̼̲̪r̼͔̣͕̘̺̦͜o̷̸̙̫̳̤̗r͕̝͝ͅ.
Now eyeless Jane Lane was raving mad, choking on her own mutilated mouth, wordlessly begging for it all to stop.
Death is no escape.
The King in Yellow beckons.
Time to join the court of mad things.
The city of broken gravity, the city of Lake Heli, the baleful light, the wrong angles.
The bodies go on, but the girls are there, oh how they are there.
Is there an end here?
The book is waiting to be found again.
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It is found.
FIN̢̤̮̻̝̣͕