Asrael had never seen anything like it. He stood in the chamber of the tower and attempted to understand the design of the runes- the smear of blood covering every inch of every surface. The cylindrical room’s every nook and cranny had been lathered up in the metallic, sticky fluids and a closer inspection revealed that whoever had done this careful work had taken care to even cover the cracks in between the stones in a thick coat of blood. But Asrael could see the runes like none other could- he could feel the thrum of residual magic still coursing through them-… it was powerful- otherworldly and most frightening... they felt like his own.

He leaned down to look through the coating of blood to see that the runes had been carved into the floor- likewise, he assumed the walls had been inscribed with the same, arcane, mysterious runes. Neda stood behind him, only about half as surprised as the confused Bartholomew. Mostly, she feared that look in Asrael’s green eyes as he studied someone else’s work and came to the realization... he had no idea what this was.

He rose up to see that all the runes seemed to concentrate something around the tall mirror in the middle of the room, but without powering the runes, there was no telling what function they served. “Titus... what are you doing in here?” Bartholomew muttered as he saw the bloody, wooden crosses on the walls- still with their heavy bolts in them. This confused Asrael likely more than anything in the room's designs, as the bolts would most definitively stop whatever flesh had been pinned to the carefully construed corpses from being pulled off... why, then, were they still in place?

Mumbles from down the stairs sparked a panic in the trio- Neda, more than anyone. At least... until a white hood appeared around the circular staircase. Had she seen them, she made no mention of it, nor did she turn to look at them. She stepped through the floor and Asrael half-expected the wildling to leap at her, alas-… he could not bring himself to look away from her pale chin, that gracious step, those luscious lips of hers. Upon seeing that said lips were curled up in a smile, he took a step back, only to realize that Neda and Bartholomew had... frozen. Petrified- unmoving, uncaring, unblinking, they stood there on either side of him- staring at the woman.

The woman- that white, small being stepping towards him in her ornate robe terrified him more than anyone ever had- more than Sargerrei- more than the pyre... fore they might burn and destroy his body, but she... she had already proven herself capable of destroying everything he was- steal every secret and look at his every memory and violate him far beyond what a mere mortal should be capable of. He was not strong, nor was he particularly charismatic or inspiring. Asrael only had one thing- his mind... and she could take it. She raised a finger to her lips, but never broke from her smile.

Asrael finally blinked to look at his companions on either side. Both Neda and Titus kept their gazes locked to the door- even as the girl led the dirty sackcloth child straight past them. Both had dilated pupils- both held their arms limply to their sides and drooled as if she had finally deprived them of what little cognition they possessed.

“Petrus, Petrus, Petrus, Petrus-…" A rhythmic chanting sounded from the stairs in her wake. Lita led the boy towards the mirror and paused to motion for something within the reflective surface. With her hands atop his shoulders, she smiled down at his reflection and nodded- inspiring what appeared to be a relief in the boy’s expression. His terror faded as an outline of a smile took hold of his lips- He was about to speak, when the source of the mutters by the stairs came into view.

As Bartholomew had already told him, Titus was nearly unrecognizable. His eyes were nearly as green and bright as Asrael’s- his cheeks gaunt and pale. Had the necromancer not known better, he might’ve assumed him the dead one. The golden armor he had so proudly worn around the Garrison was now a mess of caked blood beneath his torn, bloody tablecloth, but his gaze was the most nerve-racking, by far. He stared straight through the necromancer and his companions to look at the mirror as if neither of them were there to block his view- as if they were little more than air.

Asrael was frozen- not by Lita’s magic, but by her presence alone. The gentle beauty tapped the boy’s shoulder as Titus approached her from the side- clattering his armor as he shivered with excitement or terror. He kept his chin up high to stare directly into the mirror- looking past the Necromancer, but not as if ignoring him... it seemed, that by some miracle, Titus remained unaware of him. The golden Duke impatiently fidgeted his gauntleted fingers while hungrily glaring into the mirror.

In his fright, Asrael had neglected to look at the wide-eyed, smiling child. Joyous tears ran down his dirty, scratched cheeks to stain his sackcloth apparel. Without a word, Lita raised her hand from the boy. The necromancer braced himself for the impact as the boy charged towards the mirror- his arms extended widely to his sides, only to... disappear into the glass.

Asrael blinked as if it would help confirm his sanity, but to no avail- there had been no explosion of glass, nor was the child on his knees- weeping from the hundreds of cuts and bruises such a collision might’ve caused. Titus’ frown turned to a joyous, blissful smile as he saw... something... in the glass. Lita turned to nod towards Asrael and beckon him to her with a playful finger. As much as he feared the woman- as uneasy as he was for his distant-gazing, limp companions... he could do naught but follow her- his free will still intact, but his curiosity more so. His boots stuck to the floor as he made his way over to her side to look over Titus’ shoulder, only to take another step back as he saw... Petrus.

In the purple, swirling mists far beyond the reflective silver, Asrael saw Petrus in all his pale, naked glory- his golden hair shining more brightly than it ever had when he still lived. His eyes were brimming with green, glorious shimmers that seemed to illuminate the purple cloud surrounding him. Though Asrael doubted the reality of the phantom image, he could not deny the striking similarities- for all intents and purposes, it seemed this truly was Petrus- down to his undeveloped, wrinkled penis. The necromancer understandably had questions, but found his tongue would not move, as opposed to Petrus’. He spoke something- his luscious lips formed words only Titus could hear.

Titus’ lips whispered in turn: “I will... I will. Soon, I will have finished His Chamber- there; I can make do it... he will have his souls and we will be together again...” Asrael could hardly hear the mutters, but suspected the words were never meant for human ears.

“No! No, please! Petrus- stay!” Titus reached for the mirror as Petrus’ form began to dissolve into lackluster contrast- gradually to be replaced by the writhing, purple smog.

“No!” Titus screamed in a vivid panic and clicked his gloved fingers against the glass. He spun about to glare at the Purged, whose smile seemed to infuriate the golden Duke more than it frightened Asrael. He shouted: “Bring him back! Bring him back, I say!”

Lita seemed well versed in the Duke’s moods and folded her hands before bowing before him. “I cannot, Titus. You know I cannot... this is His Gift and your Boon. I am merely his mouthpiece and your Servant.” Titus trembled with a sudden rage- his teeth bared as if he were about to snarl like the rabid beast he seemed. Asrael could not recognize this shell of a man from the one he had come to known as Titus Sargerrei- the Duke of Pilta and the High Inquisitor’s Son... this wretch was hardly human at all. He broke from his furious glare to stare at the bloody crucifixes on the walls and muttered: “Then... then I must do as he asks of me... I must trial the Guilty and make my offering- he will save me, will he not? He will give him back to me?” Lita closed her eyes and nodded. Before she could open her mouth to sound her acknowledgement, TItus had already made his way for the door, where he pushed past the drooling, gazing idiots and disappeared back out into the darkness... leaving Asrael... in the company of the white-haired, grinning Defiler reflected in the standing pool of purple smoke.