Klaus sat within the shadow-drenched sanctum of the Noctis Chambers, hunched over a scattered array of swords and scrolls. Pale lamplight flickered against the glimmer of etched steel as he worked, inscribing delicate runic patterns into the blades—testing, modifying, enhancing. Some of the weapons became sharper, others more durable, and a few grew capable of amplifying pain itself. It had been a full week since he'd begun his tutelage under Noctis, and already, his understanding of runic sorcery had deepened.
Noctis's runic sorcery was anything but conventional. His craft bent toward soul manipulation—his dolls were no mere puppets, but vessels imbued with the essence of the departed, their wills enslaved by intricate glyphs. Fascinating, surely... but not quite the path Klaus sought to walk.
Across the chamber, Noctis lounged on an opulent couch, a glass of deep crimson wine in one hand, his hair spilling like darkness over silk pillows. He watched Klaus with the amused air of a cat observing a particularly clever mouse.
"You're learning quickly," he said, swirling the wine lazily. "But what of your own style, dear student?"
Klaus raised a brow, sipping his own wine in return. "And what, pray tell, about it?"
With a languid grin, Noctis twirled his glass. "My style is steeped in the language of souls. But you—you must craft your own melody in this symphony of power. You do understand that, yes?"
Klaus gave a theatrical sigh. "Oh yes, master of the bleeding obvious. of course! How could I have overlooked that vital piece of wisdom?" He paused, then barked, "No shit, old man!"
He leaned back, tone turning curious. "Anyway, indulge me this—can one inscribe runes upon the flesh? or, more importantly, on the soul itself."
Noctis blinked. Then he erupted in laughter, nearly spilling his wine. "Ambitious, aren't you? Delightfully so. Alas, I have neither done it nor seen it done. But I understand your angle. With your lack of raw physical might, you're seeking to compensate, yes? Enhance your body through inscription?"
Klaus smirked, eyes glittering with mischief. He gestured to the parchment-strewn floor. "Not quite. I'm not a warrior—I'm sorcerer. A weapon specialist, true, but my domain is magic."
Hovering midair now, Noctis tilted his head. "Then what runes do you intend to carve into your mortal shell, hmm?"
Klaus's brow furrowed in thought. "Control. Strengthening. Awareness. For now, at least."
Noctis gave him a skeptical glance. "And why, my little dragon with grand aspirations?"
Klaus leaned back, expression sly. "My powers are... temperamental. Control will allow me to wield them with greater precision—feels like cheating, but I've made peace with that. Strengthening, well... that enhances everything: body, mind, soul, and the potency of my essence. And awareness—my perception is already extraordinary. If I amplify that further, who knows what I might perceive?"
He didn't choose those runes on whim. Awareness wasn't merely a vanity—his Aspect, steeped in space-time and metamorphosis, also carried passive gifts. One of them granted insight—raw understanding and awareness. If bolstered through rune craft, it might evolve into something far greater. As for control, it was a desperate attempt to tether a wild storm. His mastery over space and change was refined, but time remained an unruly phantom. For over five years, he had failed to seize it. Perhaps with the True Name of Control engraved into his being... perhaps, then, time would listen.
Noctis sipped again, watching him as if he were a rare and exotic beast. "You're not the most gifted student I've had," he muttered with a grin, "but my gods, your imagination is terrifying. What kind of power-starved madman dreams up these things?"
He laughed again, suddenly pointing at Klaus. "But there's a problem, you know. I suspect only one rune can be inscribed."
Klaus blinked. "Only one? Why?"
He stared at the floor, thoughts already spinning. His mind latched onto a theory... and then, like the click of tumblers in a lock, he laughed. Loud, wild, unrestrained.
Noctis sputtered, nearly choking. "What in the voids—hello? Are you still with us, my delightfully foul-smelling pupil?"
Klaus grinned like a demon in a priest's robes. "You said it yourself—because a person has only one soul core, right? Your theory assumes a one-to-one ratio: one core, one rune. And since humans possess a single core..."
Noctis blinked owlishly, wine paused at his lips. Klaus sighed, pulled a bottle of bourbon from his bag, and handed it over. Noctis took it with a delighted chuckle and sipped.
"Ahh, your liquors are as dangerous as your ideas. But yes—spot on. Only one core, only one rune."
Klaus shrugged, resting against the wall, his smile smug and devilish. "But who said I was human?"
Noctis's eyes narrowed, intrigue sharpening his gaze. "I suspected as much. But what are you, truly?"
Klaus didn't answer with words.
Instead, his arms rippled—then burst open in a grotesque, beautiful spectacle. From the shredded fabric of flesh, writhing black tentacles spilled forth, slithering across the floor in disturbing serpentine patterns.
Noctis stared, fascinated, the scholar in him thoroughly aroused.
Klaus tilted his head, grin widening. "Well? Come now. Admit it."
Noctis laughed, breathless. "Gods above, you are magnificent. A proper little monster, aren't you?"
Klaus nodded proudly, the tendrils curling around him like a cloak of nightmares. "Say it."
Noctis raised his glass in salute. "You're amazing, my darling abomination..." He paused and grimaced. "But Klaus... Why such a hideous form? My student should be beautiful... Not this... Thing?"
Klaus gave a nonchalant shrug, and in an instant, the monstrous tentacles retreated with a disturbing slither, sucked back into his arm as though vacuumed through the seams of reality itself. His limb returned to its human form with an unnatural smoothness—like flesh melting back into flesh.
If he truly managed to inscribe runes upon his spirit cores… how much farther could he grow? That question pulsed within him like a fever-dream. His desires began to unravel into a tangled mess—an exquisite chaos of ambition and greed. And truth be told, he made no effort to resist. He didn't want to. He enjoyed it. The pursuit, the hunger, the thrill of it all—it was intoxicating. He was aware that Hope's corruption, along with his own flaw, were stoking the fire. They blurred his logic, warped his restraint. But rather than wrestle them into submission, he leaned into the madness with a smirk on his face.
Still, there was danger in that surrender.
Running a hand through his tousled hair with a quiet groan, Klaus pulled out a crumpled plastic bottle from the mess of scrolls and runic sketches littering the floor. His movements were calm, precise—ritualistic. He unscrewed the cap and covered the mouth with foil, then carefully punctured the surface with a series of symmetrical holes. Next, he sliced off the bottle's base and retrieved a larger plastic container—cut wide and clean.
Noctis raised a brow from his velvet couch, where he reclined like a god too lazy to maintain dominion.
"My dear prodigy," he drawled with an amused gleam in his wine-drenched eyes, "what… exactly… are you constructing?"
Without looking up, Klaus's lips curled into a mischievous grin.
"Art," he replied smoothly. "True, ancient sorcery. Forbidden and divine."
Noctis watched with interest as Klaus nestled the foil-covered bottle into the water-filled container, balanced the sacred herb atop the foil with a careful hand, and sparked the flame. As the chamber filled with thick, fragrant smoke, Klaus slowly raised the bottle—drawing in every particle of vapor before removing the foil and inhaling deeply, the smoke spiraling into his lungs with ceremonial grace.
A moment passed. Then he exhaled—long, languid, through his mouth and nostrils at once, like a dragon releasing enchanted fog. His bloodshot eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
He coughed, laughing through it, and offered the makeshift gravity bong to Noctis.
Noctis gave it a suspicious glance, then shrugged and took a draw.
Thirty minutes later.
The two of them lay sprawled across the runed floor of Noctis's chambers, laughing like lunatics in a madhouse, their minds drifting between realities. Klaus blinked at the window, his expression one of shocked revelation.
"Master… master dearest," he whispered, wide-eyed. "The forest is on fire."
Noctis yawned, squinting.
"Hmm? No, no, that's just the rain, darling."
Klaus nodded solemnly. "Yes… of course. Flaming rain. I see now."
Their surroundings blurred into surrealism. Dolls floated by, carrying tea on silver trays. Noctis nudged Klaus, pointing at them with a giddy grin.
"Look! Look at them. Aren't they just… exquisite?"
Klaus blinked blearily at the soul constructs.
"Uh... sure. They're... cute?" he muttered, genuinely baffled. "What's with the porcelain thighs, though?"
He chuckled to himself, rubbing his eyes, still lost in the haze. Then he turned toward Noctis with the seriousness of a prophet.
"Do you know what smells like a bum and is no fun?"
Noctis tapped his chin, nodded sagely. "You?"
Klaus stared, deadpan. "Sunless. Obviously. That guy's a walking funeral march. Zero style."
Noctis giggled like a schoolgirl. "Well, I won't argue the fashion critique. Black on black with extra black? So last eon."
Klaus staggered to his feet, barely managing to lean on the table. His expression suddenly became solemn, grave with philosophical weight.
"Do you know the most sacred law of existence?" he asked, voice hushed like a monk chanting secrets in a temple.
Noctis raised a brow, sipping his bourbon with amusement. "And what might that be?"
Klaus paused dramatically, eyes shining with drunken wisdom. "Bros before hoes."
Noctis choked on his drink, staring blankly.
"No."
"Come on," Klaus begged with mock seriousness. "Just say it."
"I'm not telling you how many women I've slept with."
"I don't need details! Just numbers!"
With an exaggerated sigh, Noctis waved his hand like a noble burdened by the weight of immortality. "I'm over a thousand years old, Klaus. At the very least, once a week. So… do the math."
Klaus went still, jaw slack. Then he leapt forward and dropped to his knees in exaggerated reverence.
"You are my master," he declared between fits of laughter. "A true sage. A legend!"
Noctis smirked, basking in the praise. "Go on, go on. Praise my genius, my magnificence."
That night, laughter echoed through Noctis's chambers like the mad chorus of gods playing dice with fate. The runes on the walls pulsed faintly, as if the very room itself was enjoying the absurdity.