The afternoon sun cast long, merciless shadows across the execution grounds, highlighting the crude wooden platform and the pitiless faces of those assembled. A hush had settled over the crowd, disturbed only by the rasping breaths of the condemned. Marinov, once a respected healer, now stood shackled, his trembling hands a stark contrast to the iron chains binding him.

A palpable tension hung in the air, heavier than the summer heat. It went beyond mere anticipation for a spectacle of death; there was an undercurrent of doubt rippling through the onlookers. They had been told Marinov was a traitor, a monster, yet whispered voices spoke of injustice, stirring a fearful sense that something was profoundly amiss. Each stare fixed upon the prisoner reflected uneasy complicity in the events about to unfold.

Nahil, the architect of this charade, surveyed the scene with a seasoned mask of authority. A bead of sweat—unnoticed by those present—tracked down his temple. The weight of his betrayal pressed more heavily than the executioner's axe. This was intended to save Hidayat, yet with every panicked beat of Marinov's heart, the hollowness of the sacrifice grew more deafening. A faint rustle at the crowd's fringe snagged his attention. A bird, perhaps, or a trick of the light. Narrowing his eyes, a coil of unease tightened in his gut; such disturbances during judgement were unheard of.

Yocha's presence remained unseen, a phantom lingering on the periphery. Her icy gaze rested on Marinov's slumped form, a flicker of irritation—whether annoyance or something deeper—crossing her ageless features. The execution, unpredicted, was an unwelcome blemish on her carefully woven tapestry of fate. Nahil's misstep endangered her intricate plans; even the deity of destiny was occasionally forced into retreat. She had already sown small manipulations—a misplaced document, a subtly altered testimony—but she sensed that a greater intervention might now be required.

"My... my name is Marinov," he managed, voice scarcely more than a whisper in the charged stillness. Yet, as his eyes locked onto the stern judge before him, a tremor of defiance flickered in their depths. Hidden at the edge of the gathering, Yocha sensed the faintest shift—a spark kindling. Possibly her subtle machinations had taken root after all.

"They accuse me of heresy, of... of dealings with the enemy." Marinov's voice gained a thread of steel, now edged with desperation. "I beg you, listen. I am no traitor. I have... I've seen things. The Arymh are not as we've been told. They suffer, they bleed." He stole a fleeting look at Nahil, noticing a flicker of alarm flash across the man's features.

"The border, the very fabric of our reality, is... weakening," Marinov pressed on, his breaths coming more rapidly, words tumbling uncontrollably. "There is another realm—a place of shadows and distortions. I've seen it, and it's leaking into our world."

His throat felt raw. "I only ever sought to heal those who were harmed by this unnatural blight. The Arymh, the Yorymh, we are all at the mercy of a monstrous power beyond our comprehension." His voice rose as conviction grew. "I am a healer! I wanted only to mend wounds, not create them!"

Yocha felt a jolt of satisfaction. His words, deftly echoing her manipulations, sowed doubt among several in the assembly. Yes, it was working. She could practically see the cracks spreading across Nahil's outward composure.

Marinov's voice wavered slightly as he continued. "But amidst that chaos... I witnessed something... impossible. A man—Hidayat—he..." He hesitated, and Yocha sensed his struggle against an invisible restraint. For an instant, his expression brimmed with terror, surpassing any fear of guards or the council. His next words fell like stones into the hush:

"It was as though reality itself bent and twisted around him. The shadows... they were alive, reaching for him. And when that Yorymh ambush descended... the world shattered. Creatures not of this earth spilled forth, drawn to him as moths to a flame."

A collective gasp surged through the hall. Nahil's face drained of colour, eyes wide in disbelief. This was more than mere sympathy for the Arymh—this was a revelation that menaced everything.

Before uproar could erupt, a cloaked figure threaded through the rear entrance, drawing the chamber into a tense silence. Hidayat stood revealed, his very appearance an accusation. Nahil froze, transfixed by the sight of his son.

Marinov's throat felt as though it were lined with shards of glass. He could see horror and confusion etched into Hidayat's features, the dawning realisation that Marinov, even now, was part of the machinery aiming to destroy him. The guilt weighed on Marinov's chest, suffocating.

"Hidayat... he warps reality," Marinov continued, voice rough. "The Labyrinth... it reacts to him." He gestured weakly at the veiled figure. "He's why our world is crumbling."

A murmur of dread rippled through the council. Nahil stood, stricken, his carefully built trust fracturing around him. The plan had been to brand Hidayat as a threat, but nothing like this. Marinov's knowledge cut deeper than a lie. Nahil felt scrutiny burning into his skin, and he faltered under it. Every eye was now turned upon him, accusing, suspicious. His limbs felt like stone, refusing to move. Was this the undoing of all he had tried to protect? Because he had dared to love his doomed child?

Silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. Marinov, eyes distant and hollow, seemed trapped in his own remorse. Hidayat—long a rebel, always scorned—stood immobile. Their eyes met, and a flicker of shared despair flickered between them.

Nahil's mouth ran dry. Time seemed to crawl since Marinov first spoke, each word unravelling the fragile illusions he had so painstakingly crafted. He could almost feel the elders' stares drilling into him, the council's trust evaporating under the unforgiving glare of the torches. He tried to stand tall, to speak, but his legs felt leaden. This was how it all fell apart: the moment when his masked composure collapsed like a rickety scaffolding. And it was all for the son he had tried so desperately to hide from fate.

A wave of nausea swept over Hidayat. His world, already teetering, lurched into a sickening stillness. Marinov—someone who had shown him a glimpse of compassion—was now complicit in Nahil's deception. The ground felt unsteady beneath him, as though breaking away. His father's gaze pinned him, that once-reassuring love now tainted by shame and fear. A hollow realisation struck him like a punch: Nahil had lied to protect him, and it had become a noose around them both.

He wanted to rage, to scream at the betrayal. Yet terror clutched his throat, holding every word hostage. Faces blurred, the elders morphing into twisted masks of condemnation. Through the haze he glimpsed a single form: Yocha. The stories Marinov had recounted stormed back—this goddess in human guise, manipulating destinies with a cold, impartial hand. Of course it was her. It had always been her, drawing him step by step towards ruin.

As Nahil's eyes pleaded with him—seeking something he could not give—Hidayat felt an emotional tide rise. The truth pressed against his soul, clamouring to break free. At that moment of fraught vulnerability, a whisper escaped him:

"...Marinov, why?" His voice quavered as he moved forward, tears threatening to spill. "I came here to defend you."

A furious roar tore through the chamber, an uproar of shock and rage. Betrayal swelled in the crowd, a poisonous wave turning on Nahil. Marinov's mind reeled; the scene fractured around him. Yocha's sardonic smile, the flash of steel as Nahil's own guards turned against him, the panic illuminating Hidayat's eyes. Reality itself frayed at the edges, the floor pitching like a storm-tossed deck. His body felt leaden, untrustworthy.

In that sea of turmoil, Nahil lunged for his son, a father's final, primal instinct to protect. "Hidayat, run—!" But his words drowned beneath an onslaught of enraged voices.

The crowd had become a many-headed beast, brandishing weapons, tearing at Nahil with ferocious purpose. He had betrayed them, forsaking the mandate to shield his people. Their fragile refuge in a decaying world was being dismantled, and in their terror, they turned on him.

Marinov, transfixed, watched the madness unfold like a nightmare. Yocha's soft enticements felt hollow in his ears; he was more ensnared in her designs than ever. Everywhere he looked was carnage—a swirl of screams, clashing blades, men and women blinded by fear. Nahil, whose authority had reigned, was reduced to a desperate creature, torn by his own guards. All because of a love that overshadowed duty.

Then the floor trembled, a hush falling in the wake of collapsed bodies and ragged cries. Nahil lay still, dreadfully silent, a shocking stain of red bright against the pallor of the stone. His guards hovered, weapons still raised, transfixed by their own monstrous act. In the awful quiet, Hidayat seemed carved from stone, a single word locked in his throat: "Father."

Marinov's vision blurred. He could not tell if it was tears or something worse. Dimly, he saw Yocha move—calm, methodical. She bent beside Nahil, not to help, but to confirm. "Dead," she announced, and the chamber exploded with chaos once more, voices clashing in accusations.

For Marinov, the world constricted. He heard none of it, saw only Hidayat's expression—wide-eyed, destroyed. He understood, with a certainty that shook him to his core: this boy was never his enemy.

A guttural scream tore from Marinov's throat. In that instant, every lie he had spoken, every betrayal he had rationalised, stabbed him like glass. He reeled, the ground swaying beneath him. Yocha's whispered bargains, the twisted logic used to condemn Hidayat, all of it crumbled under the finality of Nahil's dead stare. Those eyes, once so stern yet caring, now stared unseeing at the ceiling—love silenced by betrayal.

He yearned to beg forgiveness from the corpse, but as he dragged his gaze to Hidayat, the plea choked in his throat. The boy—no, the child, undone by heartbreak—could never be the monster they had so eagerly blamed. That role belonged to Marinov himself.

His knees buckled, chains clattering as he sank. The world around him was a raging sea of shouts, stamping feet, and drawn steel, but all he saw was Hidayat's shattered innocence. A grim revelation unfurled in the ruins of his soul: He, not Hidayat, was the true monster.