His feet wandered off on their own accord, and Mac followed them. He should not have, as meandering in the palace was strictly forbidden, though, with his current status, he couldn't think straight. He had ruthlessly scrubbed the thousands of dishes and was so worn that he couldn't comprehend doing the other two thousand grubby cutlery tomorrow.

He took the path to the left, then right, then the fifth route, and the- he lost tally. The palace was like a labyrinth– with the endless rows of hallways and corridors, it was easy to lose your way. And the watchful cameras fixed everywhere didn't ease the pressure. If you appeared even a little bit askance in the recordings, that might be your last day at the palace.

He stopped to catch a breath, resting his palms on his knees– phew! He'd been working so tirelessly that his hands might fall off at any moment. The only thing he had the energy for was to traipse to his cot and drop down dead– and that's what he was conspiring to do. He'd been doing fine until he heard the angry barks of the old cook and rerouted his path (This had nothing to do with the cook being intimidating or anything).

ZOP!

Mac yelped. The back of the wall he'd been leaning on gave away, shoving him into complete darkness.

He got to his feet unceremoniously but tripped again, landing flat on his nose. It took an effort to make out anything, but he managed to piece out a bundle of rags in the left corner. He wasn't the nocturnal type of person, although his vision was just as pathetic during the day.

Of course, the first thing he did was to whimper.

He looked around– still unwilling to get up– inspecting the place, even though his instincts were screaming against it. The pale light glistened through the open doorway, but except for that, there was no natural source of light present. The ambiance indicated that Mac should put as much space as possible between him and this odd place. A creeping miasma swept through, churning his insides into a frozen smoothie.

Curiosity killed the cat, eh? He thought glumly as he slowly stood up. KILLED? Wrong example at the wrong place. He hadn't been here before, had he? The floor dusty, the air still, more dust, total darkness, and dust. Did he mention the dust? There was nothing here except for a handful of chains and the rag heap on the right edge. Huh. Wasn't it located on the left?

Suddenly something– or rather someone– seized his chin, lifting it up. He lay on his stomach again. A frail-looking, wrinkled hand with razor-sharp nails appeared for seemingly nowhere and had decided that Mac was an excellent plaything. He gasped, probably twisting his rib cage into a concoction of broken bone and flesh, and flailed his arms wildly. Next, he did the most sensible thing to try when one is smothered by a... whatever that was– He screamed.

Mac heard a sudden vociferous squawking of ducks– a lake nearby outside, perhaps?– clearly indicating they were none too pleased about his yelp.

It's like those times in that movie, The Smiling Shadow where the sallow, green zombie rips his arm off and drags the hero into a dark room with his other, somehow intact, arm, thought Mac, followed by: Really cool last thoughts!

A face, connected with the hand (Oh god, if the hand had just been floating in the air all this while...?) emerged from the shadows– A coppery face, smeared with dried blood, grinned– Its teeth glinting enough to blind him for a couple of seconds. It had a snag of a nest where its hair should have been, and empty voids of curling black smoke filed in its sockets.

It didn't take a professor to catch the scent of delight emanating from the... what would you call that? The gross-looking monster which resides under your bed? Zombie-killer on loose? He was reasonably sure he'd testified a walking corpse.

The situation would have been a lot more sinister had it not been for Mac, who still stretched on his stomach, making awkward noises as the hand clenched tighter around his chin.

Stop resisting...

Suddenly, everything else in the world ceased to exist– it was only the killer zombie and Mac. And he wanted to do only what the supernatural force wanted him to– only one person to obey. His heart filled with the desire to please his new master, and instantly he stopped moving, waiting for more orders from his boss.

It let go of him, slowly retracting its arm. Good boy, now stand up...

The order rang in his ears as he registered every note of his master. He stood up with such haste to do as his master pleased that he almost slipped.

Very nice, It placated. Though I would have prefered the other one... Zey Shu? Perfect for the ritual.

For some reason, the mentioning of Zey snapped him out of his reverie. His vision turned normal again, and unfortunately, normal enough to see the disdainful expression of his "master" change to stunned. And boy, was that a repulsive process. He took a step back in shock and fear, resulting in a twisted ankle thanks to his clumsiness.

On a standard basis, he would have sobbed if an injury as big as a wrongly bent finger befell him. But even he knew better than to crouch down stroking his ankle in front of someone who hadn't even tried to hide their incentive to murder him.

Mac turned around sharply and despite his already low breath, he took on a fastidious sprint. He could feel his heart prying open, ready to explode. Even without his sprained ankle, he hadn't run this fast in his entire life– fear was an efficient source of inspiration.

Even as he ran, he could feel the depraving anger of the thing in the sixth turret. He did look behind his back a few times– definitely against his instincts– though if anything was following him, it was surprisingly discreet for an evil zombie. By now, he was sure that the cameras must have recorded some suspicious activity, but no guards came after him with revolvers made to kill, as Mac'd anticipated.

----

"Calm down, " Zey said. "There's no way what you've seen is real. Some practical joke, perhaps?" He wrapped his arm around Mac's shoulders and gave them a slight press. "Must be the stress. You did work your butt-off, didn't you? Stupid prince."

"Shh, " Mac reprimanded, forgetting that he was ruffled up at the moment. "You don't want him to find out you said that." He stared at no point in particular. The experiences in the sixth turret had left him badly shaken, so bad that once he'd turned up to their dorm, the first thing Zey had done was to give him a big hug along with a mug of steaming hot cocoa. Next, he had kicked their other roommates out for some "privacy".

Mac pressed his legs to himself, folding his arms around his knees, and leaned against Zey. He'd narrated the whole incident to Zey and even though Zey listened on intently without any delusional remarks, Mac could tell that he was still unconvinced. He'd also thought that the prince's personnel would hunt him down soon after the drama-in-the-sixth-turret, but that moment was yet to come.

"Hey." Zey turned Mac's head to face his, his beautiful green eyes staring straight into his soul. "Just remember that whatever was in there did not touch you all these years and would probably continue to leave you alone if you steer clear of the sixth turret."

"Mmhm, " Mac totally believed that. As if he'd pored straight through his thoughts, Zey inclined a little more forward– just enough to gently caress his lips with Mac's. He remembered the first time they'd kissed– Mac'd had some fluttery feeling in his stomach like a hundred thousand butterflies struggling to break through. And this time was no different.

"Listen, " Zey broke the kiss, his warm breath falling on Mac's face, "If that thing dares to step ten meters near you, I'll break its arms off and chase it to the abyss of depths." He grinned his seducing grin. "Or would you prefer the palace dump instead?"

"Stop." Mac slapped the other boy's shoulder, but he was smiling.

----

Thunk. Thank. Thunk. THANK.

Mac hated doing the dishes. It was rather upsetting to clean the dirty ceramics when he hadn't even been the one feasting. Otherwise, his disposition wasn't any good either.

Last night, after narrating the incident to him, Zey'd concluded that what he'd seen in the sixth turret was, in fact, the unveiled lady. There were infinite myths about talking dogs, evil serial killers, and hungry ghosts surrounding the palace, and one of them told the heart-wrenching story of the unveiled lady. Or that's was Zey had said. Mac had no clue about the unveiled lady's backstory, though after personally meeting her, he didn't intend to find out.

What he did remember, was the old cook narrating the story a few years back during a campfire out in the backyard.

"Hey, Roja, come here." The woman beckoned him forward eagerly. Mac glanced around, hoping she wasn't calling him. The others beside him shook their heads furiously, the message clear– Do not go, bad idea. "Do you know about the legendary unveiled lady?" She asked when he hesitantly shuffled over. Mac had made the mistake of saying, "No."

That night he hadn't been able to sleep because of nightmares caused thanks to the old cook's exemplary story-telling talent.

The only problem was– he couldn't recall the story. But that was irrelevant while doing the dishes.

Mac hummed the antique: by Rozald Moriangue, the most exceptional musician in all of Nacery, vibing to the beat. Music made him forget his anxieties and concentrate on not entwining his vocal cords. On the downside, his bleat of a goat singing ruins any dramatized effects the singing produced. He focused on saving himself from the humiliation of shattering glass with his horrid tune (Not like it had happened before).

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything, but the prince has requested your audience immediately. " Mac flushed head to toe. Zoran, the head servant messenger, smirked before leaving him with a slightly awed and fairly nauseated guard. "Follow me." The latter said blearily, still not out of his daze. Mac obeyed and followed him.

Now just what had the prince planned to do with him?

----

Mac bowed down so low that he feared he might tumble down in front of his majesty. The prince beckoned him in, expression unreadable as ever. Usually, being invited over by the prince meant that you might lose your job, or worse, your head.

The prince, a ripped guy with greased hair and the cruelest deep blue eyes, sat cross-legged on an overly festooned recliner, holding a wineglass and a rose in either hand. A silver dagger's sheen was obscurely visible from a sheath attached to his waist. Across him squatted a poised man with a burly moustache and wary stance with a frail, ambivalent man in pale, tawdry robes, somehow taking notes with his knees wobbling.

Mac'd never been in the prince's private quarters before and had to force his jaw from hanging open. Living almost his whole life encircled with sumptuous riches reeling just outside his reach, you could say that he was used to weirdly beautiful and horrifically expensive belongings. But this room, where the prince resided? Beyond grand– It put the rest half of the palace to shame. No matter where he averted his eyes, bulging rubies, gleaming opals, ocean-blue sapphires, and iridescent turquoises garnished the furniture, shimmering when a sunbeam touched their surface. The polished wooden fittings had intricate patterns embedded in them. Artistically chafed chandeliers dangled by the high ceiling, which showcased the various battles previously engaged by the royal line. The millioned windows allowed sunlight to stream into the opening– But with all that artificial light installed, the added light didn't make much difference. Heck, even the wineglass from which the prince occasionally took a sip cost more than Mac's wages for the next twelve years.

"Y-Yes, your majesty?" Mac prodded. The prince spared him a disinterested glance and proceeded to debate with the burly man– The commander-general of the army. "-We have access to over half a million men, better odds against the lone, weak prisoner. A simpleton, that lad doesn't realize the price on his head– son of Zhy Shu! We only need to torture the answer out, and we have completed the work, and you're saying that is precisely the thing that the upstart warned us not to do to his son?" The prince's eyes glittered dangerously. The poor man taking notes was trembling so badly that it was a wonder how he remained standing.

"Yes, your highness, " The commander conciliatorily agreed, "According to the prisoner's appointed sheriff, he received a note slipped in his dorm three hours ago, signed by-"

"I know who it's signed by!" The prince suddenly roared, "Just get on with it!"

"As you say, your highness." This time, there was a hint of reproach in the commander's tone. "The note admonished to not let a single scratch land upon up his son, or else he would blast the whole city to furnaces. We're still not sure if that was just an empty threat, but this being Zhy shu...?"

The prince sighed. "Well, I'm working on the blasting part, but about the not being able to torture the answer out of him... the note didn't mention anything about mental abuse." He smiled and turned to Mac, finally acknowledging his presence. "And here is where this one will come in handy."