Locus Medius. A place of absolute neutrality, bound not by gods, demons, or mortals, but by The Word.

  It is one of only three such realms—sacred spaces where no king nor conqueror, angel nor fiend, or beast nor god may claim dominion. Here, there is no blood spilled, no blade unsheathed, no spell cast in malice. To break the Pact of Locus Pacis is to face obliteration, for in this place, The Pillars hold absolute authority.

  The third Locus has yet to be found, a place where even magic itself is snuffed out. The Raven King muses on this as his litter-bearers bring him forward.

  He despises this ritual.

  It is humiliating to be carried, but custom dictates that one must arrive with their loyalists, their followers, and their attendants. A show of power without violence. And so he endures, though every part of him yearns to move on his own.

  He is carried—borne upon a crystalline tub filled with water, his frail body submerged, hooded figures gripping the edges of the tub in reverence. His body does not move, but his mind is as sharp as ever. He hates being carried and hates the illusion of helplessness, but this is the way of kings.

  A show of status.

  His litter passes through the grand entrance, where beings of all kinds converse, deal, and conspire.

  Locus Medius is no mere meeting hall. It is a hotel of grand design, reminiscent of ancient human architecture, and old-world elegance, a place where luxury masks the unbreakable laws beneath. It is said to have been constructed by The Word before the gods, before races, before the wars that tore the cosmos apart.

  The entrance is a towering archway, carved with unreadable glyphs, a language that no scholar, no sage, no deity has been able to decipher. The doors open not by touch, nor by force, but by intent. Those who seek entrance are weighed not by their titles, nor their bloodlines, but by The Will of the Pillars.

  Inside, the lobby stretches endlessly, a place that defies measurement, where shadow and light intermingle, where the ceiling shifts in depth and height, grand chandeliers flickering with golden-blue fire that never burns, never fades. The air hums with a presence—not magic, not faith, but something far older.

  The Concierge, a being who does not age, does not speak unless spoken to, stands behind the counter. His form is vague, ever-changing, flickering between man, woman, and something else entirely—a reflection of what one expects to see.

  Behind him, the Locus Key Registry. A great wall of numbered keys, yet not a single one is labeled. Each key knows its holder, and no guest may take a key that is not theirs.

  The Grand Meeting Hall is set for the greatest figures of the realms, each seated upon a throne carved from the essence of their dominion.

  The Throne of the Devil—not to be mistaken for the Demons, who have their kind apart. A massive, spiked seat, pulsating with infernal heat, upon which sits a being of ancient, regal wickedness—King of all Devils. His presence is suffocating, yet he remains still, unreadable.

  The Throne of the Demons—a grotesque, ever-shifting monstrosity of flesh and bone, its inhabitant twisting in form with every moment, embodying chaos itself.

  The Throne of the Raven King—dark obsidian feathers woven into its frame, a throne that whispers to those who dare listen. Ivar takes his place, regal, his black eyes scanning the gathering. His Raven King powers are showing more so than his Undine. Though his body is unchanged many in this room know those eyes.

  The Throne of the Frost Giants—a frozen, jagged monument of ancient glacial ice, upon which sits the King of the North, his breath mist upon the air, his voice like the rumbling of shifting mountains.

  The Throne of the Queen of Sheba—crafted from gold and silk, inscribed with arcane sigils. She is half-jinn, half-mortal, a descendant of a line older than most nations.

  The Throne of the Sands—etched with the shifting lines of time itself, belonging to the Eastern Lords, those who control a land where time stands still. A place of secrets, of hidden truths, where the last of the Hor-Siris worshippers fled when their battle was lost to the West.

  And The Throne of the West—the realm said to belong to The Followers of The Word.

  They are outsiders, scholars, and wanderers who claim to know the location of the third Locus, the place where even magic is silenced. They are judges, mediators, and seekers of peace, yet their presence is unsettling, for they speak as though they know things no others should.

  Their leader stands, cloaked in robes of woven starlight, his face obscured beneath a mask of featureless silver.

  They are not conquerors. They are not kings.

  But they are watchers.

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  And watchers, more than warriors, know the weight of the Pillars.

  The air is tense, though no conflict may arise here.

  Lilith is present, though her throne of midnight silk remains empty beside her.

  Osiris, representative of Hor-Siris, stands with Horus, his presence one of calm observation, waiting.

  Odin sits with his young sons, one broad and full-bellied, the other sharp-eyed and brooding.

  And then, the doors close.

  The neutral ground is sealed.

  And the negotiations begin.

  The air in Locus Medius was thick with the weight of the coming conflict.

  At the center of it all, the realm of Goodnight hung in the balance.

  The Demons wanted it.

  The Devils wanted it.

  The Asgardians wanted it.

  The Sands of the East wanted it.

  Only the West remained silent. Their singular representative sat motionless, their mask of featureless silver betraying nothing. They watched. Always watching.

  Lilith, meanwhile, merely sat back, listening.

  Her expression was unreadable, but her gaze was sharp, scanning the room as if studying the pieces of a game only she knew the rules to.

  She did not argue, did not bicker. She knew better than that. Let the Devils and Demons scream at each other. Let the Gods and the Kings waste their breath.

  She would simply take Goodnight.

  The borders of the realm were weak.

  While the others marshaled their forces, gathered their armies, postured and threatened, she would breach the weakened kingdom and claim what was rightfully hers.

  The crown of Goodnight should have returned to the throne room when its ruler had died.

  And yet, it had not.

  The Demon King slammed his clawed hand on the table, shaking the very foundations of the room.

  “The succubi and incubi are allied with all demons and devils. An attack on one is an attack on all. But the spoils of this conquest belong to us! They are more Demon than Devil!”

  The Devil King snarled, eyes flashing like embers in a furnace.

  “Oh, but when it comes to power or wealth, that’s when you suddenly decide you’re not like us? Any other time, you’d snitch my arse if it meant you could get stronger.”

  The two monstrous beings—rivals as old as time—glared at each other, their words mere venomous pleasantries before the inevitable escalation.

  The Asgardians leaned forward, Odin’s singular eye gleaming with interest, his sons listening with the reckless hunger of youth. They had their own designs on Goodnight.

  The Queen of Sheba—who had long despised Lilith—sat with her arms crossed, watching in amusement but not speaking.

  The Sands of the East pressed their claim as well. “It was ours once. We lost it only to the chaos of war. We will reclaim it.”

  And still, the West remained silent.

  The Raven King sat on his throne, unmoved by the tempest of voices.

  Ivar had no interest in this kingdom. He was here for one reason. To make sure everyone understood where he stood.

  And so, as the room threatened to spiral into madness, he finally spoke.

  The voices stilled as the Raven King raised a single gloved hand.

  A pause.

  Then, in his usual, almost amused tone, he said:

  “Do what you will with the kingdom. Fight over it. Burn it to the ground. But if I were any of you…”

  He tilted his head, a slow, knowing grin creeping across his lips.

  “I would forget it exists and ignore it.”

  The Devil King scoffed. His golden eyes narrowed, lip curling in contempt.

  “Of course, you would, you spineless cripple.” His voice dripped with disdain. “It’s hard to conquer anything when you can’t even change your own piss water.”

  The room tensed.

  Ivar did nothing.

  He merely smiled.

  Then, without a word, he motioned to his servants. The hooded figures lifted his crystalline tub, carrying him away without so much as a response.

  But then—

  Lilith’s voice rang through the chamber.

  “Leaving so soon, Raven King?”

  Ivar mentally cursed.

  He had almost escaped. But of course, she would not let him go so easily.

  He turned his head just slightly, keeping his tone light, almost bored.

  “Indeed, my Lady. While the rest of you wish to embark on a suicide mission, I do not.” He sighed theatrically. “And I pray that none of ours will either.”

  Lilith’s narrowed eyes gleamed. She knew him too well.

  She did not trust him.

  “I would still love to know where you stand in this matter, King Ivar… My dear.”

  Ivar hated Lilith.

  Hated her with every fiber of his being.

  But the curse upon him, the curse upon his kingdom, the invisible chains that bound him—meant he had to play his role.

  That didn’t mean he couldn’t be an asshole.

  And so, his grin widened.

  “Ah, my dear Lady…”

  He sighed dramatically, drumming his fingers along the edge of his tub.

  “If you were to ever go against this kingdom, I would not only join you… but help you strip every bit of magic and mana from it.”

  A pause.

  Then, his voice dropped lower.

  “But…”

  His fingers twitched, and the very air in the room shifted.

  A Search-World Spell cast silently, almost imperceptibly.

  The grand display above them shifted—

  And suddenly, they were not looking at Goodnight anymore.

  They were looking at New Liberty.

  A human city.

  A place of stone and steel, of flickering neon and forgotten gods.

  Ivar leaned back in his tub, feigning innocence.

  “This is where he died, yes?”

  Laughter rang out across the chamber.

  Lilith tilted her head slightly, watching, waiting.

  Ivar smiled.

  “And it’s a sacred place now, isn’t it?”

  The laughter stopped.

  Silence settled across the room.

  Lilith’s expression hardened.

  The Devil King sat up, his eyes narrowing.

  The realization dawned on them all.

  Ivar gave them a knowing look, his voice soft and mocking.

  “Since I care deeply for some of you, I urge you to reconsider.”

  A lie. He cared for one person in this room. And that person had no idea.

  But the point had been made.

  “If that place is still sacred, then it means only one thing.”

  The room listened.

  Ivar smirked.

  “The weapon that did that damage has not changed owners.”

  A ripple of unease spread.

  “Meaning… you may not see him today. You may not see him tomorrow. We went over a hundred years without seeing him…”

  His voice was soft now. Dangerous.

  “But he still came back.”

  Eyes flickered between each other. Lilith’s expression remained unreadable.

  Ivar leaned forward just slightly, finishing his warning.

  “And if he has that weapon with him now…”

  A slow exhale.

  “Do you think that for one moment, in the next hundred years, or two hundred, whenever he returns…”

  “…he won’t be coming back to destroy anything and everything that took his kingdom?”

  Silence.

  Ivar’s smile widened.

  “I love some of you too much to see you destroyed.”

  Another lie. Only one and it wasn't Lilith.

  But one that would be remembered.