The corridor stretched out before Finn, its narrowness amplifying the pulse of light that bled from the walls. The green glow swirled, almost liquid in its movement, as though it was alive, watching him. His heart hammered in his chest, each beat making his ears ring. The further he went, the tighter the air became, the pressure increasing like the weight of the world itself was pressing down on him.
It wasn't just the walls. It wasn't just the silence. It was something else. A presence, heavy and suffocating. A force that wrapped around him like chains, invisible but inescapable. It was as though the very air was thick with a crushing hunger.
And Finn knew what it was. Even before he reached the end of the corridor, he could feel it. He could feel it.
At the far end, the hallway opened into a cavernous room—a throne room, he realized, though nothing about it looked remotely regal. The air was thick with a haze of shadow, swirling in the center like smoke, and the walls were lined with strange symbols that seemed to squirm in his vision. A dark throne sat at the far side, empty—except for the oppressive weight that radiated from it.
The presence was here. And it was waiting.
Finn stepped forward cautiously, every instinct screaming at him to turn and run, but he didn't. He couldn't. There was no escaping it.
As he entered the room, he felt a shift, like a pressure lifting for just a moment—before it came back with ten times the force. The room felt colder, the weight of the air suffocating, pressing down on his chest like a thousand invisible hands.
And then, he saw it.
A King.
He wasn't sitting on the throne. Not yet. The figure—towering, massive, draped in tattered black robes—was standing just beyond it. It was as if the very sight of the King was enough to warp the air itself, bending light and shadow in ways that shouldn't be possible.
Finn's breath caught in his throat.
The King's form was a mockery of humanity. His limbs were long, far too long, stretched like rubber, his hands grotesque, with too many fingers, some of them bent in unnatural angles. The skin on his face was a deep, sickly purple, stretched tight over his skull, as if the flesh itself was trying to crawl off his bones. His eyes—those terrible eyes—were pure, endless black, as if his sockets had consumed every color in existence, leaving only the void.
But yet his appearance wasn't what froze Finn's blood. No. It was the presence.
The King's aura felt like a weight that pressed in on Finn's very being, suffocating him with its sheer malevolence. Every inch of his body screamed under its power, and his mind—his very thoughts—seemed to flicker and wane under its crushing force, like fireflies trapped in a jar.
The King didn't have to speak. He didn't need to move.
The knowledge that the King knew he was here—felt like a cold, vile hand crawling down Finn's spine. It was a sensation that dug into his skin, as if the King's gaze was a weight on his soul, even though the King hadn't even acknowledged him yet. Finn wasn't marked, wasn't supposed to be in this place, and yet the King knew he was here without ever saying a word.
It was like the King could taste the air, feel the pulse of his heart, hear the beating of his terrified thoughts. The King's awareness was omnipresent. It was not just sight or sound. It was something beyond. Something deeper.
And then, the pressure grew even heavier.
A low, rumbling sound filled the room—like a growl, but without words. Finn's head swam. His vision blurred, his thoughts slipping and twisting as the presence around him coiled tighter, like the grip of some great, unseen serpent.
The King didn't need to say anything for Finn to understand.
This place—the room, the throne, the walls themselves—was built on something horrible. A hunger so deep and insatiable it made Finn's skin crawl.
The King fed. Not on blood. Not on flesh. But on something far worse.
He fed on their dreams.
Finn didn't know how he knew it. He just did. Maybe it was the whispers in the back of his mind. Maybe it was the way the air hummed with the silent screams of the broken ones, the hollowed people he had seen before. He understood, even without understanding how: The King devoured the very essence of those who were marked. Not their life force, not their bodies, but their dreams—their hopes, their aspirations, the spark of their will to live. The King crushed their dreams and consumed them, adding their power to his own.
The hollow-eyed people were the remnants of that feast. Nothing left but empty husks. And Finn knew, deep down, that he was nothing but a choice—a new vessel for the King's insatiable hunger. He could feel it now, the weight of it, the pull of his presence, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. If the King wanted him, it would only take a moment—a whisper, a thought, and Finn would be lost, consumed like the others.
Finn staggered back, his breath coming in shallow gasps, but his feet wouldn't move. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the King, from the thing standing before him. He was trapped, caught between the oppressive weight of that aura and the overwhelming knowledge that if he stayed, he would lose himself too.
But before he could make his next move, the King spoke, though his lips never parted.
"You are… different."
The voice wasn't heard in Finn's ears. It was felt, in the marrow of his bones, in the hollow space of his chest. It echoed through his mind like a thousand whispers, the words twisting and curling around him.
Finn's heart thundered in his chest as the King's gaze—those endless, black eyes—shifted toward him. It was as if the King was inside him now, his mind crawling through the cracks, seeing his every fear, his every thought.
And in that moment, Finn realized with horrible clarity:
The King already knew him. He had always known.
The Inquisitors hadn't failed. They had just delayed the inevitable. Finn was nothing more than another offering, another soul to be devoured in the King's endless feast of dreams.
And there was no escape. Not now. Not ever.