PRELUDE

See, the shifting worlds of make-believe.

Hear, the drifting sounds that deceive.

Speak, the words you wish to scream.

Dream, Little Butterfly, Dream.

---

Blood. Rain. A home. A monster. Death. A woman’s face. Salvation. Hatred.

Oberon’s eyes opened to darkness and silence. The silk drapes flutter elegantly in the fall breeze carried through the open balcony. The open balcony.

A longsword of lilac steel manifests in Oberon’s free hand. He rolls from his bed, planting both feet onto the cold stone floor of his chambers.  His eyes flash with dark violet magic, as he boosts his ocular senses. His vision was already exceptional, but now even the loose threads of the curtains were blatantly obvious.

When someone is invisible, they are wholly transparent; however, to see, light must catch in the eyes; for this to occur, though mostly translucent, the eyes must still be somewhat visible in the world around them.

Oberon pays the concealed figure standing beside him no mind; and instead strides toward another intruder, who, unlike their companion, is still conventionally visible. Though shadowed in such a way to maximize their concealment in darkness, Oberon’s chambers leave little clutter to use as cover. However, the bookshelf in the corner is a half meter too far from the wall; a discrepancy he cannot ignore.

In a blur, Oberon raises his free hand toward the shelf, and in that same moment, the intruder kicks it toward him. They’re physically stronger than him. Oberon’s magic takes hold of the shelf mid-flight; its form shifting into that of stone. An object of equal weight, but the distribution causes it to fall short. Pivoting, Oberon lunges forward with a stab toward the invisible figure as they attempt to capitalize on his perceived inattentiveness. The blade pierces them through the chest; they’re quick, though Oberon was much faster. Despite this, they narrowly prevent the blade from impaling their heart; the invisibility that had been their only advantage finally drops. They crumple to the floor, writhing and gasping from a punctured lung.

Oberon turns back on the downed intruder, just as a heavy double-fisted overhead strike slams into his temple. Oberon is sent sprawling to the floor, his blade spiraling away out of reach, beneath his bed. The intruder presses the advantage. Oberon should be quicker, but he's disoriented; he attempts to deflect an incoming stomp toward his head, but fails and catches a boot across the chin. His head slams back into the stone, causing his ears to ring. The figure mounts him, wraps his hands around Oberon’s neck, and begins to squeeze. Within seconds, Oberon stops struggling. His hands fall limply at his side.

The intruder stands. Panting.

Tough bastard. But not as tough as the briefing said he was.

The intruder turns toward the door to leave the room, only stopping to glance back at their slowly dying comrade for only a moment. Then they turn back toward the door.

A small violet butterfly flutters down in front of the intruder; it crosses his face and flies off toward the closed balcony. The intruder takes another step, then stops. A closed balcony. He turns sharply back toward where he left Oberon’s body.

SNAP

With the sourceless snapping of fingers, the world around him collapses. The walls, the objects, the outside world, all melt away while the intruder pants, panicking, confused. His vision swims through the blending colors. He looks down at his hands. He lets out a shaky breath. He’s on his knees, mounting a body. The blood has pooled beneath the still body of his comrade as he pulls his hands away from their bruised neck.

Wha-What?!

The intruder looks around the room and finds the figure of Oberon standing silhouetted in the moonlight. A closed balcony door behind him. His glowing violet eyes, the only visible part of him in the darkness. Oberon speaks in a whisper that carries through the room and into the intruders' ears; the words are smooth like honey, but they drip with venom and malice.

Our time together must be brief. Tell me...Why are you here?

The intruders' eyes widen in fear and recognition at the situation he and the rest of his team are in. They have marched into not a den of wolves, but death.