There was enticement, temptation, in the decadence of danger. Some would say it inspired foolishness, too much daring, a sweeping multitude of idiocy; but to the brazen, to the bold, to the beasts who’d been carved from the leagues of menace, it was one more defiant thrust of sedition, one more touch of rebellion. He prospered from revolution, from the vile siege of rancor, from the bitter persecution of abhorrence, from the noxious, nefarious blend of justice and valor, when it trickled down from its virtuous heights and merely became the bones for malice. His frame coiled and curled into the vile turns and contortions of chaos, of bedlam, because it was all he’d known since a child – springing and thrusting and bellowing into the heart lands for pure, wild, savage entertainment, and growing beneath the realm of deceit, of discord, of contempt, sowing the seeds for foretold ambition and beloved acrimony. He’d dreamed of wars and plagues and disaster for as long as he’d been alive, nourished by stories and tales of heroes and villains, before running into their figures and watching, wide-eyed, as worlds fell apart and friends fell and contempt, loathing, infernal, beguiling fury became a portion of his mind, body, and soul. He’d collided into courage, mettle, and wicked, debauched hymns, and the only way to ascertain what was to come next – the future, the foreshadowing, the beckoning, darkened scrolls of all their intertwined oeuvres – they’d had to march forward, back into the Stygian tombs. The prince could say he was maneuvering into the bestial shades, into the misty catacombs, for information to bring back to the mystical Queens, for glory, for truths, but that damned allure still beat in his restless, insurrectionist heart.
 
So when they wandered into the eerie, eldritch floors, accompanied by his companions (little Enyo with her gangly legs, fluffing her wings, unbothered, unperturbed, by the legends already amassed by this significant site, Orsino with his feral nonchalance), his eyes narrowed, watched, ghosted over the scenery, stepping lightly along the boundaries, waiting for Ode to slide and follow in accordingly. He was silent, taking in the sights, the sounds, the awe, the shards resting there, remembering the way others had fallen beneath a monster’s tirade, the remorseless sway of Kao’s words, the warnings beckoning them onward despite the truth echoing through their skulls – and he didn’t know what they’d find, what they’d see, when they dared to go reign closer, when they were spurred on, incensed, by the indulgent void. The General swung his head towards his cousin, a grin coiling just on the edge of his lips, a study in Lucifer pluck, nerve, and audacity, arching a singular brow, searing on the steps of the unknown. “Ready?” The youth called, one foot already in the dungeon.