Lethos

Entry One

Prince Edwin's youngest son, Lord Lethos, had lain bedridden for months. Nearly every royal physician had declared he wouldn't live to see the winter. Then the court jester, Mortas, paid a visit. From that day on, the young lord began to recover. Just yesterday, his face was as pale as death, his breath barely stirring his chest. Yet today, he rose and walked on his own. His Highness was overcome with joy, showering us servants with rewards and ordering us to attend the boy with utmost care. And yet... something about him is wrong. His eyes are black as ink, as if they could swallow a man whole. His breath comes slow and heavy—not the breath of a youth, but a low, muffled growl. Everyone tells me it's just nerves, that I'm still shaken by his illness. But the feeling clings to me, gnaws at me. It's as though another soul inhabits his body now.

Entry Two

My quarters face Lord Lethos' chamber. When night falls, the most blood-curdling sounds drift through the walls. At first, I thought it was the young lord tossing in pain—but no. No human could make such sounds. It's like cloth being torn apart, or bones scraping against stone. The sounds are damp and chilling, like whispers seeping from an ancient crypt... Once, I asked the guard outside, "Did His Highness... need a physician last night?" But the man's expression froze, as if warning me. "Do your job and don't ask so many questions." That night I tossed and turned, my ears still ringing with those sounds like something being torn apart. And then I realized—if the young lord had truly recovered, why is his door sealed with silver nails and carved with runes?

Entry 3

In the morning, I brought a silver platter with porridge and bread to his chamber as usual. The tray always comes back untouched. Only the crust bears a faint scratch—made by a nail, stained dark brown. I heard from other servants that lately, livestock have gone missing from the royal storehouse. The keeper blames thieves. But what thief could slip past these walls? At night, I heard him whisper, his voice ragged as a torn bellows: "I need... flesh..." In that moment, all the blood in my body ran cold.

Entry 4

Today, while helping Lord Lethos dress, he lifted a hand to stop me—but too late. My fingers brushed his skin. That sensation... it was like pressing my fingertips into rotting fruit, sinking into soft, slippery flesh. The prince stared at me with a hollow calm—no anger, no warmth, only emptiness. He slowly turned toward the vanity, lifted his makeup case, and dabbed thick, scented powder across his cheeks, hiding the fine cracks in his skin. A sweet, cloying scent filled the air, but it couldn't mask the stench of decay. Perhaps my fear showed too plainly. As I stepped back, I nearly stumbled over the threshold, but the prince just glared and barked at me to leave. But that voice... it wasn't a young man's voice anymore. It was the rasp of something cruel and ancient. Could it be that what the prince is trying so desperately to preserve isn't his recovery at all, but rather... this body that hasn't completely rotted away yet?

Entry Five

Servants from the royal chambers are vanishing one by one. First the maid who swept the corridors, then the court physician who brought medicine... They say these people fled during the recent unrest, but I know better—they never left at all... Last night, by flickering candlelight, I saw a gaunt figure slowly dragging something into the prince's room, leaving a dark trail that glistened on the floor. The air stank of iron and grease, and on what remained of an arm hung a copper ring—the very one the court physician always wore. I fled to my chamber, biting my sleeve to silence my screams. Yet even so, I could still hear the sounds of chewing from the end of the corridor, broken by low, animal groans... Perhaps those attendants still remain with His Highness. Just... in a different form?

Entry 6

Lately, the sounds have returned. Footsteps echo down the corridor—slow, heavy, dragging something that squelches with every step. I once thought to beg the prince for protection, but ever since Lord Lethos' "recovery," His Highness stands vigil outside that chamber, day and night. No one dares to speak, no one dares to remind him that the thing behind that door is no longer his beloved son. While cleaning the physician's quarters, I found a torn journal page. The ink was smeared with blood, the handwriting trembling and near illegible. Only one line could still be read—half-finished, as though written mid-realization. I think he understood the truth: that the prince's miracle was beyond mortal means. I remember the night it began—when the young lord was near death, the court jester lingered outside, clutching a scroll that pulsed with dark energy. The prince, wild with grief, tore it from his hands. But the jester just smiled, as if watching a promise fulfilled. Yes... everything changed from that moment on.

Entry 7

Tonight, the door to Prince Lethos' chamber opened again. From within came the sounds—wet tearing, muffled chewing, and whispers that crawled beneath the skin. One voice rose above the rest, a whisper that reached straight into my mind, calling my name. The candles flickered out one by one, and the far end of the corridor sank into darkness. My hand shook as I tried to write, ink bleeding across the page. The door to my room creaked open. A pale hand reached through the gap, its fingertips trailing scraps of rotted flesh. Then I saw his eyes—black, hollow, endless. Eyes that could swallow the world.

He... is...

(The text ends abruptly. The ink is splattered with blood, and the torn edges of the parchment appear chewed.)

"Shh! This gift is our secret. I wrapped it nicely... Don't worry, it won't bite."

Has visit scenes with Edwin and Mortas.