Chapter Text
𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐨 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞.
~ ~ ~ ✦ ~ ~ ~
The Mist Isles were named for the constant haze clinging to their jagged cliffs, but they were also known for their secrets.
One of those secrets walked into Skull's life uninvited.
He was younger then—Skull, that is. Not yet the "Immortal," not yet feared or pitied. Just a prodigy of Mist Flames, a phantom conjurer who bent perception like silk and carved illusions into the air like breathing.
He preferred being alone.
So when a stranger in black robes arrived unannounced on the edge of his sanctum, Skull was… less than pleased.
"You crossed my barriers," Skull said coldly, mist flames coiling around his fingers. "No one does that by accident."
The man bowed his head. "I had help."
"From whom?"
The man smiled faintly. "From your future."
Skull didn't like that answer. The mist around him pulsed.
"State your name, or vanish."
"Veltoré," the man said. "Alchemist. Seeker of the True Flame. And I'm not here to harm you, Skull. I'm here to offer you something only you could understand."
Skull hesitated. Not because he believed him—but because Veltoré had said his name without being told.
That was never a good sign.
𝐀 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧
~ ~ ~ ✦ ~ ~ ~
They sat inside a circle of enchanted mist, reality bending around them like glass in water. Time slowed. Words echoed.
"I've studied every known flame," Veltoré said. "But yours… the Mist Flame… it's the only one that masks truth. And therefore, it's the one closest to finding it."
Skull arched a brow. "Flattery won't stop me from dismembering you if this is a trap."
"I admire that," Veltoré said sincerely. "Because the truth is, I need someone like you."
"For what?"
Veltoré leaned forward. "To unmake the world and remake it in flame."
Skull didn't laugh. Not because it wasn't funny—but because he recognized madness when he saw it.
"I'm not interested in your apocalypse."
"It's not destruction," Veltoré said. "It's preservation. We can't let weak minds inherit this system. The Tri-ni-sette is flawed. The rings... the pacifiers... they choose people at random, at whim. I want to rewrite the rules. Select who is worthy."
Skull frowned. "So you want to become the system."
Veltoré didn't deny it.
"But you'll need sacrifices," Skull said quietly. "You'll need lives."
Veltoré's voice turned reverent. "Just seven."
Skull stood.
"No."
"No?" Veltoré repeated, rising slowly.
"You're asking me to kill seven people—maybe myself—in the name of 'balance.' That's not truth. That's delusion."
Veltoré's eyes darkened. "Then remember this moment, Mist Flame, Because one day, you'll realize the world will burn either with us or without us. And when that time comes…"
He turned toward the mist.
"I will already be its keeper."
He vanished.
𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫—𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐜𝐭
~ ~ ~ ✦ ~ ~ ~
When Skull opened his eyes after the ritual—disoriented, fragmented, broken—he remembered that conversation.
He remembered Veltoré's promise. His madness. His vision of rewriting reality with fire.
And he realized too late:
The ritual wasn't about sealing the Tri-ni-sette.
It was about building a system that Veltoré alone could control.
And Skull had been the only one who said no.
Which is why he was the only one who was removed—rewritten, replaced, forgotten.
𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐲
~ ~ ~ ✦ ~ ~ ~
Skull stood alone in the crumbling warehouse, the walls still reeking of old varnish and dust. His hands trembled, wrapped around nothing—yet everything.
Before him, in the wavering haze of his Mist Flames, hung a shape. A projection.
The Mist Pacifier.
Its image pulsed in the purple flames, unstable, glitching—like a broken heartbeat forced to echo through a body no longer alive.
He reached toward it, fingers brushing the phantom light. It felt cold, even through the flames, a chill that ran straight to his soul.
"You never wanted guardians," he rasped, his voice raw. "You wanted anchors."
The projected pacifier flickered again, half there, half gone, tied to Checker Face's distant will—a cruel reminder of the bond he could not sever.
He clenched his fist, violent fire sparking around the illusion, trying to burn it out, burn it away.
"Well guess what, Veltoré."
His eyes lifted to the rafters, where dust motes danced like ghosts in the afternoon light.
"This anchor's coming loose."
The echo of the Mist Pacifier rippled, fighting him, then stabilized—as if mocking him for daring to challenge it.
Skull grinned, a sharp, broken grin that no one would have called heroic.
But it was his grin.
And this time, he meant every iota of it.
~ ~ ~ ✦ ~ ~ ~