When the Fall of Form began, no one noticed.
The first signs were small: shadows started speaking in forgotten dialects, colors developed their own gravitational pull, and thoughts began migrating south for the winter.
But then the sun dissolved into a symphony of regret, and the oceans boiled into glass.
By then, it was far too late.
Erimos stood alone on the edge of the Rupture, where the air turned into static and the ground bled ink. He was the last coherent thing—though even his sanity was more of a polite suggestion than a fact.
“It’s beautiful,” he whispered, watching the moon fold itself into a Möbius strip.
He laughed.
The sound broke the sky.
The Harlequin Kings arrived soon after.
They rode machines made of forgotten childhood fears, and their faces were mosaics of stolen memories. Their armies marched on stilts of bone, wielding weapons made from lost causes and broken promises.
“Erimos,” the First King said, his voice a dozen clashing melodies. “You have something we require.”
“I have nothing,” Erimos replied, grinning. “Nothing but laughter.”
“Exactly.”
The battle was madness.
The Harlequin Kings unleashed storms of silence and plagues of nostalgia. Erimos fought back with puns so sharp they sliced through time and riddles that drove their hearers to transcendence or despair.
When he laughed, mountains turned to sand and memories sprouted wings.
But even madness has limits.
When the Third King unleashed the Thoughtquake, reality cracked.
Erimos fell into the gap.
He awoke in a place that had no right to exist.
The sky was a library of unsaid words. Rivers ran backward, flowing into their own sources. In the distance, the moon whispered apologies.
And in the center of it all stood the Last City.
Its streets were paved with possibilities. Its towers grew like trees, shedding leaves of probability. The air hummed with the weight of choices not made.
And at its heart sat the Engine of Laughter.
It was waiting for him.
When Erimos touched the Engine, everything changed.
Laughter became light.
Madness became order.
The world remade itself in his image.
Now, when the wind blows through the Last City, you can still hear his laughter.
It shapes the sky.
It defines the ground.
It is the only law.
