3 Days since Evacuation: I remember landing in the Falklands. I remember seeing so many wounded. I remember telling those operators that I had taken over from Arthur… Yet, that's it. Why did we flee? What killed Arthur? What killed my father? I feel so instinctively, so primally, that so much has changed, but that knowledge seems completely out of reach. Whatever the case, the people at GRAIL showered me with such praise for my bravery and determination in taking control in Arthur's absence. I know, though I don't know how, that it isn't true. But if Hartley taught me anything, it was to never pass up such an opportunity. They are already talking about promotion. I guess I owe it to Hartley to take it. He may not have been a good father, but he was the best one I had.

267 Days since Evacuation: As I sit at my desk and reminisce about my time working with Hartley, I can't help but feel a strange sense of ease that he is gone. It is, and I am well aware of this, a terrible thought. He may have lied to me and made my family spurn me for his impropriety, but he also made me into who I am today. No, the truth is that, ever since that grand ceremony was held at his cenotaph, I have been able to sleep much lighter. For decades, my unconscious roamed in vivid nightmares, but the second he left, so did they. I still hear the odd song which seems to lack a source, but I blame that on the medication they make me take. It seems most people who landed in the Falklands that day were diagnosed with something. CPTSD; that's what they said I had. Though the source of that trauma eludes me, no matter how many times the therapist tries to dredge it up. All I can do now is look forward and hope that my proposition for greater cooperation with the BGA goes through, so I can finally move to Vienna and be rid of my family. It's almost comical how they pass niceties over dinner, completely unaware of how much I know about their scandal. They will know soon enough.

522 Days since Evacuation: I wish I had a camera on hand when I told them. Just something to eternally capture that look of horror and guilt plastered over my mother's face. Of course, they denied it, but so weakly that it was clear they had no rebuttal. So we did what the gentry always do: we struck a deal. I would prevent all the information I had come into possession of over the years – the drunken confessions I had recorded, the incriminating photographs I had secretly hoarded and, most importantly, the DNA test proving beyond doubt that I was not my father's son – and, in exchange, they would make me the sole proprietor of their Vienna estate and maintain a sizable distance until such time that I consider their debts paid. They agreed, unsurprisingly. For the first time in my life, they seemed genuinely proud of me for the promotion to Head of Biological Research at GRAIL. It was perversely enjoyable watching it all crash down, and that look of shame I was so accustomed to immediately flooded back. I regret nothing.

861 Days since Evacuation: Vienna has quickly begun feeling like home, though I can't quite silence my mind. Even here, the doctors can't posit even a weak hypothesis for the source of the discomfort in my right eye. They have run so many tests and yet seem no closer to an answer. I've given up trying to explain my hallucinations. Better to grit my teeth than risk compromising my promotion. Hartley's replacement is nothing compared to what he was, so I wouldn't be surprised if his position became vacant soon. I want to take the role. I want to make Hartley proud, even if only posthumously. I much prefer being Belenus to Selkie. I see the cracks in GRAIL and the BGA, and I need to heal them. As difficult as Valerian is, I believe there is something we can make from our collaboration. It's strange, really. There are so many people that I feel drawn to, though I cannot begin to fathom the reasons. Evelyn Jackson, for example. I haven't the foggiest why I granted her a scholarship, nor why I keep getting such regular updates. Similarly, I don't know why I feel so compelled to invite Dr Emanuel Aguirre-Vidal to the estate. I, of course, deeply respect their work, but I don't have this same compulsion for others. I hate not knowing so much of my mind. I hate that I miss having those dreams…

2094 Days since Evacuation: It finally happened. I now stand where Hartley once stood. The Commissioner for GRAIL. I was quite surprised to receive letters of congratulations from my siblings, technically breaking our agreement. Still, I hold far less venom for them than I do for my parents. Perhaps there is still hope to cultivate some form of relationship with them. Though I've already decided not to invite them to the wedding. I hate myself for not being happier. I've done everything right. I am successful. I found love. I am wealthy! Yet I feel so hollow. So haunted. I haven't told anyone this, but the hallucinations have only been getting worse. Some nights I wake up and, through my inching right eye, everything is painted crimson. I used to love the sea so much, and now just the thought of being near it makes me feel beyond ill. Worst of all, every time I pass over the Wien, as much as I don't want to, I feel compelled to look in. Every time it is the same. It's the Styx. I see Hartley and Liu and other ghostly forms I do not recognise, all staring back at me. All with the same crimson eyes.

Written by Melian P.

It’s November 2018. A team of men and woman arrive in Antarctica. On their banner, a rampant lion upon a blood-red chalice. Reports of unusual animal behaviour has drawn them here, to the edge of the Earth. A prestige project. An attempt to win back the nation’s trust. Public opinion of GRAIL has been at all time low following years of exposés. The new Commissioner hopes to rectify that.

But as soon as the helicopter crosses that damnable threshold, he knows things are beyond saving. In an instant, every memory comes surging back. The hallucinations, the dreams that have never abated. The nights in the laboratory puzzling over the impossible. The scars on his hand finally receiving an explanation. The blood-stained rites renewing ancient bargains. The feeling of sinking a blade into the throat of a King.

It was all real.

And it is going to happen again.

Still, it’s too late to turn back now. Every bargain must be upheld, every debt paid. A man so versed in folklore knows that you cannot keep the Devil waiting.

The Commissioner is silent all throughout the descent, despite the murmuring of his operatives. He still feels the wrongness of this place deep in his bones, but the blood vessels in his eye begin throb with an inexplicable sense of belonging.

Belenus – the Celtic god of healing - strides from the helicopter with a confidence that Selkie – the shapeshifter – never could have achieved. In some senses, he looks every bit like his father. The shadow that follows him is strikingly similar. And yet, he is nothing like that terrible old man. For he has a heart. He has kindness, tact, foresight, and a sense of duty unmarred by regret and disillusion.

And more’s the pity. For no matter how noble, all Kings must fall.

It’s a matter of days before the Commissioner retreats to the world of the occult. The blood rituals – they worked before, didn’t they? He cuts his hands. Spreads his blood on the ice. Traces the symbols. Tries to open their eyes once again. Re-establish his connection with those primordial forces that run deep through the cold Abaddon depths.

His operatives are… sceptical. They suspect insanity, and perhaps they are right. The Commissioner is bound, secured in a dark room where light refuses to penetrate. The restraints are a temporary measure, his operatives reason; an unfortunate necessity that must be in effect until their leader recovers from his madness.

But, of course, they will never return to untie him. He knows that. He knew they weren’t coming back the second the door was closed and he was confined to the chthonic darkness. Not from lack of loyalty, mind you. He just knew that this place would break them too. He just hopes that they were dispatched quickly.

The shadows in the room stretch out, their eyes burning red. Hartley is here, proud as ever, full of sound and fury. Heide too, a much more tolerable spectre. How long has it been? Days? Weeks? Does the time pass in here just as it does in the outside world? Perhaps the distinction is immaterial.

The water is up to his waist now, the rising Styx. It won’t be long before the entire station is submerged. Perhaps this was what he felt in those dreams: a charnel grave, inevitable and lightless. In any case, he’ll soon be free to swim these depths, though not in this form.

Metamorphosis – it's a natural part of life, no?

He closes his crimson eyes, not knowing what he will be once they open.

How exciting.