I am writing this from a room at the end of a pier in the city of Nikraria, where the sea smells of rust and old prayers. Three days ago, I was a cartographer. Now, I am a cartographer of the inside of my own skull.
She looked at me.
By Nikraria
And then, in the hollow silence, something new grows.
“No,” he said, tying a knot. “You are the Delirium. You always were. Nikraria is sane. You are the fever dreaming a city.” Delirium -Nikraria-
And the mirror-woman? She was standing behind me. Smiling with a thousand cracked lips. I am back in my room now. The pier. The rust-smelling sea.
And in Nikraria, during Delirium, that is far, far worse. I am writing this from a room at
— A fragment recovered from the sea wall, written in charcoal and salt water. The author was not found.