The dungeon swallowed them whole.

  One moment, the rebels stood clustered in the seminary’s shadow, blades raised against the obsidian maw. The next—nothing. No breath. No light. A vacuum so absolute, Elara’s battle cry died unvoiced in her throat.

  Then grass.

  Claire landed crouched, buckler braced, her pulse hammering against the silence. Sunlight—real sunlight, honeyed and warm—drenched a meadow that stretched endlessly under a sky untouched by smog. Wildflowers swayed where moments ago there had been rot, their petals blushing hues she’d only seen in pre-purge paintings. A spring bubbled nearby, its waters crystalline, laughing as they trickled over stones.

  "Trap," she hissed, knuckles whitening on her rapier hilt. The air smelled wrong. Not the metallic tang of holy censers or the acrid bite of smog. Just… green. Alive. Unnervingly so.

  Veyra materialized ten paces away, her crow-feather cloak dissolving into motes of shadow. She knelt, pressing a gnarled hand to the soil. "Not illusion.." Her milky eye rolled back, Void-veins throbbing at her temple. "The Void."

  A breeze stirred, carrying the scent of pine from the encircling forest. Georg appeared next, axe already sweeping in a defensive arc. He froze mid-swing, weapon trembling. "What fresh hell is this?"

  The meadow drank his words. No echo.

  Lyla and Roza appeared next, their daggers ready for combat. They silently looked around and had eye contact with Claire who just nodded.

  Melissa stumbled into being, cursing as she patted empty bandoliers. "Drones? Trent? Baruch?" Her voice cracked. Without her gadgets’ familiar weight, she looked smaller. Younger. "Claire? Orders?"

  "Hold position." Claire’s gaze swept the tree line. No Seraphim glyphs. No drones. Just birdless branches sighing in unison. "Weapons ready. Assume hostile engagement."

  Elara phased into existence blade-first, dagger carving empty air where a foe should’ve been. Her boots sank into loam, Void-scarred hands shaking. "Ambush. Has to be." She circled backward until her shoulders met Georg’s. "Too quiet. Too clean."

  Above them, suspended in the Void’s starless crawl, Devon watched.

  His form flickered, tethered to the dungeon’s beating heart. Fractured scenes pulsed around him—Claire’s squad edging toward the spring, Veyra chanting in static-tongue, Elara’s sword grazing a flower that bled silver sap.

  Interesting.

  The Void hummed, its voice the grind of tectonic plates.

  [The Second Coming has commenced]

  Devon’s essence recoiled. "I didn’t sign up for prophecy."

  The meadow twisted.

  Claire’s boot sank through false earth into liquid shadow. She yanked free, rapier raised. "Regroup! It’s shifting!"

  Too late.

  The spring’s gentle babble erupted into a thunderous roar. Waters geysered skyward, shimmering liquid crystallizing into a towering humanoid form—featureless, radiant, wielding a blade of pure, condensed light that hummed with a high-pitched whine. The air crackled with ozone, and the meadow’s warmth turned frigid.

  “Contact!” Georg bellowed, hefting his axe with both hands. Muscles coiled, he charged, the weapon’s edge slicing through the creature’s midsection. It parted like mist, only to reform instantly, its luminescent gaze locking onto him.

  Lyla darted past its flank, daggers a blur of silver. “No blood—no core!” she shouted, frustration sharpening her tone as her strikes met empty air.

  “Eyes up, Ly!” Roza’s glaive whipped sideways, parrying a strike meant for Lyla’s spine. Steel clashed against light, sparks erupting like holy fire, scorching the grass beneath their boots.

  Veyra’s chant rose, guttural and resonant. Black roots erupted from the earth, thorned and glistening with sap that reeked of burnt iron. They ensnared the water-creature, Void-tendrils searing its luminescence. With a hiss like steam on coals, it collapsed, dissolving into the spring’s now-churning depths.

  “First trial passed,” Veyra rasped, sagging to her knees, her breath ragged. “More to come?”

  As if summoned, six new figures surged from the spring—faceless, radiant, their blades singing with menace.

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  Melissa backpedaled, snatching a jagged rock from the ground. “Anyone else feeling severely underdressed?” she quipped, though her knuckles whitened around the stone.

  Elara blurred into motion, her dagger trailing violet static that hissed like a live wire. She severed a warrior’s neck in one fluid strike; it crumbled, but two more materialized in its wake. “Adapt. Improvise,” she snapped, her voice taut.

  Georg fought with grim precision, each axe swing a study in controlled fury. “They’re testing patterns!” he barked, sweat glistening on his brow. “Third one feints left—watch its footwork!”

  Claire’s rapier pierced a shimmering heart, the creature dissolving into mist. “Since when do dungeons train rebels?” she muttered, disbelief narrowing her eyes.

  Since they’re not dungeons, Devon’s voice echoed drily in the Void. They’re classrooms. A chill prickled his non-corporeal spine as the forest beyond the meadow stirred, shadows shifting with intent.

  Myrtle materialized mid-leap, cursing as she hit the ground rifle-less. “Where’s my damn gun?!”

  “Your magic are your gun!” Melissa conjured a hammer which she threw with all her mightt. It struck a warrior’s knee with a sickening crunch, buying Myrtle precious seconds to scramble clear.

  Lapen appeared next, Lissa cradled against his chest. “Stay behind me!” he ordered, voice cracking. “We were in the camp just a moment ago ?” he whispered to himself.

  But the girl slipped free, drawn to the spring like a moth to flame. The warriors parted around her, their light dimming as she knelt, her silver-veined fingers skimming the water’s surface. Ripples spread, carrying whispers—voices—soft as cobwebs.

  [Candidate recognized.]

  The meadow froze. Warriors halted mid-lunge, blades suspended in golden light.

  Veyra staggered upright. “Child—step away!”

  Lissa’s veins blazed argent, her eyes reflecting depths beyond the Void. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “They’re just… lonely.”

  The spring erupted.

  Not in violence, but revelation.

  Water arced skyward, sculpting visions: a robed woman etching runes into stone, her hands trembling with resolve; children weaving chains of meadow blooms, laughter echoing across time; a battle-weary soldier kneeling to sip unfiltered rain, his face awash with wonder.

  The Apostates’ last moments, Devon realized, the Void’s cold seeping into him. Their hope preserved.

  [Second trial: Communion.]

  Grass withered. Flowers petrified. The rebels clutched sudden wounds that left no mark—Georg’s ribs flaring where Lara’s noose had chafed, Elara’s palms bleeding from phantom blades, Claire’s lungs seizing with long-vanquished soot-fever.

  Lissa screamed.

  Her silver veins tore through skin, tendrils of light anchoring her to the spring. Lapen lunged, but the visions repelled him—a kaleidoscope of martyrs’ final breaths.

  "Let her go!" He battered against the light-barrier, fists shredding on intangible edges.

  Devon surged against the Void’s grip. "Enough!"

  [Interference prohibited.]

  He unraveled further, static bleeding into the meadow. "She’s twelve, you fanatical entity!"

  [Sacrifice is ageless.]

  Lissa’s back arched. The Apostates’ memories flooded her—centuries of rebellion, suppression, whispered defiance. Her voice fractured under the weight. "I can’t… hold…"

  Elara slammed her dagger into the spring. "You want a vessel? Take someone already damned!"

  Void-energy erupted.

  The meadow shattered.

  Rebels tumbled through chaos—sky shards piercing earth, forest folding into itself, the spring draining into a vortex that howled with a thousand lost voices.

  Devon caught Lissa mid-fall, her veins dimming to faint silver tracery. "Clever girl. You jury-rigged their own matrix."

  She whimpered, clutching his translucent arm. "Too loud…"

  Around them, the dungeon reconstituted.

  Not a meadow.

  A training ground etched in obsidian, weapon racks lining walls that pulsed with familiar Void-static. At the center, a single pedestal cradled an orb of liquid shadow. A staircase going downward.

  [Ascension.]

  Georg hauled Claire to her feet, his axe still humming with the eerie luminescence of the dungeon’s trials. The weapon cast jagged shadows across his face, sharpening the weariness in his smirk. “Sentient architecture,” he grumbled, thumbing a fresh chip in the blade. “Next time, I’m bringing a demolition charge.”

  Elara circled the obsidian pedestal, her Void-scarred fingertips hovering above the orb. It pulsed faintly, liquid shadow swirling like ink dropped in water. “A focus,” she murmured, more to herself than the others. “Or a key.”

  Devon lowered Lissa to the floor, his translucent form flickering as static danced along her silver-veined arms. “Or a bomb,” he said lightly, though his void-eye remained fixed on the girl. “Depends who’s holding the leash.”

  Veyra limped forward, her crow-feather cloak whispering across stone etched with ancient runes. “The Apostates’ final gift,” she breathed, hunger and dread warring in her milky gaze. “To wield this is to inherit their—”

  “We vote.” Claire’s rapier struck the floor, the clang silencing the chamber. Her eyes swept the group—Melissa picking grime from her nails, Myrtle scowling at her empty rifle sling, Lapen gripping Lissa’s shoulder like he could anchor her to the mortal plane. “Now.”

  A small hand tugged Lapen’s sleeve. “The orb…” Lissa’s voice quivered, her veins shimmering as the dungeon’s whispers coiled around her. “It’s lonely.”

  Devon crouched, the void-eye in his disintegrating face reflecting infinite depths. “What’s it want, kid?”

  “To be used.” Her whisper echoed unnaturally. “Not… worshipped.”

  The walls shuddered. Dust rained from ceilings older than the Monarch’s reign.

  Claire turned to Veyra. The Apostate leader bowed, her tremor betraying fervor. “It requires a soul tempered by loss. One who knows chains.”

  Every head turned.

  Elara froze, her sword slipping from numb fingers. “No.”

  Georg’s calloused palm settled on her pauldron—a weight both comfort and cage. “You can turn their blades. Their hymns.” His thumb brushed the scarred hollow of her throat where a Seraphim’s collar once bit. “Makes sense.”

  “No.” She stumbled back, boots scraping ancient sigils. “I’m no savior. Just… another blade.”

  The orb flared.

  Lissa lunged.

  Lightning crackled—not light, but anti-light, a voracious dark that swallowed sound and breath and time itself. When vision returned, the girl stood unharmed, the orb cradled in her palms like a captured star. Shadow and silver veins intertwined, pulsing to the rhythm of her laughter.

  The dungeon walls peeled away, stone dissolving into golden-hour sunlight that had no business in the Greylands.

  Devon stared. “Well.” His form wavered, eaten at the edges. “That was… abrupt.”

  Claire scanned the group with a commander’s calculus—bloodied but whole. “Status?”

  Nods. Grunts. Melissa’s muttered ”Still underdressed.”

  Elara retrieved her sword. Her hands didn’t shake. Her eyes did. “Innocence,” she rasped. “Uncorrupted by human greed nor power.”

  Lissa spun, the orb trailing comet-tails of shadow around her. “It tickles!”

  As the others trudged toward the light, Devon lingered in the dissolving Void. The message hung burning in the air—[THE SECOND COMING BEGINS]—in letters that had the weight of prophecy and pretension.

  Devon slowly dissolved. “I’ll be back soon.”