A flicker of consciousness snapped me into place.

  The scent of old wood and faintly burning wax filled my nose, grounding me in the dim room. I was seated at a worn, uneven table, my hands resting on its splintered surface. The body felt sluggish, unfamiliar—Nell’s body.

  The single candle at the center of the room illuminated little, but enough for me to see the pristine white robe I was wearing. Its fabric was soft and elegant, far beyond anything someone like Nell could have owned. My fingers brushed the material, taking in the strange juxtaposition of my surroundings: threadbare walls, a cracked floor, and this...luxury.

  The knock came suddenly, pulling me from my thoughts. It wasn’t frantic but deliberate—three evenly spaced raps, each louder than the last.

  I rose from the chair, my movements clumsy as Nell’s weak muscles protested. My hand hovered over the doorknob before I twisted it open.

  A man stood there, taller than Nell but thin to the point of gauntness. His white robe mirrored mine, except for the crimson armband tied neatly around his left arm. The flickering candlelight cast sharp shadows on his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, but his smile was wide, almost too welcoming.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, his voice calm but with an edge of something I couldn’t quite place. “It’s time for the acceptance ceremony.”

  I nodded, or rather, Nell nodded, and the man’s smile widened. “Good. Follow me. There’s no need to worry—it’ll be over before you even know it. And the power you’ll gain after that... well, you’ll see soon enough.”

  The man turned on his heel, his robe swishing lightly as he stepped into the corridor. I followed, stepping out of the small room into a labyrinth of twisting, shadowed hallways. The walls were smooth stone, damp in places, and lined with sparse, guttering torches.

  “Where are we?” I asked, testing the boundaries of conversation through Nell’s voice.

  The guide glanced over his shoulder; his expression carefully neutral. “Deep beneath the surface. Somewhere safe, where no one will find us.”

  I chuckled softly, injecting a casualness into Nell’s tone. “Good to know. It’s always a pain when some self-righteous pricks show up at the worst moment to ruin everything.”

  The man’s smile grew a fraction, a flicker of genuine amusement. “You’re not wrong,” he said, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. “You’re a curious one, aren’t you?”

  There it was—the faintest hint of suspicion beneath his words. The distant crack of splintering glass echoed in my mind, warning me that I was pushing the memory to its limits.

  “Why’s that?” I asked, keeping my tone light.

  “When you arrived, you reeked of nerves and hesitation,” he said, his voice measured. “But now… you seem different. Like there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

  Observant.

  “Let’s just say life teaches its lessons,” I replied, tone smooth.

  He didn’t press further, and we continued through the twisting corridors in silence, the damp walls seeming to close in with every step.

  After a few minutes, I broke the quiet. “So, is it true? What they’re saying about demons? Am I going to make a pact with them?”

  The man’s steps faltered briefly before continuing. “You’ll see soon enough.”

  “And after the ceremony?”

  This time, he slowed, turning to face me. His smile was sharper now, colder. “That depends on you. If you succeed, the Wraiths will open doors you never even known or knew. If you fail... well, you don’t have to worry about doors. Or anything else, for that matter.”

  The cryptic response was expected, but I wasn’t satisfied. “What kind of doors are we talking about?”

  The guide stopped abruptly, turning to face me fully. “The kind that changes everything,” he said, his smile sharpening. “But these doors always require a toll. Remember that.”

  Before I could push further, he resumed walking, his pace quicker now as the corridor began to slope downward.

  Eventually, the hallway widened into a chamber lit by dozens of candles. The air was thick with the acrid scent of melted wax and blood, and the centerpiece was an enormous arcane circle carved into the stone floor, it’s runes filled with blood, glowing faintly as if alive.

  Standing near the circle were two familiar figures: the dwarf and the elf from the swamp. They wore robes like mine, their expressions devoid of emotions.

  The guide gestured for me to join them, then stepped back into the shadows near the chamber entrance.

  “Didn’t think I’d see you again,” the dwarf muttered, his voice as gruff as ever. He crossed his arms, his eyes scanning me critically.

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  The elf smirked, leaning lazily against the wall. “Fate works in funny ways, doesn’t it?”

  “What happens now?” I asked, slipping into Nell’s tone while steering the conversation.

  The dwarf shrugged. “We stand here, we chant some words, and if we’re lucky, we walk out with a demon in our heads instead of bits of us splattered on the walls.”

  The elf chuckled; his grin sharp. “If all they do is whisper, consider yourself fortunate.”

  Their calmness struck me as odd. No fear. No anticipation. Just... apathy.

  Trying to dig deeper, I asked, “What are you planning to do after this? Any grand schemes? Old grudges to settle?”

  The elf and dwarf exchanged a glance, their expressions momentarily unreadable.

  “Plans are for mortals,” the elf finally said, his tone almost languid. “When you’ve lived as long as I have, plans lose their charm. I’m just here for the ride.”

  The dwarf scoffed. “Typical elf. Always rubbing it in, eh?” He looked at me, his expression softening into something vaguely reminiscent of amusement. “Nothing grand, kid. Just survival. A little more power goes a long way in my line of work. Name’s Vomraic.”

  “I'm Nell, sir. Just Nell.”

  The elf chuckled, his eyes glinting with mischief. “No need to remember my name, friends. But, if you’re curious, though, I’ve heard whispers.” He glanced toward the chamber entrance, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “They’re planning something big—something that’ll shake things up.”

  “Something like what?”

  “Silent Rock,” he said, smirking as if the name alone carried weight. “They’re gearing up for a raid. ‘Harvesting materials,’ they called it. Sounds quaint, doesn’t it?”

  The dwarf chuckled darkly. “Heartless cunts.”

  Our chatter fell away as the chamber's atmosphere shifted abruptly. From a side entrance, a figure emerged, and all eyes turned toward them.

  They moved with a deliberate grace, draped in a cloak of white that cascaded down their form, edged with threads of gold that glimmered faintly in the candlelight. Beneath the cloak, a pristine white robe inlaid with gold embroidery and crossed with crimson gems shimmered like a garment worthy of royalty. Their face was obscured by a mask, smooth and unblemished, leaving only their piercing eyes visible—a gaze that seemed to pierce the soul.

  In their hands, they carried a golden tray, its intricate patterns catching the flickering light. Upon it rested a chalice, and in its presence, the room itself seemed to hold its breath.

  The chalice was a masterpiece, a vision of celestial beauty wrought from the purest gold. Its surface was a tapestry of intricate carvings, each detail a story: celestial beings locked in eternal dance, mythical creatures frozen in motion, and sacred symbols radiating an aura of reverence. The cup itself, shaped like a blooming lotus, rested atop a slender stem entwined with delicate vines and leaves, as though life itself had been captured in metal. The craftsmanship was unparalleled, each filigree and gradient in the gold speaking of both divine artistry and unspeakable devotion.

  My gaze was fixed on it, almost hypnotized by the chalice’s otherworldly brilliance, until the figure spoke. Their voice was a blend of tones—low, high, layered—as though many voices spoke in perfect unison, shaking me from the chalice’s spell.

  “I'm the judge of today’s trials and you stand on the precipice of transformation,” the figure began, their voice layered and inhuman, cutting through the room like a blade. “Behind you lies the life you’ve known—fragile, fleeting, and powerless. Ahead is a path that few have the courage to tread. It is not a path of salvation or righteousness. It is a path carved in blood and bound by will. A path for those who will claim what they desire, no matter the cost.”

  The figure stepped closer to the circle, their presence heavy and suffocating. “There are no illusions here. We offer no mercy, no false promises of justice or divine favor. The power you seek does not come freely—it demands sacrifice, suffering, and the utter rejection of weakness. To step forward is to sever yourself from the world you once knew. Family, honor, morality—these are chains that bind lesser beings. You will break them, or they will break you.”

  They gestured toward the chalice, its golden surface glinting in the candlelight like a predator’s eye. “Take this chalice, and you will become something greater. You will shed the frailty of mortal ambition and rise as a force that cannot be denied. The Wraiths do not tolerate mediocrity. Only those willing to destroy who they were to become what they must will endure.”

  The figure’s voice dropped lower, colder. “But should you falter, should you hesitate—know this: there is no turning back. To walk away now is to forfeit everything. We will take your mind, your name, your very existence. The world will never know you were here, and you will wander as a shadow until the day your body rots. A fitting end for those too weak to choose.”

  The air grew heavier as the figure’s gaze swept over the room. “And yet,” they continued, their voice softening into a dangerous whisper, “to drink is not survival—it is the beginning of something far greater. It is an embrace of truth. The world belongs to those willing to claim it, not those who wait for permission. With every sip, you will draw closer to the power to bend the world to your will. But mark my words—power never comes without a price. You will not leave this chamber as who you were. You will belong to the Wraiths, body and soul.”

  The figure stepped back, their presence still commanding every eye. “This is the moment that defines you. Choose strength, or accept oblivion. But choose now—because hesitation is death.”

  The chamber fell into a suffocating silence, the kind that wraps around you like a noose. Every flickering candle, every crack in the stone seemed to watch, to wait, as if the very room hungered for a decision.

  No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t control the rush of exhilaration and terror coursing through Nell’s body. His heart hammered in his chest, his breaths coming shallow and rapid. He wasn’t just excited—he was desperate, clawing for a chance to seize the power dangled before him like forbidden fruit.

  “Now, what path will you choose?” the figure whispered; their tone softer but no less commanding. The words slithered through the air like smoke, wrapping around Nell’s resolve. Nell trembled, barely able to contain himself, yearning to move, to take the chalice before anyone else could claim it.

  I tightened my grip on his instincts, straining against his overwhelming desire, but it wasn’t necessary. Someone else stepped forward first.

  “Bwahahaha!” The laugh broke the silence like a hammer on glass, sharp and jarring. “It seems you can actually offer something after all,” came the gruff voice of the dwarf.

  Vomraic’s steps were steady, deliberate, his stout frame radiating a confidence that bordered on arrogance. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

  The masked figure tilted their head ever so slightly, an unspoken command. From the shadows, two servants emerged, their movements silent and precise. One of them was my guide, his red armband unmistakable. They approached Vomraic, gesturing for him to step into the center of the arcane circle.

  The dwarf complied without hesitation, his boots scuffing against the blood-etched markings on the stone floor. The servants retreated to the edge of the room, their voices joining in a low chant. The words were foreign, guttural, each syllable carrying a strange weight that seemed to resonate in my bones.

  At first, nothing happened. The chamber remained still, the only sound the rhythmic cadence of the chant. But then, slowly, the air grew heavier, charged with an energy that prickled against my skin. The flickering candle flames began to shift, their golden glow bleeding into crimson.

  The arcane circle beneath Vomraic’s feet pulsed, its lines of blood glowing brighter with each beat, as if mirroring a heartbeat—no, not one heartbeat. Two. Something else had joined the rhythm.

  The chamber darkened, shadows creeping into every corner, swallowing the edges of the room until only the circle remained illuminated. And then it came: a presence. It was immense, suffocating, pressing down on everything and everyone in the room. It wasn’t just in the air; it was in the walls, the floor, the very stone seemed to vibrate with its arrival.

  A shadow fell over Vomraic, though there was nothing to cast it. It loomed above him, around him, shifting and writhing like a living thing. It wasn’t entirely there, yet it felt more real than anything else in the chamber.

  The chalice rose.

  It lifted from the tray as if pulled by invisible strings, floating gracefully through the air. Even in the eerie crimson glow, its golden surface seemed to shimmer with a light of its own, a haunting beauty that drew every eye.

  Vomraic reached for it, his hands steady despite the oppressive weight of the room. He grasped the chalice, and for a moment, he hesitated, his reflection warped in the shimmering liquid within.

  “In my name,” Vomraic began, his voice low and steady, like the rumble of distant thunder. “I, Vomraic, son of Rotdrak, son of Bentharn, cast off the ties of kin and clan.” He paused; his fists clenched around the chalice. “The name forged by my forebears; the memories carved into stone by my blood—I relinquish them all. For what use is a name to the nameless? What good is kin to the forsaken?”

  The circle’s glow pulsed in time with his words, its eerie crimson light licking at his boots as though it could taste his resolve. Vomraic straightened, his broad shoulders set, and his eyes gleamed with fierce determination.

  “I will take the strength you offer, no matter the cost. I will bear the darkness as my guide and lord, for even the brightest steel is forged in the blackest fire. You who dwell in the shadows—hear me!”

  His voice rose, carrying the weight of centuries of dwarven pride.

  “I swear on the stone of my soul, on the blood of my ancestors. I shall give you my loyalty, my blade, and my very life. But know this—when you bind yourself to me, you bind yourself to a will as unyielding as the mountains. Together, we will shape the world in blood and shadow, leaving a mark that no hammer can erase!”

  He brought the chalice to his mouth, his hand steady despite the seething energy that radiated from it. As he lifted it to his lips, he muttered a final, gravelly vow, more to himself than to the onlookers.

  “Let the weak crumble and the strong rise. If this be the price for power, then so be it.”