They finally reached the end of the tunnel. The air was thick and smelled awful. Blood stained almost every door they passed, dark red smears across the cold floor. Some looked fresh.
The iron doors creaked and groaned, worn down by rust but still locked tight. Each door felt like it led to something terrible.
One of the doors creaked open.
A tall man stepped out, wearing a cracked black mask that covered his face. Behind him was a small child, shackled and shaking, mumbling something Lucian couldn't hear.
The tall man and child walked up the dark stairs ahead, disappearing into the shadows.
Another door farther down opened abruptly, revealing a figure cloaked in a dark hood. He dragged something behind him, a grotesque shape twisted and half-conscious. Its limbs were bent at wrong angles, skin mottled gray and blistered. The creature's body scraped harshly against the stone floor, groaning in unnatural protest.
The hooded man said nothing as he dragged the creature across the floor and threw it into a rough pit in the far corner.
Lucian glanced around. The others were as terrified as he was. Some had gone pale, faces drained of color. One kid had tears streaming down his cheeks, his lips pressed so tightly together it looked like he was fighting to keep himself from screaming.
No one spoke. No one moved.
The silence pressed down on him, heavier than the foul air.
He tried to swallow, but his throat felt dry and raw, like sandpaper scraping the inside of his mouth.
This place was far worse than anything he had imagined.
A pale man approached them, his sunken eyes cold and lifeless as he scanned their faces like a hunter checking prey. He clutched a wooden board and muttered to himself while scribbling down names and notes, though Lucian doubted he cared about any of it.
"Name?" he asked, barely lifting his eyes.
"He-henry," the boy in front of Lucian answered quietly, his voice shaking.
"Name?"
"Luci… Lucy," Lucian said, stumbling over the name.
The pale man paused, eyes narrowing as they flicked toward him. "What an odd name for a boy," he muttered under his breath. "Well, I don't care."
He moved on, repeating the process with the others, barely acknowledging any of them.
After the last name was taken, he barked, "Stand in front of each door!"
Then he turned and shouted louder, "Each door decides your fate! Move it or die!"
Chains scraped against the stone floor as the group shuffled forward. The metal links clanked and dragged, echoing in the oppressive silence.
Some kids cried quietly. Others stared ahead, hollow and numb, their eyes vacant.
Lucian raised his hand hesitantly.
"What!" the man barked, glaring at him.
"Are we... are we going to die?" His voice was barely more than a whisper.
He chuckled, a sound void of humor. "That depends on the result."
Lucian turned slowly to face the row of iron doors, numbered from one to thirteen. Each door was rusted and stained with age and blood. They stood like silent sentinels, mocking their fear.
The others moved on, some trembling, others resigned.
A girl collapsed near Door Five, sobbing uncontrollably, until a guard roughly yanked her to her feet and shoved her through.
Another boy muttered prayers rapidly as he walked through Door Nine.
Lucian stood frozen, watching them disappear behind their fates.
Then his eyes landed on Door Thirteen, the last door left.
As he stepped closer, the door creaked open a few inches.
A low, calm voice came from inside. "Come in."
His heart thundered in his chest. He hesitated, but his feet moved on their own.
The door closed behind him with a dull, final thud.
. . .
Inside, a woman stood before a long table cluttered with strange herbs, rusted tools, glass vials filled with unknown liquids, and stones carved with rune symbols. She stirred a thick, steaming liquid in a small pot, muttering under her breath in a language he didn't understand. Smoke swirled around her fingers as if it were alive.
By the door stood a tall man in a cracked white mask, his hand resting casually on the gun at his waist. He didn't speak, only watched.
The woman turned toward Lucian. Her beauty was haunting, too perfect, too otherworldly. Her long, curly hair flowed like liquid ink, and the scent clinging to her was strangely comforting, almost enough to numb the fear tightening inside him.
It felt wrong to see someone so beautiful in a place like this.
"Go stand there," she said, gesturing with a stained hand.
She pointed to a large ritual circle etched into the floor, five candles flickering around its edge. The markings appeared to be drawn in dried blood. The design was intricate, a triangular shape in the center, jagged like fangs, surrounded by curved, horn-like lines twisting outward.
He hesitated. "A ritual?"
The woman poured the last of her concoction into a small, cracked ceramic cup.
"Yes, yes. Awakened ceremony," she said distractedly, her tone far too casual.
Awakened ceremony? he thought. Aren't you supposed to pass trials, train for years, earn the right, not just be handed it like this?
"Isn't this... dangerous?" he asked.
"Yes!" she said, then quickly added, "Ah, no! No!"
The masked man stepped forward, jabbing the barrel of his gun toward Lucian's temple.
"Move it, kid," he growled.
"Right, right. Move, move," the woman echoed.
His heart thundered as he stepped into the center of the circle.
She handed him the cup. The liquid shimmered black with a red swirl, bubbling faintly as if alive.
"Drink, drink," she said with a wide grin, eyes gleaming with something cruel.
He stared at the cup. His hand trembled.
"Now," the man snapped, cocking the gun.
Then a gunshot rang out.
Lucian froze.
It hadn't come from this room. A moment later, someone screamed from beyond the wall.
The sound sliced through him.
Fear surged like ice water.
On instinct, he raised the cup and drank it in one gulp.
The liquid was thick and metallic, tasting sharply of iron and ash. A bitter aftertaste clung to his tongue and throat.
The woman clapped her hands gleefully. "Perfect! Now, read this!"
She thrust a crumpled scrap of paper into his shaking hands. Strange writing covered it, Arkian symbols at the top, followed by a translation in Western language.
"Read, read!" she urged.
He spoke in a low, trembling voice:
"I call the origin of blood and ruin. Chained by blood, forged in curse. Grant this dust your malevolent breath. From chaos born, I seek rebirth."
"Louder!" she barked.
Confused, he repeated the chant. His voice cracked.
On the third repetition, the pain struck.
Agony, beyond anything he had ever known.
He collapsed as pain tore through him like shattered glass.
His veins darkened beneath his skin, bulging and twitching as if something pulsed inside them.
"Arghh!"
His fingernails cracked. His joints flared with unbearable heat.
His blood felt like it was boiling. His lungs struggled to draw breath.
The woman laughed, ecstatic. "That's it! Pain! More pain!"
He screamed as something seared into his right wrist.
It felt like molten iron carving into flesh.
He looked down. A symbol was forming on his skin, five curved, bone-like tails spiraling outward from a circle shaped like an eye.
"Arghhh!"
Sweat poured down his face. Blood leaked from his nose and ears.
His body convulsed violently.
The last thing he saw before the world slipped away was the woman's fingernails growing grotesquely long, curling unnaturally. Her smile twisted as everything blurred into darkness.
. . .
When he woke, his body felt strangely normal, though a dull ache lingered beneath his skin.
His throat was still dry, each breath scraping painfully.
Instinctively, he slid the iron shackle over his wrist, hiding the symbol burned deep into his skin.
The masked man still stood there, gun pointed at him.
The woman stepped forward, excitement gleaming in her eyes. She held a small, curved knife.
"Blood," she muttered. "Give me blood."
Without warning, she slashed his palm.
Blood dripped as she pressed his palm against the scroll covered in rune symbols. The parchment darkened.
Nothing happened.
She stared at it.
Her eyes widened. "Why?" she whispered. "Why isn't it reacting?"
She rubbed his blood across the runes with shaking fingers. "No... that's wrong. That's wrong."
Her breathing quickened. "Rejected?" she muttered. Then, almost frantic, "Or blessed?"
A sharp laugh burst out of her. "No. No, no, no."
She grabbed her hair and screamed, yanking at it. "Failed! Failed!" Her voice cracked. "Why did you fail now?"
She stumbled back a step, chest heaving.
Then she looked at him. Her glare was sharp and murderous.
The masked man finally holstered his weapon. "Should I throw him into the dog pit?"
Her breathing slowed.
Her expression settled, the frenzy draining from her face as if it had never been there.
"Yes, yes," she said calmly. "Trash."
The man grabbed the chain attached to Lucian's shackle and dragged him toward a narrow staircase.
He tried to resist, but his body refused to obey.
The woman's cheerful voice echoed behind them. "Next! Yes, next!"