The walls groaned as they shifted, stone grinding over stone. What had been a straight corridor only moments ago was now a twisting maze of endless turns. The sound of hidden gears rumbled beneath Ayan's feet, as though the floor itself was alive.
He inhaled slowly, steadying his heartbeat. Panic was the first weapon of the Watchmaker—it blinded people before the real strike came.
The voice of the rusted mask echoed again, fractured across the maze.
"Every turn bleeds your time. Every wrong step feeds the gears."
Ayan moved forward, his fingertips brushing against the cold wall. It wasn't random. He could feel faint vibrations hidden within the stone, like pulses guiding him—signs meant for those who could listen carefully enough.
He chose his path, and the ground immediately responded. A portion of the maze slammed shut behind him, sealing his way back. A trap for the indecisive.
As he advanced, illusions began to bloom—faces from his past, distorted and stretched across the walls. Some whispered for help, others screamed his name. One face even resembled his own.
But Ayan knew better. Memories were weapons here. The cult wasn't testing muscle—they were probing for weakness.
At the heart of the maze, he found it: a massive iron door with no handle, etched with spirals of clockwork patterns. At its center, a slot wide enough for a hand.
The voice returned, colder this time.
"Give your hand to the machine. Only sacrifice opens the way."
Ayan stared at the slot, the gears inside already hungry, spinning with sharp steel teeth. The labyrinth had led him here not to escape, but to demand something from him.
And he had to decide—was this a trick meant to break him, or the only true exit?