The plains trembled with every beat.
The drums did not come from hands or skin but from the earth itself, resonating through Lakshya's bones. Each thrum was like a pulse, echoing the mark on his palm.
The Circle of Prey stood before him in a half-moon, their bone masks staring with empty eyes. The leader's mask bore three fangs, curved downward, the symbol of inheritance.
"Mark-bearer," the many-throated voice called again. "The prey you carry stirs. You must bind it. Speak your oath, or be devoured."
The Hunter stepped forward, cloak brushing against scorched earth. "He owes no oath to you."
The Circle's masked heads turned in unison toward him. "Hunter," they intoned, voices overlapping like a tide, "your wound bleeds still. You may not shield another."
The Hunter's hand brushed his ribs, where that hollow emptiness lived. For once, his eyes flickered with something almost like shame.
Lakshya's grip on his blade tightened. His voice cut through the echoing drums. "If I swear, what happens?"
The leader tilted its head. "The prey within becomes your path. You will hunt it, each shadow, each echo, until it is ashes. If you fail, it will consume you. If you prevail, you may ascend."
"And if I refuse?"
The Circle's reply came like a roar from the sky itself. "Then you are the prey."
The ground split.
From the fissures rose shapes — not fully formed bodies, but silhouettes of smoke and ash, each one carrying fragments of Lakshya's face. One smiled cruelly, another wept, a third sneered. Dozens of selves, distorted, twisted, spilling from the earth.
Lakshya's heart hammered. "These are—"
"Your debt," the Hunter muttered grimly.
The echoes lunged.
Lakshya swung his blade, cutting through one — but the shadow reformed, laughing with his voice. Another clamped onto his leg, whispering: I am your fear. He tore free, but more circled him, chanting the same words.
"I am you. I am you. I am you."
The drums pounded faster, each beat sending a tremor through the ash plains.
The Circle raised their staves, voices booming: "Swear! Swear, or be consumed!"
Lakshya staggered, slashing wildly. The Hunter struck down an echo that crept too close, his movements sharp, efficient — but he did not interfere further. This was not his trial.
Lakshya's breath burned in his throat. His strength was fading, his limbs dragged down by shadows whispering doubt into his ear.
You will never be free.
You cannot lead.
You are only prey.
The circle on his palm flared, burning hotter, answering the drums.
Lakshya fell to his knees. The echoes swarmed, pressing in like a tide.
And then he roared.
"ENOUGH!"
The sound burst from his chest, shaking the shadows back. He slammed his palm to the ground. The circle seared against his skin, sending a wave of white fire spiraling outward.
The echoes shrieked, scattering. The drums faltered. For the first time, silence stretched across the plains.
Lakshya rose, chest heaving, his mark glowing like molten silver. His eyes burned with defiance.
"I won't be your prey," he spat at the Circle. "And I won't be your hunter, either. I'll walk my own path. If that means swearing, then I'll swear — but not to you. Not to chains."
The Circle hissed. The leader's voice cracked like thunder. "Then to whom will you bind?"
Lakshya lifted his blade, pressing it against his palm. Blood met silver light.
"To myself," he said, steady. "I'll hunt my fear, my doubt, my shadows — but I'll do it as Lakshya. Not your pawn. Not your sacrifice."
The blood dripped into the soil. The ground swallowed it whole. The drums ceased.
For a long moment, silence hung like a blade. Then the Circle lowered their staves.
"The oath is spoken," they intoned. "Bound not to us, but to the self. Prey no longer. Hunter not yet. You walk the silent road."
The leader's mask tilted. "But beware, mark-bearer. The Circle does not forgive defiance. One day, the oath you swore will come to claim you."
One by one, the figures dissolved back into ash, fading into the earth.
Only the Hunter and Lakshya remained.
The older man's gaze lingered on him, unreadable. At last, he said quietly:
"You may have done what none before dared. But such choices… carry wounds deeper than mine."
Lakshya exhaled, his hand trembling but his eyes steady. "Then I'll carry them. Better my wounds than my chains."
The wind swept the plains, carrying away the last of the drum's echo. For the first time since the mark had burned into his palm, Lakshya felt something shift inside — not freedom, but the first taste of it.
And far in the distance, unseen, a pair of eyes opened in the dark, watching.
To be continued....