Someone opened the door.
Coyote blinked.
The air shifted.
The warm drizzle behind him seemed to vanish the moment the threshold cracked. What lay beyond wasn't darkness — it was absence. Of warmth, of sound, of logic. The atmosphere warped, pressing on his chest like a lead weight.
A sudden wave of dizziness hit him. His legs buckle?
Narcotic fog?
He realized too late.
His vision blurred, limbs heavy, and before he could reach for a spell —
everything went black.
---
He woke up on cold concrete.
Dim, flickering lights buzzed overhead. Around him, dozens of people sat in silence — slumped, pale, broken-eyed. Some were younger than him. Most looked like they hadn't slept in days.
Low-tier Catalysts.
A girl with tangled blue hair noticed him stir. "First time?" she asked flatly.
Coyote sat up, groggy. "Where...?"
"You're in the Hollow Cast's basement," she said. "East Wing. We're the stockpile."
"...Stockpile?"
"They butcher one of us every Saturday. Blood rituals. Boosts their power. One person dies. Every week." Her voice was void of emotion, like she'd said it too many times to feel anymore.
He stared at her. "How do they choose who?"
"We vote."
Coyote blinked. "What?"
"Every Friday night. They say it's 'fair.' We each get to choose who dies next. Most of us vote for the newest person. It's easier that way." She glanced away. "So… yeah. Congrats on arriving Friday morning."
Coyote's jaw clenched.
Gandalf's face flashed in his mind.
His fists trembled.
He wasn't ready to fight Arthur. Not yet. But this?
This was not how his story ended.
---