The air in the chamber thickened, each breath tasting of metal and smoke.
The three masked figures closed in, their steps slow and deliberate, as if they already knew how this would end.
Rondan kept his stance low, blade angled toward the center figure. The blue flames along the walls flickered, reacting to their presence.
Leina stepped back, her shadow merging with the wall. "You can't fight them," she warned. "Not here."
"I've fought worse," he muttered, though the words felt hollow even to him.
The central figure raised his hand again, and the runes on the floor blazed with sudden intensity. The marble seemed to ripple, warping under an unseen force, and a circle of heat surrounded them.
Rondan's grip tightened. "What is this?"
"The mark," the armored man said, voice echoing unnaturally. "Given only to those chosen by the Circle. You will take it… or it will take you."
The two figures flanking him stepped forward, their gauntlets glowing with molten lines. They moved in perfect unison, their presence pressing against Rondan's chest like an invisible weight.
Rondan lunged first, his blade flashing toward the nearest opponent. The strike met with a sharp clang—and stopped. His sword trembled, caught between two fingers glowing like forged iron.
A surge of heat shot up his weapon and burned into his arm. He hissed, jerking back, but the pain lingered under his skin, crawling toward his shoulder.
The second figure struck then—not with steel, but with a palm against his chest. The contact was brief, but it sent a searing brand of light bursting across his vision.
Rondan fell to one knee, the sound of his own heartbeat drowning out everything else. Through the haze, he saw Leina's face—calm, almost expectant.
"You said you wanted to know what's at stake," she murmured. "Now you do."
The central figure approached, kneeling before him. The bone mask tilted slightly, as if studying prey.
"Accept the mark," he said, "and rise reborn. Resist… and be nothing."
Rondan's breath came in ragged gasps. The heat inside him was unbearable now, pooling in the center of his chest like molten stone.
He looked up, meeting the hollow eyes of the mask.
And he made his choice.