The world narrowed to heat and shadow.
Every breath Rondan took scraped his lungs like fire. The masked figure's hand hovered inches from his chest, the glow from his palm painting the walls in molten light.
Leina watched from the darkness, her silver eyes unblinking. She didn't call out—didn't plead—only waited, as though she already knew what he would do.
Rondan's fingers dug into the floor. His blade lay just out of reach, still trembling from the last clash. The mark pulsed in the air between them, an unspoken demand pressing against his mind.
Accept it… and live.
Refuse… and vanish.
The memories came in flashes—his father's hand on his shoulder, the fields of the Northern Plains, the quiet laughter of a sister long buried. All of them seemed so far away now, swallowed by the oppressive heat.
He lifted his gaze to the masked man. "If I take this mark… what am I?"
"More," the figure replied. "More than human. More than you are now. But you will belong to the Circle."
"And if I refuse?"
The man leaned closer, the slits of his mask glowing faintly. "Then the Circle will take what's left of you anyway."
Silence pressed in. The flames along the walls bent inward, as if leaning closer to hear his answer.
Rondan exhaled slowly. His hand rose—not to strike, but to grasp the figure's wrist.
The heat surged into him instantly, a torrent of light and pain. His vision went white.
The brand burned itself into his chest, etching a pattern he couldn't see but could feel—a spiral of fire and ash, sinking into his bones.
When it was over, he collapsed forward, gasping. The masked man stepped back, his voice calm.
"You are marked. You are bound. And now… you will fight for us."
Leina emerged then, her cloak brushing the floor. She met Rondan's eyes for a brief moment, something like regret flickering in her gaze.
"You've just stepped onto a path you can't leave," she said softly. "Meet me tonight, as I told you. You'll need to know what's coming."
The three masked figures faded into the shadows as if they had never been there. Above, the distant roar of the crowd signaled that the next battle awaited.
Rondan pushed himself up, his chest still burning, his mind torn between fear and the strange, intoxicating strength now coursing through him.
The dance would go on.
But the rhythm was no longer his to choose.