The survivors stumbled through the iron gate, their bodies dripping blood onto the stone. Twelve remained. Twelve out of nearly fifty who had first been dragged into the Forge.
No one dared speak. Breath came ragged. Limbs trembled. Yet all kept moving, driven by one simple truth: if they stopped, they would never rise again.
The passage stretched long, walls narrowing until the survivors were forced shoulder to shoulder. Draven kept his gaze lowered, body moving at a steady pace. Inside, his mind whispered calculations. Exhaustion. Thirteen steps to falter. Twenty heartbeats until collapse. Overseers watching every twitch. Any stumble is blood for the Hollow.
At last, the corridor opened into a wide chamber. The floor was smooth obsidian, so polished it reflected every survivor like a mirror. Chains hung from the ceiling, each tipped with porcelain masks that swayed gently, eyes painted black and hollow.
Overseer Malrec's laughter rolled through the chamber, echoing like cracking bones. "Still crawling. Good. But crawling isn't enough. The Hollow doesn't want only your marrow—it wants your thoughts. Your loyalties. Your truths."
The porcelain Overseer stepped forward, her mask glowing faintly in the chamber's violet light. She extended a pale hand, fingers long and thin as talons. "The next trial begins now. We call it the Chamber of Lies."
The chains dropped.
One by one, the porcelain masks latched onto the survivors' faces, cold iron teeth biting into their flesh. Screams broke the silence, muffled as the masks fused to skin. Draven gritted his teeth as his vision blurred, darkness swallowing the chamber whole.
When sight returned, he was alone.
Or so it seemed.
The floor beneath him rippled like water. Reflections twisted—his own face staring back, warped, grinning with malice. Around him, shadows formed into familiar figures. Yorin appeared first, Bellhound prayer still on his lips. Then Gorath, Crimson Claw axe gleaming red. Seraphine next, her laughter sharp as broken glass.
But their eyes burned hollow, black pits that swallowed thought.
Draven understood at once. Illusions. The Hollow wants us to fight phantoms… and in that chaos, to betray one another without knowing.
The false Yorin lunged, chain-whip snapping toward his throat. Draven moved instinctively, sidestepping, letting the strike crack against the ground. His counterstrike drove a shard of broken obsidian into the phantom's neck. The figure dissolved into smoke, leaving only whispers behind.
"Brother, why did you kill me?"
The voice was Yorin's. Pained. Accusing.
Draven's jaw clenched. He forced the sound away, anchoring his mind in cold logic. The Hollow wants guilt. It wants paranoia. Resist it, or it will break me.
Elsewhere in the chamber, screams echoed. The illusions had come for all. Draven caught flashes through the haze: Gorath hacking wildly at shadows, his axe carving bodies both real and not. A Silent Veil disciple vanished under a swarm of phantom chains, his body jerking as his heart was ripped from his chest. One Bellhound slashed blindly, striking his own ally before realizing too late.
The Overseers' voices drifted like silk through the chamber.
"See how easily they tear one another apart."
"The Hollow doesn't need blades. Only whispers."
The illusions pressed harder. Draven's reflection climbed out of the floor, a perfect double, movements mirroring his own. Only the eyes were wrong—smiling, hungry, filled with cruelty.
The doppelgänger spoke, its tone soft and knowing. "You want them dead. All of them. You want the Bellhounds' loyalty only to break it. You want Seraphine's shadow only to eclipse it. You want Gorath's rage only to ignite it against him. Admit it. Kill them, and the Hollow will crown you."
Draven lunged. The fight was brutal, his every motion matched by the double's. Their chains clashed, their blades scraped, each counter met with precision. But where the phantom was perfect mimicry, Draven had patience. He let the double overextend, its grin widening as if victory was near—then caught its wrist, twisting until bones cracked, and drove his blade through its skull.
The phantom dissolved into smoke.
Around him, others fared worse. Another Bellhound lay slumped, throat opened by his own brother's blade. The Silent Veil dwindled to two, their whispers ragged, masks cracked. Gorath stood drenched in blood, his axe dripping as he roared curses at both real and unreal foes.
Seraphine, however, was laughing. She moved gracefully through the illusions, as if dancing with them, letting them strike her shadow only to vanish. When her blade did strike, it pierced real flesh—she had cut down another Veil herself, eyes gleaming with delight.
Finally, the obsidian floor stilled. The illusions faded. The masks fell away, clattering against the ground.
Only eight remained.
Draven lowered his blade slowly, hiding his steady breath behind exhaustion. Inside, he marked each survivor:
Yorin, pale and trembling, but alive.
Gorath, glaring at him with fresh hatred, bloodied axe in hand.
Seraphine, smiling, eyes hungry with curiosity.
Four others—two Bellhounds, one Claw, one Veil—half-broken, hollow-eyed, barely clinging to sanity.
The Overseers stepped forward. Malrec's grin gleamed. "Better. The weak betray themselves when whispers are given form. But you… you crawl further into the Hollow. How much marrow remains?"
The porcelain Overseer tilted her head. "Not enough yet. Never enough."
Chains whipped again, binding wrists and throats. The Overseers dragged the eight forward toward yet another sealed gate, its surface carved with countless screaming faces.
The gate shuddered as it opened, releasing a blast of cold wind carrying the stench of rot.
"The Hollow does not rest," Malrec said. His voice was almost tender. "And neither shall you."
The chains yanked, and the survivors were dragged screaming into the next darkness.