The chanting pressed against Will's skull like a thousand knives. The circle of cultists swayed in rhythm, their torches spitting sparks, their voices rising and falling in a cruel harmony.
Will's fists trembled at his sides. His nails dug into his palms until he felt the sting of blood. His breath came ragged, shallow, as though the air itself was poisoned.
They wanted him to break. He could see it in their eyes — the gleam of cruelty, the hunger for spectacle.
"Why…" His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper.
The cultists leaned closer, grinning.
"Why…" Louder this time, his teeth bared.
"WHY…" His chest heaved, the word tearing out of him like a wound.
"WHY! WHY! WHY!" The final roar shook the chamber, echoing off the stone walls. The laughter died instantly, replaced by silence so sharp it rang in his ears.
The nearest cultist sneered, trying to mask his unease. "Because you are nothing. Because you were never chosen."
That was the last straw.
Will lunged. His fist connected with the man's jaw, the crack of bone echoing like thunder. The cultist crumpled, blood spraying across the sand. Gasps rippled through the circle.
Then chaos erupted.
Two cultists rushed him at once. W's body moved on instinct — a knee drove into one's stomach, an elbow smashed into another's face. Pain flared in his ribs as a third struck him from behind, but rage drowned it out. Every strike he threw was fueled by years of grief, fear, and fury.
The chanting faltered, breaking apart into shouts and curses. Torches wavered. The circle no longer looked like a ritual — it looked like a brawl.
Will's vision blurred red. He didn't know if he was fighting them, or something inside himself. His grandmother's words echoed faintly in his mind — "The storm inside you must be mastered, not unleashed." But it was too late. The storm had broken free.
One cultist fell, clutching his shattered nose. Another staggered back, blood dripping from his mouth. W stood in the center, chest heaving, hands slick with crimson.
And then — silence.
he crowd parted.
A figure stepped forward, cloaked in black, taller than the rest. His presence was suffocating, his eyes gleaming with something more than human. The cultists bowed their heads as he entered the circle.
The leader.
"You've shown your teeth at last," the figure said, his voice low and cold, carrying easily through the chamber. "Now let us see if you are beast… or chosen."
The torches dimmed, as though the shadows themselves bent toward him.
W'ills rage faltered for the first time, replaced by something colder. Fear.