We finally reached the end of the tunnel. The air was thick and smelled awful, like rot and rust. Every breath felt heavy in my lungs. Screams and quiet cries echoed all around, bouncing off the cold stone walls. They slipped through cracks and gaps, carried by stale air that made the place feel even worse.
Blood stained almost every door we passed, dark red smears across the cold floor. Some looked fresh, others dried and cracked like old wounds. The heavy iron doors creaked and groaned, worn down by rust but still locked tight. Each door felt like it led to something terrible.
One of the doors creaked open.
A tall man stepped out, wearing a cracked black mask that covered his face. Behind him was a small child, shackled and shaking, mumbling something I couldn't hear. Neither of them looked at us. They walked down the dark stairs ahead, disappearing into the shadows.
Another door farther down opened abruptly, revealing a figure cloaked in a dark hood. He dragged something behind him, a grotesque shape twisted and half-conscious. Its limbs were bent at wrong angles, skin mottled gray and blistered. The creature's body scraped harshly against the stone floor, groaning in unnatural protest.
The hooded man said nothing as he dragged the creature across the floor and threw it into a rough pit in the far corner.
I glanced around. The others were as terrified as I was. Some had gone pale, faces drained of color. One kid had tears streaming down his cheeks, his lips pressed so tightly together it looked like he was fighting to keep himself from screaming.
No one spoke. No one moved.
The silence pressed down on me, heavier than the foul air.
I tried to swallow, but my throat felt dry and raw, like sandpaper scraping the inside of my mouth.
This place was far worse than anything I had dared imagine.
A pale man approached us, his sunken eyes cold and lifeless as he scanned our faces like a hunter checking prey. He clutched a clipboard and muttered to himself while scribbling down names and notes, though I doubted he cared about any of it.
"Name?" he asked, barely lifting his eyes.
"Henry," the boy in front of me answered quietly, his voice shaking.
"Name?"
"Luci—Lucy," I said, stumbling over the name, suddenly feeling exposed.
He paused, eyes narrowing as they flicked toward me. "What an odd name for a boy," he muttered under his breath. "Well, I don't care."
He moved on mechanically, repeating the process with the others, barely acknowledging any of us.
After the last name was taken, he barked sharply, "Stand in front of each door!"
Then he spun on his heels and shouted louder, "Each door decides your fate! Move it or die!"
Chains scraped against the stone floor as the group shuffled forward. The metal links clanked and dragged, echoing in the oppressive silence.
Some kids cried quietly. Others stared ahead, hollow and numb, their eyes vacant.
I raised my hand hesitantly.
"What!" the man barked, glaring at me.
"Are we… are we going to die?" My voice was barely more than a whisper.
He chuckled, dark and hollow, a sound void of humor. "That depends on the result."
I turned slowly to face the row of iron doors, numbered from one to thirteen. Each door was rusted and stained with age and blood. They stood like silent sentinels, mocking our fear.
The others moved on, some trembling, others resigned.
A girl collapsed near Door Five, sobbing uncontrollably, until a guard roughly yanked her to her feet and shoved her through.
Another boy muttered prayers rapidly, his lips moving so fast they blurred as he stared at Door Nine.
I stood frozen, watching them disappear behind their fates.
Then my eyes landed on Door Thirteen, the only one left.
As I stepped closer, the door creaked open a few inches.
A low, calm voice came from inside. "Come in."
My heart thundered in my chest. I hesitated, but my feet moved on their own.
The door closed behind me with a dull, final thud.
…
Inside, a woman stood before a long table cluttered with strange herbs, rusted tools, glass vials filled with unknown liquids, and stones carved with rune symbols. She stirred a thick, steaming liquid in a small pot, muttering under her breath in a language I didn't understand. Smoke curled around her fingers as if the mixture obeyed her touch.
By the door stood a tall man in a cracked white mask, his hand resting casually on the gun at his waist. He didn't speak, only watched me.
The woman turned toward me. Her beauty was haunting, too perfect, too otherworldly. Her long, curly hair flowed like liquid ink, and the scent clinging to her was strangely comforting, almost enough to numb the fear tightening inside me.
It felt wrong to see someone so beautiful in a place like this.
"Go stand there," she said, gesturing with a stained hand.
She pointed to a large ritual circle etched into the floor, five candles flickering around its edge. The markings appeared to be drawn in dried blood. The design was intricate, a triangular shape in the center, jagged like fangs, surrounded by curved, horn-like lines twisting outward.
I hesitated. "A ritual?"
The woman poured the last of her concoction into a small, cracked ceramic cup.
"Yes, yes. Awakened ceremony," she said distractedly, her tone far too casual.
Awakened ceremony? I frowned. Aren't you supposed to pass trials, train for years, earn the right, not just be handed it like this?
"Isn't this… dangerous?" I asked.
"Yes!" she said, then quickly added, "Ah, no! No!"
The masked man stepped forward, jabbing the barrel of his gun toward my temple.
"Move it, kid," he growled.
"Right, right. Move, move," the woman echoed.
My heart thundered as I stepped into the center of the circle.
She handed me the cup. The liquid shimmered black-red, bubbling faintly as if alive.
"Drink, drink," she said with a wide grin, eyes gleaming with something cruel.
I stared at the cup. My hand trembled violently.
"Now," the man snapped, cocking the gun.
Then a gunshot rang out.
I froze.
It hadn't come from this room. A moment later, someone screamed from beyond the wall.
The sound sliced through me.
Fear surged like ice water.
On instinct, I raised the cup and drank it in one gulp.
The liquid was thick and metallic, tasting sharply of iron and ash. A bitter aftertaste clung to my tongue and throat.
The woman clapped her hands gleefully. "Perfect! Now, read this!"
She thrust a crumpled scrap of paper into my shaking hands. Strange writing covered it, Arkian symbols at the top, followed by a translation in Western letters.
"Read, read!" she urged.
I spoke in a low, trembling voice:
"I call the origin of blood and ruin.
Chained by blood, forged in curse.
Grant this dust your malevolent breath.
From chaos born, I seek rebirth."
"Louder!" she barked.
I repeated the chant. My voice cracked.
On the third repetition, the pain struck.
Agony beyond anything I had ever known.
I collapsed as pain tore through me like shattered glass.
My veins darkened beneath my skin, bulging and twitching as something pulsed inside them.
"Arghh!"
My fingernails cracked. My joints flared with unbearable heat.
My blood felt like it was boiling. My lungs struggled to draw breath.
The woman laughed, ecstatic. "That's it! Pain! More pain!"
I screamed as if something seared against my wrist.
It felt like molten iron carving into flesh.
I looked down. A symbol was forming on my skin, five curved, bone-like tails spiraling outward from a circle shaped like an eye. It pulsed with dark energy.
"Arghhh!"
Sweat poured down my face. Blood leaked from my nose and ears.
My body convulsed violently.
The last thing I saw before the world slipped away was the woman's fingernails growing grotesquely long, curling unnaturally. Her smile twisted as everything blurred into burning haze.
…
When I woke, my body felt strangely normal, though a dull ache lingered beneath my skin.
My throat was dry, each breath scraping painfully.
Instinctively, I slid the iron shackle over my wrist, hiding the symbol burned deep into my wrist.
The masked man still stood there, gun pointed on me.
"Blood," she muttered. "Give me blood."
The woman stepped forward, excitement gleaming in her eyes. She held a small, curved knife.
Without warning, she slashed my palm.
Blood dripped as she pressed my palm against the scroll covered in rune symbols. The parchment darkened.
Nothing happened.
She stared at it.
Her eyes widened. "Why?" she whispered. "Why isn't it reacting?"
She rubbed my blood across the runes while shaking fingers. "No… that's wrong. That's wrong."
Her breathing quickened. "Rejected?" she muttered. Then, almost frantic, "Or blessed?"
A sharp laugh burst out of her. "No. No, no, no."
She grabbed her hair and screamed, yanking at it. "Failed! Failed!" Her voice cracked. "Why did you fail now?"
She stumbled back a step, chest heaving.
Then she looked at me. Her glare was sharp and murderous.
Then the masked man finally holstered his weapon. "Should I throw him into the dog pit?"
She stopped breathing hard.
Her expression settled, the frenzy draining from her face as if it had never been there.
"Yes," she said calmly. "Trash."
The man grabbed the chain attached to my shackle and dragged me toward a narrow staircase.
I tried to resist, but my body refused to obey. I was weak and hollow.
The woman's cheerful voice echoed behind us. "Next! Yes, next!"