A blinding radiance surged, swallowing his vision whole. Ram's eyelids fluttered open, instinct fighting against the glare. At first, the world was a blurred smear of ivory, but three rapid blinks brought the scenery into sharp focus.
He found himself on a vast, polished floor that gleamed like white marble, surrounded by towering, ethereal curtains that swayed in a breeze he couldn't feel. To his right sat a table and chair carved from a single piece of translucent crystal, glowing with a soft, inner light.
Seated there was a woman of devastating beauty. She wore heavy white robes designed to conceal her form, yet the fabric failed its purpose; it only served to emphasize the grace of her silhouette, making her look like a goddess carved from light. Her hair was swept into a regal bun held by a golden tie, and her eyes—the color of molten gold—shimmered like a treasure hidden in the dark depths of the sea.
Their gazes locked. An unbearable silence stretched between them, heavy and profound.
However, as Ram stared into those divine eyes, his mind was leagues away. He wasn't memorizing her beauty; he was wondering if the Reaper had kept his word. Did he give the bread to my brother? The woman closed her eyes, a flicker of curiosity crossing her face. She was accustomed to the desires of men—she knew the hunger and greed that usually ignited in a man's eyes when they beheld her. But in Ram's gaze, she found nothing of the sort. There was no lust, no awe, not even a reaction to her presence. To him, she might as well have been invisible.
She took a slow sip from her crystal cup, watching him.
Ram tried to stand, his heart racing with a single goal: I have to get out of here. I have to check on Luke.
But as he willed his muscles to move, a cold realization struck. He couldn't feel his feet. He couldn't feel his legs. In fact, he couldn't feel his body at all. He was a phantom—a consciousness with sight, but no weight, no senses, no flesh.
"Move... please, move!" he hissed inwardly.
He refused to be a spectator to his own helplessness. With a desperate, agonizing effort, his soul-like form began to writhe. Like a serpent dragging itself across the marble, he struggled toward the perimeter of the room. The woman watched him in silence, her divine mind reading every frantic thought. She saw the raw, pitiful determination of a soul who cared for nothing but the brother he left behind.
Finally, Ram reached the edge. He thrust his head through the white curtains, expecting a hallway or a door. Instead, he recoiled.
There was no exit. Beyond the curtain lay an endless, terrifying void of shimmering stars and absolute darkness.
"Where is the door?" he whispered into the vacuum. "Where is the way out?"
The question looped in his mind like a broken prayer. He looked at the abyss, then back at the silent woman, and finally back to the stars. Desperation overrode fear. If there was no door, he would make one.
He prepared to cast himself off the edge of the white floor into the infinite dark.
For the first time, the woman's composure shattered. Her golden eyes widened in genuine shock as she realized what the boy was about to do.
The woman set her crystal cup down with a sharp clack that echoed through the silence. As Ram leaned his weightless form over the precipice of the starry void, her voice finally cut through the air—not as a sound, but as a vibration that resonated deep within his soul.
"Stop, little spark."
Ram froze, his "head" still hovering over the infinite drop. He turned back toward the table. The woman had risen from her chair, her white robes billowing despite the lack of wind. She walked toward him, her movements so fluid she seemed to be skating on glass.
"You would cast yourself into the Great Emptiness?" she asked, her golden eyes searching his. "There is no 'down' there, boy. There is only drifting until your soul thins into nothingness. You would vanish before you ever saw your brother again."
Ram's thoughts screamed at her. Then where is the door? How do I get back?
The woman stopped a few feet from him, her expression shifting from shock to a strange, distant pity. "There are no doors in the Weaver's Sanctum. You didn't enter through a gate, so you cannot leave through one. You were brought here because your thread was frayed, yet you refused to let it snap."
She reached out a hand, her fingers glowing with the same light as the stars behind him. "Tell me... why do you not look at me with fear? Or with the hunger that other men possess? I have read your mind, yet all I see is a crust of bread and a boy named Luke. Do you not realize you are standing before a Grace?"
Ram didn't flinch. In his mind, the image of his brother's pale, hungry face was brighter than any goddess.
"I don't care who you are," his voice echoed in the space, thin but steady. "I made a deal. If I'm dead, fine. But if I'm not, I'm going back. Either show me the way, or watch me jump."
The woman's golden eyes shimmered. A small, almost invisible smile touched her lips—the first sign of warmth in that cold, white place.
"The Reaper told me you were stubborn," she whispered. "He didn't mention you were a fool. Very well. If you wish to return to that world of dirt and hunger, you must prove your soul can carry the weight of a body again."
She flicked her wrist, and the crystal table vanished. In its place, a single, glowing golden thread appeared, stretching from her hand toward the dark abyss.
"Follow the thread," she commanded. "But be warned: the moment you touch it, you will feel every pain your body currently suffers. If your will breaks, the thread breaks. And then, the darkness will truly have you."
"If I follow this thread... will I see him?" Ram asked.
His eyes were no longer those of a boy; they were the eyes of a vicious serpent, narrow and dangerous, willing to strike at fate itself to get what he wanted.
Lazoreza remained silent for a long heartbeat before she whispered, "Maybe."
Even that sliver of hope was enough. Without a second thought, Ram lunged for the thread. It was a literal lifeline, thin as a needle's eye and stretching into an infinite horizon, but Ram didn't give a damn about the distance.
"As long as... as long as..." he muttered, the words a jagged mantra in his mind.
As his spectral hands gripped the gold, the "bet" Lazoreza had made began to taste like ash in her mouth. She could read his thoughts, but she could not predict the future, and what she was witnessing defied the laws of the spirit. The thread was a conduit of agony; it channeled the raw, unfiltered pain of the broken, dead body he had left behind. It should have been unbearable. It should have elicited screams that would tear a soul apart.
But Ram didn't scream. He didn't have the time to waste on a scream. He simply moved, hand over hand, inch by agonizing inch.
Lazoreza stood frozen. She realized with a jolt of horror that this space—this path—was a loop. He was walking toward a horizon that would never arrive, enduring hell for a destination that didn't exist. She was dumbfounded, watching a soul attempt the impossible, until a voice like ancient parchment rustling echoed through her mind.
"Enough, Lazoreza."
The woman flinched, her regal composure shattering. "I—I'm sorry, I was just—"
"I know," the elderly voice interrupted, heavy with authority. "I see it too. Such a soul... it actually exists."
Lazoreza didn't wait for another command. She clapped her hands, the sound cracking like thunder through the white void.
In an instant, the thread vanished. Ram was yanked back, his phantom form collapsing onto the cold white floor. He didn't speak. He scrambled to his knees, his eyes darting frantically, searching for the gold. In his mind, he wasn't relieved—he was panicked. The thread snapped. I have to find it. I have to start over.
Lazoreza felt a lump form in her throat. How could a soul still have the will to move after that? She composed herself, and with another sharp clap, she forced Ram's phantom body to float toward her.
"Enough!" she commanded, her tone firm, trying to mask the tremor in her own heart.
Ram, pinned in mid-air by her power, could only stare into her golden eyes. Slowly, the serpent-like ferocity bega
to break. Tears, shimmering and ethereal, welled up and spilled down his cheeks.
Please, his voice echoed piteously inside her head. Please don't do this. I need to go. I beg of you... I have nothing to offer you, so please... just let me go... please...
Lazoreza couldn't take it anymore. The distance she usually kept from "mortals" vanished. she reached out and pulled the trembling, phantom boy into a tight embrace.
Her presence felt like the warm glow of the single matchstick Ram had once used to keep warm in the dead of winter—a small, flickering light against a world of ice.
"It's alright," she whispered, her voice stroking his mind like a balm. "It's alright. Everything will be alright."
She repeated the words over and over, a lullaby for a soul that had been at war since the day it was born. For the first time in his life, the dam broke. All the years of hunger, the cold nights on the streets, the weight of being his brother's only shield—it all poured out. Ram didn't say a word; he simply wept into the robes of the Grace.
Slowly, the tension left his phantom limbs. In the safety of her arms, Ram's mind finally went quiet. He drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep—a rest he had never experienced in the waking world.
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