The hall stretched into endless darkness.
Every footstep was a blade drawn in silence — sharp, inevitable —
echoing across stone floors polished smooth by the weight of forgotten prayers.
The sound slid across the floor like oil.
Thick. Heavy.
Suffocating.
Torches clung to the walls, their flames weak against the vastness.
Each flicker birthed a dozen twisted shadows — dancing, writhing, clawing at the stone.
As if something alive stirred just beyond the reach of light.
The columns soared upward, disappearing into the gloom.
Not supporting a ceiling —
but holding up the weight of the sky itself.
And at the heart of it all —
six figures.
Their robes swallowed the light, dyed the color of a starless night.
Silver threads stitched through the seams, catching just enough firelight to hint at the symbols woven into the fabric —
symbols no mortal should dare to understand.
Hoods veiled their faces.
But their bodies spoke.
One stood rigid, arms behind his back, fingers clenching so tightly his knuckles shone bone-white.
Another shifted and swayed, as if moving to a song that had never been written.
The third cradled a book to his chest — fingers trembling, like he was trying to hold in a scream.
The fourth exhaled a slow, heavy breath — misting the air under his hood.
The fifth smirked — head tilted, posture loose, too casual for this place.
And the sixth… the sixth simply stood there.
Biting his lip.
Frozen.
Before them —
a mirror.
But no reflection of themselves gazed back.
Only Him.
The Great One.
His form was unstable — flickering between shapes too fast for the mind to hold.
Man. Shadow. Void.
Reality itself bent around him, refusing to make sense.
Light tried to touch him — and recoiled.
Darkness didn't just surround him.
It breathed.
When he spoke, it wasn't sound that filled the hall —
it was impact.
A hammer against the chest.
"Heaven's Six. The time has come."
Five figures bowed at once —
hoods lowering like blades falling into scabbards.
Only the Sixth remained upright.
Still. Trembling.
The Great One's gaze moved —
no eyes visible, but the weight of it struck like falling stone.
"First: observe. Do not interfere."
The First bowed deeper.
"Third: manage the flow of knowledge. Do not overload."
The Book trembled in Third's hands.
The old pages creaked under his grip.
He nodded, barely.
The Great One turned — slow, merciless — toward the Fifth.
"What if he dies?" the smirking one asked, voice dripping with mockery.
The torches flickered — not from wind.
From something far worse.
For a heartbeat, the hall darkened —
a black so complete it devoured breath itself.
The Great One's voice sharpened to a blade:
"He must not die."
Silence.
Complete. Crushing.
"Sixth.
You are closest."
The Sixth flinched — barely visible — but he stood firm.
"Do not catch him.
Do not guide him."
"Let him crawl.
Through filth.
Through lies.
Through fear."
"Let this world grind him down —
the way water carves through stone."
The torches roared — sudden, furious — and ash scattered across the cold floor like broken promises.
"He must come to hate this world."
And in one single, unified voice —
they answered:
"It will be done."
***
Sam's eyes snapped open.
Not darkness.
Not stone.
Forest.
Light poured through the leaves above — dappled, soft, impossibly green.
A stark, jarring contrast to the hall of nightmares.
The scent of damp earth filled his lungs.
Pine needles pressed against his cheek.
The ground was cold.
Alive.
He gasped — chest heaving, heartbeat crashing in his ears.
Too bright.
Too sharp.
Too real.
This wasn't a dream.
He pushed himself upright — trembling, muscles protesting.
His hands clawed into the wet ground — desperate for something to hold onto.
Victoria…
The name slipped through his mind like a knife drawn across old scars.
A memory flared, hot and vivid.
Childish laughter.
Golden sand under bare feet.
Tiny fingers grabbing his hand — dragging him toward the sun.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Tears escaped anyway.
"I thought… you were gone.
I just want to see you again, Vic…"
Sapphire eyes.
Three days.
The words scratched against his mind.
Then —
the voice.
Velvet.
Smooth.
Too gentle to trust.
Familiar. Terrifying.
"It's a mission. A mark."
"She's not real.
That's not Victoria."
The words carved deeper than any knife.
He inhaled — shaking — and whispered:
"Correct. She isn't."
The voice again.
Calm. Cold.
"But if you don't save her…
you won't just fail the mark."
"Each failure takes something."
"A spell.
A memory.
Or… Victoria herself."
"Her laughter.
Her smile.
The color of her eyes…"
"Gone."
"Piece by piece."
Sam gritted his teeth.
"Shut up!" he shouted.
A bird shot out from the branches above, startled by his outburst.
It vanished into the trees without a sound.
Sam clutched his knees, trembling.
He looked down at his hands — soil-stained, shaking.
Breathless.
"But if I don't start here…
I'll lose everything."
"Without ever even finding her."
His whisper was almost a prayer.
***
Rustling.
Branches breaking.
Sam flinched — heart hammering against his ribs.
Movement — low to the ground.
A flash of fur — a tail disappearing into the brush.
"Just an animal," he breathed.
But the chill digging into his spine said otherwise.
That sense was back.
Follow it.
The voice — velvet and cold — pressed against his mind.
Sam hesitated.
His legs moved before he told them to.
He didn't want to go.
But he went.
"That voice…
I know it…"
The forest narrowed — closing in around him.
The air grew thicker.
His steps grew heavier.
Then—
Screams.
Steel clashing.
Laughter.
Voices — cruel, sharp.
He shoved through a wall of leaves — and froze.
Clearing.
A wagon lay overturned, its wheels still spinning slowly, as if the world hadn't realized the horror yet.
Blood soaked into the grass.
Bodies sprawled — broken, discarded like useless toys.
Bandits.
One knelt over a woman —
pressing her into the ground.
Brown eyes.
The knife slipped across her throat —
without anger.
Without hesitation.
Like he was bored.
Sam couldn't move.
Couldn't think.
The world narrowed to a single point — ringing in his ears.
Then —
a burst of motion.
A girl tore from the trees — running blindly.
Sapphire eyes.
Their gazes met.
Only for a heartbeat.
Was it her?
The scream that followed tore through the clearing like a blade.
A bandit grabbed her — rough, casual.
Dragged her back into the forest.
Her scream didn't sound like fear.
It sounded like the ripping of something sacred.
Sam stepped forward —
then froze.
Move.
The voice — sharp now. Hard.
Save her.
Now.
But Sam stood still.
Paralyzed.
Fool.
The voice twisted — no longer velvet, but iron.
She dies —
you die.
Then —
fire.
Not outside.
Inside.
A blaze ignited beneath his skin, roaring through his veins.
He screamed — clawing at his shirt.
The mark.
Alive.
Glowing.
Pulsing.
Carving itself deeper into him.
"Again…" he gasped.
"What are you doing to me…?"
The fire choked out.
The forest fell silent.
Only his own broken breathing filled the clearing.
And the fear.
The fear never left.