"So, who among the two of you is passing the trial?" Ikol asked, his tone nonchalant, but his wings quivering with strain.
Amaya snorted, gazing in front of her. "Not me," she said. "I failed last time."
Fatiba whirled around. "Wait—why can't we just make Shotaro do it? He's the strongest of us all."
Ikol laughed. Not a soft laugh. More like bones rattling against one another. "Ah… the devoted loyalty to the Red Giant."
Fatiba blinked. "I mean—he's Shotaro. He's survived everything. He's—he's Shotaro."
Ikol cocked his head, something inscrutable on his face. "That's why it's sad."
Fatiba glared. "What do you mean?"
"He always does it wrong," Ikol whispered. "Always."
Her breath hitched. "Wait. What?"
"You're surprised. Natural," Ikol replied, strolling along the stone rail as if he were a priest on a wire. "Big Red never fails at anything—but the Labyrinth trial?" He gave a dry, bitter smile. "He never gets beyond the first gate."
Amaya's jaw clenched, but she did not glance back.
"The first level is memory," Ikol continued, voice low. "You don't fight. You watch. Your own past. You don't get to edit it. Don't get to look away. Shotaro can level mountains, but he always… chokes. Maybe it's because what happened to him is too jagged, too splintered. Maybe because he hides it even from himself."
Fatiba's mouth opened by an inch. "But he… he doesn't look like someone who—"
"That's the point," Amaya interrupted. "He doesn't appear to be anything. Always smiling. Or teasing. Or evading. Even I've never seen him wince. But inside?"
Ikol filled in the rest: "His life is the trial. Even outside the Labyrinth."
Silence pressed around them like fog.
"Then…" Fatiba spoke deliberately, "if none of us survive, what then?"
Ikol leaped off the ledge and paced. "The Labyrinth grows. Devours. What was a crack becomes a canyon. What was a memory becomes a monster. You must go through it. You must finish it."
She hesitated. Then posed the obvious.
"Why not you?"
Ikol tensed.
"You're actually Loki," she cried, her voice rising. "The trickster god. Personification of chaos. Can't you just—snap your fingers and cheat your way through?"
Ikol gradually turned. His grin was present—but it did not extend to his eyes.
"Because I know who I am," he breathed. "Too well. That's the problem. The trial isn't built for beings like me. It's not about facing truth—it's about forgiving it."
Fatiba blinked.
Ikol's eyes dulled, like the final sparks of a dying fire. "And forgiveness? That's never been a skill I've felt particularly adept at."
They were in a world that couldn't decide. The skyline flickered like poor reception. The buildings alternated between glass and wreckage. The neon signs stuttered in words that had never been there five seconds ago. Even the street they were on was uncertain—slipping away from under their feet like something tired and broken.
The air wasn't air. It was memory pulled taut. The kind that settles in your chest and refuses to cough up.
And below it all, deep beneath the steel and the quiet of Musashi no Yamato, there beat something. Not monstrous. Not evil.
Just waiting. To be faced.
Fatiba's boots scraped against the pavement. Her chest heaved too abruptly. Twitching hands.
"Okay," she whispered, her voice already cracking. "Okay, Fatiba. You can do it."
She breathed like a diver getting ready to dive. Her eyes closed.
"Remember London. The bridge. The fire alarm. The screaming. You already lived that. You already lived it. You already—"
She tripped. Her speech trailed off.
"You just. Just see it. Just see it. That's all. You don't even need to change it. Just—just watch. Just fucking watch it."
Her legs collapsed beneath her, her hand grasping at the wall beside her. The concrete throbbed under her hand like a retreating pulse.
But I—fuck—I can't," she panted.
"I can't."
"So, who among the two of you is passing the trial?" Ikol asked, his tone nonchalant, but his wings quivering with strain.
Amaya snorted, gazing in front of her. "Not me," she said. "I failed last time."
Fatiba whirled around. "Wait—why can't we just make Shotaro do it? He's the strongest of us all."
Ikol laughed. Not a soft laugh. More like bones rattling against one another. "Ah… the devoted loyalty to the Red Giant."
Fatiba blinked. "I mean—he's Shotaro. He's survived everything. He's—he's Shotaro."
Ikol cocked his head, something inscrutable on his face. "That's why it's sad."
Fatiba glared. "What do you mean?"
"He always does it wrong," Ikol whispered. "Always."
Her breath hitched. "Wait. What?"
"You're surprised. Natural," Ikol replied, strolling along the stone rail as if he were a priest on a wire. "Big Red never fails at anything—but the Labyrinth trial?" He gave a dry, bitter smile. "He never gets beyond the first gate."
Amaya's jaw clenched, but she did not glance back.
"The first level is memory," Ikol continued, voice low. "You don't fight. You watch. Your own past. You don't get to edit it. Don't get to look away. Shotaro can level mountains, but he always… chokes. Maybe it's because what happened to him is too jagged, too splintered. Maybe because he hides it even from himself."
Fatiba's mouth opened by an inch. "But he… he doesn't look like someone who—"
"That's the point," Amaya interrupted. "He doesn't appear to be anything. Always smiling. Or teasing. Or evading. Even I've never seen him wince. But inside?"
Ikol filled in the rest: "His life is the trial. Even outside the Labyrinth."
Silence pressed around them like fog.
"Then…" Fatiba spoke deliberately, "if none of us survive, what then?"
Ikol leaped off the ledge and paced. "The Labyrinth grows. Devours. What was a crack becomes a canyon. What was a memory becomes a monster. You must go through it. You must finish it."
She hesitated. Then posed the obvious.
"Why not you?"
Ikol tensed.
"You're actually Loki," she cried, her voice rising. "The trickster god. Personification of chaos. Can't you just—snap your fingers and cheat your way through?"
Ikol gradually turned. His grin was present—but it did not extend to his eyes.
"Because I know who I am," he panted. "Too well. That's the problem. The trial isn't constructed for creatures like me. It's not a matter of confronting truth—it's forgiving it."
Fatiba blinked.
Ikol's eyes went flat, like the last flickers of an expiring flame. "And forgiveness? That's never been a talent I've ever felt particularly skilled at."
They stood in a world that was undecided. The skyline wavered like bad reception. The buildings went back and forth between glass and debris. The neon signs stammered in words that hadn't been there in five seconds earlier. Even the street they stood on was unsure—slipping out from beneath their feet like something exhausted and worn.
The air wasn't air. It was memory stretched thin. The sort that lodges in your chest and won't spit up.
And underneath it all, far down below the steel and the stillness of Musashi no Yamato, there pulsed something. Not abomination. Not evil.
Only waiting. To be confronted.
Fatiba's boots scuffled against the ground. Her chest jerked too sharply. Twitching fingers.
"Okay," she whispered, her voice already breaking. "Okay, Fatiba. You can do it."
She gasped like a diver about to leap into the water. Her eyes shut.
"Remember London. The bridge. The fire alarm. The screaming. You already lived that. You already lived it. You already—"
She stumbled. Her words faded away.
"You just. Just see it. Just see it. That's all. You don't even need to fix it. Just—just watch. Just fucking watch it."
Her legs buckled out from under her, her hand clawing at the wall next to her. The concrete pulsated beneath her hand as a receding pulse.
But I—fuck—I can't," she gasped.
"I can't."
The sobs come hard. Not movie stuff. Not pretty. Aesthetic. Repulsive. Shuddering gasps in the back of her throat that wracked her entire body. As if her body was pushing the past away like it would spew poison.
"I can't. I cannot."
She stumbled to the ground, her shoulders shuddering, panting out short, ragged breaths that fought to make it through. The streets of the city beyond her wrapped up closer, walls folding in upon themselves as if they were afraid to witness this.
Her scarf fell a little, and she did not step over to correct it.
No gods spoke out. No birds came to rescue her. No music played.
Only a girl.
Breaking. In the town she was forced to face the one thing she did not wish to behold once more.
She walked through the door—
—and London struck her like bitter air off the Thames.
The sky overhead was heavy with cloud, the sort of grey that devours color. The street reeked of wet brick, diesel, and fried takeaway food. She recognized this street. Bethnal Green. Close to the uni. She remembered the joints in the curb, the half-shuttered look of the storefronts, as if they were holding their breath for something.
Fatiba walked it over again, not walking so much as reliving. She was zipped up in her hoodie, her scarf pink and wrapped tight. Her phone was clutched in her hand, the voice on the other side of the speaker cheerful, inquiring, human.
"Wait, you actually watch Doctor Who?" Natalie asked, laughing on the other end.
"Yeah," Fatiba said, smiling innocently. "Just… not the newer ones. I liked when it was strange and low-budget. More soul."
Natalie laughed once more. "You're such a nerd. I love it."
They were going to meet in person. They had talked for months. Discord, late-night conversations, shared play lists, stupid memes. Natalie had been real. Not like a white girl cosplaying allyship, but someone who listened. Who understood?
And that's when the parade made the turn.
Fatiba remembered now. It emerged loud. Marching. Flags. Yelling. A wave of red and white and slogans that appeared clean at a distance but reeked of rot up close. "Reclaim Our Streets." "Keep Britain British." "Sons of Albion."
It was then presented as an anti-immigration protest. Legal. Registered. Democratic.
But signs weren't there to talk about policies. They were there to talk about people.
They were talking about her.
Natalie had spoken up, then. Something she remembered.
"I mean, at least they're doing it peacefully, right? Like—it's not a riot."
Fatiba had come to a halt. Her feet were rooted.
"You agree with this?" she said, her voice a low growl.
Natalie hesitated. "Not with everything. Just—I understand the frustration. You know? Like, the system's broken. People can't get jobs. Rent's outrageous. Maybe it's not about race. Maybe it's about resources."
That's when it shattered. That fragile membrane between friends and would-be-friends. The delusion that Natalie was secure.
"You think they'd stop to scan my visa before breaking down my door?" Fatiba asked.
Natalie fell silent.
The mob moved on. But not all of them.
One group split off. Young. Bred on ideology. Faces half-obscured in scarves and caps. They didn't wield bats. Just bottles. Just fists. Just surety.
"She's with them," one of them said.
Fatiba recalled the expression on Natalie's face.
Fear.
Distance.
Guilt.
But inaction.
Natalie hadn't fled. But she hadn't spoken out, either.
Fatiba had fled.
The memory faded. Shouts. A heel breaking. Her pink scarf snagged in a fence. Her arms scraping over pavement. Her voice yelling out—but not in Arabic. Not in Urdu. In English. Perfect, precise English. And yet—none of it counted.
They called her a leech. A rat. A statistic. Told her to return to her "sandcastle."
She recalled blood in her mouth. A stranger pulling her up. An older woman. Black. Didn't utter a sound. Only covered her with her coat and said, "Come on, girl."
And Natalie?
Gone.
Back in the present—back in the Labyrinth—Fatiba remained immobile as the memory unfolded.
She whispered, "She agreed with them."
Not the hate. Not the violence.
But the why.
That destroyed her.
She spun away from the radiating memory-wall, hands clenched so tight her knuckles cracked. Her chest was heaving, the air inside her rising hot and swift, like it wanted out of her body completely.
"They always do," she breathed. Then louder. "They always have reasons to hate."
No response. Only the heavy throb of silence. The sort that feels like metal on your tongue.
Behind her, stained glass burst along the center. In a crystal-snapping crack, it came crashing inward—spraying shards and light—and the second door groaned open like an exhale she didn't believe.
She stepped towards it.
The past remained behind. But it hadn't let go.
.
Outside that door, already disintegrating, lay the world.
Amaya slid over the stone floor, boots cutting through the dust, elbow at an angle, mantra blazing around her in a blade of smoke. She spun halfway through the slide and struck a nightmare with such force it snapped to the side against a wall and failed to rise.
"More coming!" she shouted.
Ikol didn't reply in words. He merely snarled—half-boy, half-crow—and threw out his arm. Black feathers went shooting forward, each one sharpening in mid-air into streaks of shadow. Two of the creatures fell, crying out like bones scraping on wet pavement.
The nightmares arrived tall. Twisted. Gangly as though they'd never had a spine. Limbs bent at the wrong angle. Faces stretched out to become skeletal masks lacking features—just slits. Slits and teeth.
Some crawled. Others limped as if they'd forgotten the use of legs.
They all smelled of rot, like memories of something nobody had buried deep enough.
They moved in waves.
Amaya snarled, her spine against the door Fatiba had disappeared into. "This is taking too long. What if she can't get through the next one?
"She must," Ikol snapped, shattering another nightmare with a slash of his claws. "We can't imprison them all indefinitely."
One charged. Ikol batted it out of the air and stomped on it, pinning it beneath his foot.
Amaya dodged a swing, kicked a leg, and punched her knuckles into a creature's abdomen—if it had one. It wailed like a stretched-out violin string.
The hallway grew darker. More shadows writhed out of corners.
The nightmares were doubling up.
"Make her speed the devil herself up," Amaya gasped.
Ikol's voice was somber. "No one can be hurried through sorrow."
And then he turned, red glint in his eyes, and ripped through three more.
Behind them, the door to the second trial remained shut.
And the floor trembled with every memory ready to awaken.