Eleanor clapped her waterlogged hands together, the sound muffled and wet. "The trial... begins now. You must... work in pairs... to retrieve objects... from the bottom... of my domain."
She gestured to the flooded ballroom with movements that sent ripples across the dark water's surface. "Each pair... must trust... completely. One person... will be... submerged... while their partner... guides them... from above. But beware... the water... holds memories... of my drowning... and will try... to claim you... as it claimed me."
The water's surface rippled ominously as Eleanor continued, her voice carrying the hollow echo of someone speaking through liquid. "Hidden beneath... are memories... from my life. Each team... must retrieve one... to prove... their worthiness."
The clear water in the ornate Victorian tub suddenly seemed to shimmer and deepen, as if it contained infinite depth despite its small size. The crystal clarity gave way to something darker, more profound—a window into the past itself.
"One partner... descends into my past. They will... experience my life... my death. The other... must anchor them... to the present." Eleanor's bloated face twisted into something resembling nostalgia, black water streaming from her eyes like tears. "The memories... will try to... claim you. Only your partner's... constant contact... can remind you... who you are."
She gestured to a series of thick, braided ropes beside the tub, each one appearing both ancient and impossibly strong. "The anchor... must hold the rope... connected to their partner. If you... let go... they are lost... forever. But beware... the deeper they go... the heavier... they become. The memories... add weight... to their soul."
The survivors exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of the trial settling over them like a shroud. Trust was already fractured after Thorne's exposure, and now they were being asked to literally hold each other's lives in their hands.
Captain Stone stepped forward with Madam Ravenwood, the spirit medium whose dark Victorian dress and piercing eyes suggested she was no stranger to communing with the dead. Her pale hands were steady despite the supernatural horror surrounding them, and her expression held the confidence of someone who had dealt with restless spirits before.
"I'll go down," Stone said firmly, his military bearing reasserting itself in the face of clear danger. He began tying one end of a thick rope around his waist with practiced efficiency. "Madam Ravenwood, whatever happens up here, whatever you see or hear, don't let go of that rope."
Ravenwood gripped the other end with both hands, her knuckles white with determination but her voice steady. "I've anchored souls to the living world before, Captain. The dead have tried to claim many through me, but I've never lost anyone to the other side. I won't lose you to her memories."
Stone approached the tub cautiously, each step sending small waves through the ankle-deep water covering the ballroom floor. As he stepped into the clear water of the tub, it seemed to expand infinitely beneath him, the bottom dropping away into impossible depths. The water was shockingly cold, like stepping into a mountain lake in winter.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself with the iron discipline that had carried him through countless battles, and submerged.
The transition was jarring, reality bending around him in ways that defied comprehension. One moment he was sinking through cold, clear water, feeling the rope tug gently at his waist. The next, he was standing on a battlefield shrouded in smoke and gunpowder, the acrid smell burning his nostrils and the distant thunder of artillery making the ground tremble beneath his feet.
A young Eleanor, no more than twenty, dressed as a battlefield nurse, was moving between wounded soldiers. Her white dress was stained with blood and mud, but her movements were steady, purposeful. She carried herself with the same fearless determination Stone recognized in his best soldiers.
Above, in the ballroom, Ravenwood felt the rope grow heavier in her hands as Stone descended deeper into the memory. The weight wasn't just physical—it carried the emotional and spiritual burden of Eleanor's experiences.
"She's a battlefield nurse," Stone's voice echoed up through dimensions, seeming to come from both the tub and somewhere impossibly distant. "During some kind of war... the Great War, maybe. She's... brave. Moving through enemy fire to reach wounded men."
Eleanor was indeed fearless, running through artillery shells and rifle fire to drag injured soldiers to safety. Stone could feel her determination as if it were his own, her absolute refusal to let good men die while she had the strength to save them. It was a feeling he knew intimately.
The rope in Ravenwood's hands grew heavier still as Stone became more immersed in Eleanor's heroic nature, their shared understanding of duty and sacrifice creating a dangerous resonance.
"She's incredible," Stone said, his voice thick with genuine respect and recognition. "A real warrior, just like us. She understands what it means to carry others when they can't carry themselves."
But then the memory took a dark turn, as memories of war inevitably do. Enemy soldiers had captured Eleanor during a particularly brutal battle, recognizing her value as someone who knew troop movements and medical supply locations. They tortured her for information, using methods designed to break both body and spirit.
They drowned her repeatedly in a metal tub not unlike the one Stone had entered, bringing her back just before death claimed her, only to drown her again. Each time, they demanded information she refused to give. Each time, she chose her duty over her life.
The rope suddenly became crushing weight in Ravenwood's hands, as if Stone himself was drowning along with Eleanor's memory. She gritted her teeth and held on, her spiritual power flowing down the rope like a lifeline, carrying with it her voice and her will to remind Stone of his own identity.
"Captain!" she called out, her voice carrying supernatural authority born of years communing with spirits. "Remember who you are! You are not Eleanor! You are Captain Stone of Her Majesty's forces!"
Stone experienced every drowning, every resurrection, every moment of agony as if it were happening to his own body. The weight of Eleanor's repeated deaths, her stubborn refusal to break even under the most extreme torture, tried to drag him down permanently into her story.
No, Stone thought with the fury of a man who had never surrendered, never broken, never left a soldier behind. I'm not Eleanor. I'm Captain Stone.
His mythic nature awakened, making the Imaginarium surge within him—the power of Atlas, the titan who bore impossible burdens on his shoulders. Stone's supernatural strength flowed through him, not just physical but spiritual. He was made to carry weight that would crush ordinary mortals.
"I carry the weight of the world," Stone growled, his mythic power blazing through the memory like a beacon. "Your suffering cannot crush me, because I was born to bear what others cannot."
The rope in Ravenwood's hands suddenly lightened as Stone's Atlas-strength bore the weight of Eleanor's memories instead of being crushed by them. Where Eleanor had endured through stubborn human courage, Stone endured through mythic power designed for exactly this purpose.
With titanic effort, Stone separated himself from Eleanor's experience while still honoring what she had suffered. The rope went slack as he broke free from the memory's grip and surfaced, gasping but unbroken, water streaming from his hair and uniform.
"Magnificent," Eleanor gurgled with genuine admiration, her drowned features showing something approaching respect. "Few can... bear the weight... of true suffering... without being... consumed by it."
Dr. West approached next with Miss Blackwood, the doctor's nervous energy contrasting sharply with the young woman's fragile, desperate demeanor. The pairing looked unsteady from the start—Dr. West's hands were already shaking as he gripped the rope, and Miss Blackwood appeared ready to collapse from exhaustion even before entering the water.
"I should be the anchor," Dr. West said, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the rope, his medical training warring with obvious anxiety about the supernatural nature of the trial. "My training... my experience with life and death... I should be able to keep you safe."
Miss Blackwood nodded reluctantly, tying the rope around her waist with trembling fingers. She was painfully thin, gaunt from months of sleepless nights and skipped meals while searching for her missing sister. Dark circles ringed her eyes like bruises, and her clothes hung loose on her diminished frame, making her appear even more fragile than she was.
"Just... don't let me get lost in there," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the gentle lapping of water. "I can't fail again. I can't lose anyone else."
She slipped into the water with obvious reluctance and immediately descended into a completely different aspect of Eleanor's past. This Eleanor was older, studying medicine in secret, disguised as a man to gain access to knowledge forbidden to women. Her hidden laboratory was filled with revolutionary discoveries that pushed the boundaries of what was considered possible.
"She's studying medicine," Miss Blackwood's voice carried up from the depths, already sounding distant and strained. "Brilliant work... techniques I've never heard of. She's trying to save everyone... just like I'm trying to save Sophia."
Dr. West held the rope with white knuckles, feeling it grow heavier as Miss Blackwood descended deeper into Eleanor's obsessive pursuit of medical knowledge. Eleanor's desperate need to heal and save every life resonated powerfully with Miss Blackwood's own desperate search for her missing sister.
"She's so driven," Miss Blackwood gasped, her voice becoming more strained with each word. "She can't stop, can't rest. She can't stop trying to save people... I understand that feeling. I know what it's like to be consumed by the need to save someone."
The rope grew progressively heavier in Dr. West's hands, and he was beginning to panic, his medical training providing no guidance for supernatural trials. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold air in the ballroom.
"Just... just focus on coming back up," he called down nervously, his voice cracking with strain. "Don't get too deep. Remember you're just observing."
But the memory was pulling Miss Blackwood deeper. Eleanor had discovered techniques that could bring the recently dead back to life, methods that challenged the very nature of death itself. Miss Blackwood experienced Eleanor's triumph, her joy at conquering humanity's final enemy.
"She's found a way to bring people back from death," Miss Blackwood said, her voice now heavy with desperate hope that made Dr. West's stomach turn. "Actual resurrection... maybe she could teach me... maybe she could bring back Sophia..."
"Miss Blackwood, you need to come back now," Dr. West said, his voice tight with growing anxiety. The rope was becoming impossibly heavy, far beyond what should have been physically possible, and he could feel his grip starting to slip despite his best efforts.
The memory shifted dramatically to Eleanor's downfall—discovered by the authorities, condemned to death by drowning for her heretical work. The transition was violent and sudden, and Miss Blackwood found herself experiencing Eleanor's terror as they dragged her to the execution pool, her brilliant mind suddenly faced with the reality of imminent death.
"Dr. West," Miss Blackwood's voice became desperate, bubbling up through the water with increasing panic. "I'm drowning with her! The water's filling my lungs! I can see Sophia... she's here in the water with all the others Eleanor couldn't save... she's calling for me!"
The rope in Dr. West's hands became crushing weight as Miss Blackwood's mind fractured between Eleanor's death and her obsession with her sister's fate. Dr. West strained against the weight, his muscles trembling with effort, his medical training utterly useless in the face of supernatural forces.
"I'm trying to pull you up!" he shouted, genuine panic creeping into his voice as he felt his grip weakening. "But you're too heavy! The rope's slipping! You have to help me! You have to fight it!"
"Please!" Miss Blackwood's scream echoed from the depths, raw with desperate anguish. "Sophia's here! She's drowning too! All the children Eleanor couldn't save! I have to reach them! I have to save her this time!"
Dr. West pulled with all his strength, his hands burning from the rope's friction, but it was slipping through his sweating palms like water. He could feel Miss Blackwood being dragged deeper into the memory with each passing second, and his medical training, all his knowledge of the human body and mind, was completely useless here.
"Miss Blackwood, fight it!" he yelled desperately, his voice breaking with strain and fear. "Remember who you are! Remember you're in the ballroom! Your sister isn't down there!"
But Miss Blackwood was completely lost now, experiencing Eleanor's drowning as if it were her own death. The water rushed into her lungs, the desperate struggle against hands that held her down, the growing darkness as consciousness faded. But worse than the physical drowning was the emotional torture—dying knowing she'd failed to save the people she loved most.
"The water's so cold," Miss Blackwood gasped, her words becoming increasingly garbled as if she were truly drowning. "So cold... and I can see them all... everyone I failed to save..."
The rope was now impossibly heavy, far beyond what any normal human could hold, and Dr. West's grip was failing catastrophically. He could feel it slipping inch by inch through his hands, no matter how hard he tried to hold on, no matter how much his palms bled from the friction.
"I can't... I can't hold it!" he cried out in genuine anguish, his voice cracking with desperation. "Someone help me! Please! I'm losing her!"
Captain Stone lunged forward, his hands reaching for the rope, but it was already too late. The weight became too much for Dr. West's failing grip, and the rope tore from his hands with violent force, burning his palms raw as it disappeared into the depths.
"No!" Dr. West screamed, staring at his empty, rope-burned hands in horror. "I tried to hold on! I tried! She trusted me and I let her fall!"
Miss Blackwood's body floated to the surface moments later, face-down in the clear water that was now tinged with the faintest trace of pink. Her thin frame looked even more fragile in death, like a broken doll discarded in a pond. Water streamed from her mouth and nose, and her eyes stared sightlessly at the ornate ballroom ceiling above.
Dr. West fell to his knees beside the tub, his hands shaking violently as he stared at what his failure had wrought. "I tried," he whispered, his voice hollow with shock and self-recrimination. "I tried to hold on, but she was so heavy... the memories were pulling her down and I couldn't... my hands just aren't strong enough..."
Captain Stone's face was grim as he pulled Miss Blackwood's body from the water, his movements respectful despite the horror of the situation. "You did what you could, Doctor. But she's gone now."
"I let her die," Dr. West said, his voice breaking completely. "She was so fragile, so desperate to find her sister, and she trusted me to keep her safe. I let the rope slip. I failed her just like I've failed so many others."
Adren's cold gaze fixed on the doctor with undisguised contempt. "Whether you meant to or not, she's dead because you couldn't hold on when it mattered. Good intentions don't bring back the dead."
Dr. West looked up with haunted eyes, tears streaming down his face. "Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I'm not going to see her face every time I close my eyes for the rest of my life? Do you think this won't haunt me forever?"
The guilt and self-recrimination in his voice was genuine, human, and devastating. Whatever his faults, whatever mistakes he had made in his past, Dr. West was clearly shattered by his failure to save Miss Blackwood. His anguish was too raw, too real to be anything but authentic human suffering.
Eleanor collected Miss Blackwood's body with obvious satisfaction, the drowned bride's form seeming to grow slightly more solid with each death, as if she was feeding on the tragedy and loss.
The group was now divided not just by suspicion about who might be human or construct, but by the weight of genuine tragedy and human failure. The bonds between them, already strained, had been tested by fire and found wanting.