*Oh heavens. Three hundred death row inmates?*
The thought of having three hundred equally dangerous men in the same room startled me. The group next to me seemed to be acquaintances; they all let out a verbal gasp for the view as well. The room was around the same size as a standard auditorium with an elevated floor at the end. Officers guard the exits, multiple of them patrolling near us, waiting for any moment to rise. Every guard was equipped with a military-grade burner, capable of dealing with *anyone*.
I felt fear rise in the air, some laughed, some gasped. On the elevated floor, there were around twenty officers equipped with the same weapon. But one person on that floor was different from the rest. He wore a green uniform, that of a veteran officer. His metals on the left side of his jacket reflected off the light.
He walked toward the microphone that lay at the platform's edge, each step heavy with power.
You were fated to die in three weeks. That was your destiny– signed and scheduled. And yet, here you stand. Why, you ask? Because fate can change. Will you defy the fate that bound you to rot in hell, or will you prove that destiny bends for those with enough strength?"
The crowd continued to feed into the amusement. His voice was strong, determined. What would you expect from a veteran? The man kept a neutral face throughout the speech. He gave no one time to think, continuing.
"Each of you carries a thread of fate," he says, pointing at the center of his chest. "Some are knotted with guilt, others bound by regret. The trials will show you what was always waiting on the other side. The trials will show you your side of the story but they do not judge you. They simply unravel what was already there. Does anyone believe in magic?" He asked the crowd.
The crowd laughed in return, some stayed quiet. I was one of them.
"Magic, he says! Bah spare me the shit. tell us whytha fuck were here." A heckler called out.
The audience continued to laugh. The man exchanged a laugh that rasped with age.
An officer from the platform immediately let out a charge, instantly killing the heckler a few paces away from me. The humming of the bullet silenced everyone. My ears were deafened for several moments as the crowd startled.
"This is not a comedy, Rats. I'm giving you an opportunity, respect it. "
My heart began to sink, my ears rang, and my vision blurred. The crowd stayed silent, but there were suppressed whimpers. The seriousness this man represented finally reflected off the crowd– It only took one person to. My throat was clenched, the air thickened– I felt as if I was breathing in that magical bag again.
"Magic is real. Believe it or not, but do not disrespect it. It is complex, its strings are knotted and twisted almost infinitely. Weaved from strength, power, and mystery. You will not be able to see it with untrained eyes like yours. "
The crowd, manipulated by fear, believed him. I did as well. The thought of magic existing isn't comprehensible to humans. They only believe what is in front of them. But this man forced them to.
"These are not just trials that you will enter. They are the mirrors of your own fate. Worlds that were spun from the thread of who you are, what you've done and what you will do. refusal to enter your trial is death. That is the contract. The chair would have been a mercy for you. At least then, your thread would cut clean. But here? Here, you'll learn what it means to have fate strangle you instead, " He ends.
The fear hung thick as fog. Silent, the crowd absorbed his every word. I felt it too, but I wasn't that close-minded. I saw an opportunity. An opportunity for freedom. This said, trials must be free in a new dimension. I couldn't wrap my head around entering magical trials.
*Was this worse than the chair?*
He began to speak once again.
"His thread had been short," he says pointing at the dead inmate
"He had been destined to die by me. Fate does not warn fools." His words cut through every doubt inmates had. Mine was too.
The cries grew louder, but I stayed silent, withdrawn. The man disappeared off the platform, leaving the room in quietness. My thoughts were interrupted when an officer called out.
"One single file line! You will follow the officer ahead!"
Everyone did what was said, some stragglers caused it to take longer than needed. Multiple inmates had passed out from sheer fear. For most, it wasn't the death that startled them, but the strength and truth in his words. His words had the power to control. The stench of sweat and blood from the dead inmate almost made me gag up my breakfast.
The scent of blood had reminded me of the man I had killed.
Eventually, we left the room. We weaved through halls, turned corners until the line halted. My feet began to ache. Minutes began to blend into hours. The air had grown thicker with each step and each turn of the corner. The constant blinding, white walls caused my eyes to sore. Echoing boots had alarmed us. It was time to move.
Some prisoners who were known for running dragged their chains that screamed against the floor with every step. I heard chains clinking closer from behind.
A voice rasped behind me.
"You know what that man was"
I didn't answer. The guards had short tempers. Too risky. But that didn't stop the whispers
"Bernadotte. They say he's only nineteen, but looks twice that, doesn't he? Magic does that to a man. "
Up ahead, a muscled inmate shifted slightly.
"Shut up," A deeper voice muttered up ahead. You'll get us flogged."
I tried looking ahead without being obvious, but my view was blocked from the muscular, broad back of the man that spoke. He barely fit his uniform; he shifted, and our march halted again.
My curiosity further rose after hearing the man's response. I clenched my jaw. Nineteen certainly didn't match. The guy looked decades older with wrinkled skin and gray hair.
*Could it really be magic-related? Something that happened in a trial, he speaks of?*
Thoughts continued to linger, I couldn't help but be confused. My mind stopped when he brought up the magical trials. The thought of fate being intertwined with the trial certainly was interesting. I assumed this meant that they were unique to everyone, and I would probably be alone when one occurs.
From a distance, I could hear the same door constantly open and close when the march began to start again, meaning we were entering the room individually. I would have to be prepared if we were entering a trial. My jumpsuit was loose, I was starved for multiple days due to punishment. Something felt wrong. My mind began to fog, the air felt even thicker before. I began to feel waves of nausea when we marched closer.
A couple of moments later, the sound of the door opening and closing became closer. I could only see the door when the broad-backed man entered the room and closed the door behind him. The metal doorknob clicked as the door closed. A couple of paces away lie two officers guarding outside the door. The door loomed ahead. It looked carved from an ancient blackwood, gnarled like twisted bone. Its deep color contrasted with the white walls and further added an ominous weight. Whatever was behind it felt – wrong. Its nature reminded me of the bag I had worn not long ago.
I heard the rumbling and muffled grunts of the man inside. Eventually, the noise dissipated, and one of the guards ordered me to enter. Twisting the knob, the cold metal made me shudder.
Upon entering, the room's color was that of no other. Its pure white made my eyes water from the brightness. The room was about ten feet in all directions, and one thing lay in the middle.
My gaze fell on a podium being the only thing in the room. I noticed its weird shape, carved from wood. The lumber was darkened from age. Its swirls and scars reminded me of the door I had just entered. But the most important of all was what lay atop the podium. My tension that I had been holding for so long started to grow, and my calm breaths had turned into shuddering quivers for air. A black hand made from an unknown material.