The Circle trembled. Not the trees or the ground, but something far deeper. The air had grown impossibly still, the clearing's hush thick with a terrible weight. The cracked mirrors lining the Circle's edge moaned like dying glass, reflecting not just their images but fragments of selves long since buried.
Allan's easel had vanished into nothingness. He resorted to the dagger, long lying forgotten in his backpack. It quivered in his hand. He glanced at Canya—her shoulders stiff, her eyes flickering with doubt. The crushing weight of Mashahl's words still settled, clogging their minds with disbelief and fury.
Henry stood like a prophet beside Mashahl's monstrous form, arms open, head tilted back in ecstasy. "You feel it now, don't you? The truth. The resistance. That last bit of rebellion inside you breaking down."
Mashahl's voice swept over them like a frigid tide. "You are not enemies. You are vessels. All you've lost… I can restore. All you've failed… I can redeem."
Canya staggered back, shaking her head. "You made me think I was wrong for choosing freedom. You filled my head with ghosts and shadows."
Henry's smile thinned. "And what did you do with your freedom, child? You doubted. You faltered. The forest heard it. That's what brought you here."
Allan shouted, "You poisoned the Circle! This was never about discovery. You lured us here to—"
"To remember what you wished to forget," Henry cut in, sharp as glass. "You made your vows. And yet you let the scent of lavender and a lost girl pull you from your purpose. You clung to wounds as if they were talismans."
Mashahl raised a pale hand, and the cracked mirrors rippled. Reflections twisted, then shifted—showing Allan clutching Lulu beneath a crumbling sky; showing Canya holding her youngest brother, promising never to leave again. The reflections mocked them with perfect, agonizing clarity. The truths they failed to hold.
Canya dropped to her knees. "Stop…"
Allan tried to step forward, but his limbs resisted, heavy and unresponsive. "I still know who I am. You can't take that."
Mashahl's voice grew colder, colder. "You never knew. I simply showed you the lie you built your name on."
Suddenly, Allan was elsewhere.
He stood on the steps of his family's home in Siya Province. Late afternoon, just before the monsoons rolled in. The doors were shut. From inside came voices—his uncles, his father, a brother. All of them arguing. He remembered this moment. This was the day he left. The day he decided to go back to South West, to seek his beloved.
And then—he watched himself step away.
But the image didn't end there. It continued. The door opened. His mother stepped out… and wept. "You could've stayed," she said. "We needed you."
"I…" Allan's voice cracked.
In the Circle, his body swayed.
Canya cried out.
She was somewhere else now. Back in the valley beneath the old hills, her siblings standing beside her, wide-eyed and hungry. She had packed her bag. Her mother had spoken from the other side of the veil. "Your path is not with them. Your magic is bound to this land."
But Canya had left.
And now she watched the valley burn—fires climbing the terraces, devouring fields. The ghosts of the seers wept in silence. Her youngest brother turned to her. "You were supposed to protect us."
She collapsed to the ground in the Circle, hands clutching her head. "No! I didn't mean to leave you! I didn't mean—"
The ring of mushrooms dimmed, then glowed brighter, pulsing.
Mashahl stepped forward.
"See," it said, "how easily you crumble. There is no battle here—only unveiling."
Allan forced his eyes open. He was sweating, limbs numb. "You're manipulating our minds."
"I'm showing you what you buried," Henry said gently, almost kindly. "We only forget what hurts us. That's why memory is sacred. And dangerous."
Canya crawled to Allan, her hands trembling. "I can't hold it, Allan. I see everything. Everything I tried not to be."
He reached for her—but the ground cracked between them. From the split rose another mirror—this one showing them both. Their faces aged. Empty. Lost in different corners of the world.
"This is what becomes of those who resist," Mashahl whispered. "You scatter. You rot in loneliness. But surrender, and you will remember together. You will serve something greater than grief."
The Circle groaned. Its very soil pulsed beneath their knees. A hum started low in Allan's bones, growing stronger—like a voice beneath the surface, trying to reach him.
Canya felt it too. A warmth. Not strong enough to lift them—but there, buried under layers of pain.
"The Circle… it remembers us," she whispered.
Allan blinked, trying to focus. "It's trying to fight them. Trying to protect what's left of us."
But the force was too weak.
Every time they tried to rise, Mashahl struck with another memory. Another truth. Each one heavier than the last. Like waves crashing onto a crumbling wall.
Henry knelt beside them now, face almost tender. "I told you once—memory is distortion. But it is also power. That's what my master gives. Clarity. Purpose. What you were looking for when you left your homes."
"You turned the Circle into a trap," Allan rasped.
"No," Henry said. "I gave it a reason to be remembered."
Mashahl reached out once more, placing a hand on Canya's shoulder. The touch didn't burn—but it numbed. It slowed her heartbeat. It silenced the voices still clinging to her past.
"I'm tired," she whispered. "So tired of running. Of doubting."
Allan turned to her. "Don't say that. We still have a choice."
"No," she said, her eyes distant, hollow. "We only have the truth. And it hurts too much."
He wanted to argue. He wanted to scream. But his limbs were heavy, his thoughts a spiral. The Circle no longer shimmered—it dimmed. It faded. As if even it had given up.
Mashahl spoke softly now. "Say the words, and your pain will become purpose."
Henry extended his hand. "Swear it. And you will never doubt again."
Canya bowed her head.
"I will serve," she said, voice hollow but certain.
Allan looked at her—truly looked—and saw no resistance left.
He closed his eyes.
The wind died. The trees stood still.
And Allan whispered, "I will serve."
The Circle cracked. Not loudly. Not violently. Just enough to seal the pact.
Mashahl stepped back. Its smile could not be seen—but it could be felt.
Henry opened his arms and welcomed them into the silence.