The forest no longer whispered. It listened.
The clearing had dimmed into a bruised twilight, though no sun could be seen. The Circle lay broken in silence, the chalk-trees bowed, the stones still—except for two. They pulsed faintly with a golden-blue light, remnants of Allan and Canya's presence, etched not by hands, but by sheer will and desperate resistance. The Circle had lost the battle, but it had not forgotten.
Across from them, Mashahl stood, his face still hidden beneath his hood. The skin visible around his wrists and neck shimmered faintly—human in outline, yet slick like obsidian, like water frozen mid-flow. His presence twisted the air, bending light, bending reason.
Henry, now stripped of his scholar's warmth, looked utterly different. Colder. Sharper. No longer bumbling, no longer affable. His eyes gleamed with a deep-set hunger. As he stepped forward, his voice was smooth and heavy as stone falling into deep water.
"You fought well," Henry said, his gaze sweeping over Allan and Canya, now on their knees, weakened. "But even will has its breaking point."
Canya raised her head slowly, her lips cracked and dry. "Why… why do this? Why us?"
Henry smiled faintly, a flicker of something mournful in his expression. "I needed to be sure." He circled them slowly, like a tutor assessing failing students. "You see, I suspected. From the first time I saw you two in the forest, I felt it—the echo of power. Not just raw magic, not just memory. Purpose. Design. My master and I, we have long searched for two who would fit the pattern."
Mashahl stepped forward then, his voice like oil in the ears. "She resists," he said, nodding toward Canya, "but her blood is true. The forest lingers in her. Old blood. She carries the voice of more than just seers. She has promised to serve, but she still resists."
Henry's eyes gleamed. "And him," he gestured toward Allan. "We thought he was only a spirit painter. That was already rare, valuable. But I've seen now. There's more to him—something unspoken, unreadable. It's like staring into a mirror that hasn't yet been made."
"You don't know what I am," Allan spat, his voice hoarse. He knew better than anyone that there was nothing special about him, apart from being a spirit painter.
Henry crouched in front of him, his face inches away. "Exactly. And that frightens me. But it also excites my master."
Mashahl lifted one hand, and the space behind him split open—not a crack in the air, not a door, but a gaping tear, as if the forest itself had been unzipped. Beyond it lay black stone, breathing as if alive. A narrow passage. Cold air rushed through, laced with salt, rust, and an ancient dampness.
"The Knowing Cave," Henry said reverently. "Where truths are painful."
"You're going to torture us," Canya whispered.
"No," Henry said gently. "We are going to free you. Strip away the illusions. Carve off everything that does not serve the design. In the end, you'll thank us."
They were bound—not with rope, but with will. Mashahl whispered, and the forest obeyed. Roots coiled from the ground, gentle but unrelenting, wrapping around ankles, wrists, throats. Canya tried to scream, but it came out as desperate wind. Allan tried to paint with his breath, summon color, but his chest felt hollow—drained.
As they were pulled toward the cave, the trees around the Circle bent further, bowing to Mashahl. The stones did not move, but two of them glowed brighter—their final act of defiance. Where Canya had knelt, the stone now bore the shape of an open eye surrounded by threads of flame. Where Allan had sat, a spiral formed, drawn inward like a vortex.
The Circle had been scarred, but it had seen. And it would remember.
The cave swallowed them whole. Immediately, the warmth of the forest vanished. This was no natural place. The air pulsed with wet, cavernous breath. The walls were smooth but not stone—they moved, subtly, with the rhythm of something dreaming. Luminescent fungi marked the ceiling, casting a sickly green glow that distorted every shadow.
"Bring them," Mashahl commanded.
Down they went—downward spirals of slick black floor, through chambers that echoed with voices of the long dead. Henry seemed lighter here, almost invigorated. He murmured to himself, flipping through a glowing journal he hadn't carried before.
Canya and Allan were forced into opposite alcoves, like twin thrones cut deep into the living walls.
Mashahl raised his hands. "We begin."
At first, nothing happened.
Then—heat. Not physical fire, but memory set ablaze. Allan arched, his back slamming against the rough wall. His mind flooded with moments: his father's voice, Lulu's hand on his wrist, the laughter of the boy beneath the palm tree.
Then they shattered. Each memory broke apart into tiny, glittering pieces, which flew back into his mind wrong—fragmented, twisted. His father became a stranger. Lulu's touch burned. The boy whispered that Allan had no name.
Canya saw visions of her mother—not as a ghost, but alive and cruel, pushing her into fire. Her siblings laughed as she screamed. The valley she called home grew teeth and swallowed her whole.
"No—no, that's not true," she whispered, but the cave didn't care.
Henry watched from the center of the hall, eyes wide with manic joy. "Yes… yes, they bend. They break. But they survive."
Mashahl walked between them, his shadow stretching unnaturally, impossibly long. "You will serve," he said. "The ones who came before failed. But you will not. The forest has chosen."
Canya cried out, "You can't make us forget who we are!"
Mashahl paused, his presence like a cold wind. "We don't need to. You only need to forget who you were trying to be."
A profound silence followed.
Then Allan, shaking, looked up.
"What… what do you want from us?"
Henry stepped forward, his voice a lure. "To awaken the Script."
Canya groaned, despair in her voice. "We don't know how—"
Mashahl's hand touched her brow, a touch that brought no heat, no pain, only an unnerving quiet. "You will. Soon."
And so they were left in the cave, each in their hollowed alcoves, bathed in the sickly green light of ancient fungi. The walls pulsed gently, as if breathing with them. Henry and Mashahl whispered in the dark, already planning the next rite.
Back in the clearing, the Circle slept.
But the two stones glowed.
Their marks were not forgotten.
Their memory would be the forest's last resistance.