Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Patient. Relentless. A countdown measured in slow, cruel seconds.
At first, Orion thought it was water leaking through some forgotten ceiling. Then the rhythm changed. The drops thickened, heavier, each one landing with the thud of something living.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump-thump-thump.
A heart. His heart. Racing. Frantic. Clawing its way out of his chest.
He jolted awake, lungs burning as if he'd been drowning. Cold sweat glued his tattered pajamas to his skin. For a heartbeat he thought he was still in the precinct chair—that the officers would unstrap him, hand him government-issue sleeping pills, and send him home.
Then his eyes adjusted.
Gray stone. No windows. Ceiling so low he could touch it if he stretched.
The "bed" beneath him was a rusted slab of metal bolted to the wall. The thin mattress had long rotted to black flakes. Iron rings still welded into the walls. Chains hung like forgotten promises of torment.
Drip. Drip.
He sat up slowly. The air tasted of rust, iron, and old blood. Beyond the open cell door came shuffling footsteps and the metallic song of chains scraping stone. Low, guttural moans—voices that had long since forgotten what it meant to be human.
Orion rose. Bare feet met freezing grit. Pajamas stiff with dried sweat and alley filth. No shoes. No weapons. No Aspect. Nothing.
The corridor opened before him. A slave pen carved from bedrock, stretching into darkness. Rows of iron-barred cells held figures too still to be alive. Ahead, a column of chained prisoners shuffled, neck to ankle, heads bowed, hair matted, skin gray with grime and despair. Time had no meaning here.
At the front marched a man in a twisted parody of authority: black leather coat, oversized boots, short sword at his hip. A jagged scar cut from ear to mouth, twisting his smile into permanent cruelty.
When his eyes landed on Orion, the smile widened.
"Well, well. Fresh meat that can still walk on its own."
His voice was smooth, almost kind. The kind that promised mercy right before it took everything else.
The overseer snapped his fingers. Two guards detached from the column, Awakened, their faintly glowing soul cores visible beneath patchwork armor of iron and monster bone. One carried a whip of braided sinew, dripping something darker than blood.
Orion's legs screamed to run. There was nowhere to go. Behind him: a black iron gate. Beyond: only deeper darkness.
The scarred man tilted his head.
"Name?"
"Orion."
"Real name, worm."
"That is the only one I have."
A bark of laughter made the column flinch in perfect unison.
"Defiant. I like that. It breaks prettier."
Up close, Orion saw the brand on his neck: twelve eyes in a circle, all closed. A Survivor of the First Nightmare. In the real world, these people were celebrities, icons of survival. Here, they were executioners.
"My name is Cassius," the man said, savoring each word. "First Cohort, Crimson Spire. I died in my First Nightmare thirty-two times before carving my way out. Do you know what that means, little lamb?"
Orion said nothing.
Cassius leaned close. Breath coppery.
"It means the Realm spat me out because it feared to keep me. Now I shepherd lost souls like you." He tapped the brand. "I get to do whatever I want until your Trial officially begins. And yours? It hasn't."
Straightening, he addressed the guards without breaking eye contact.
"Chain him. Light irons. I want him to feel every step."
The sinew whip cracked. Pain lanced across orion's cheek. Instinct took over. He bolted.
Four strides. Then a truck of malice slammed into his back. Stone rushed to kiss his face. Pain erupted across ribs; blood tasted coppery in his mouth.
A boot pressed into his shoulder, grinding him into the floor.
"Predictable," Cassius sighed.
Cold iron bit his wrists. The cuffs were almost delicate—but the moment they locked, weight crashed down like neutron star metal. His arms dropped, useless.
[Flawed Soul, Dormant Human]
Name: Orion
True Name: —
Aspect: —
Aspect Rank: —
Soul Cores: 0/1 (Dormant)
Memories: 0
Echoes: 0
Attributes: [Fated] [Lost from the Stream] [—]
No blessing. No curse. Nothing.
Cassius read the glowing script above orion's head and laughed. Louder. Cruel.
"Oh, this is rich. A Flawed soul with no Aspect, no Memories, no divine gift. The Spell truly hates you."
He yanked Orion by the hair, head snapping back.
"Listen carefully, little lamb. The First Nightmare has three phases for trash like you.
Phase One: The Caravan. March until feet bleed, carrying twice your weight in iron. Some souls shatter and become Hollows.
Phase Two: The Crimson Labyrinth. Monsters. Traps. Other Awakened. Death counts as extra credit.
Phase Three: The Shard of the Broken Sun. Reach it, touch it, wake as Awakened. Fail…" Cassius shrugged theatrically. "You don't wake at all."
He released him, stepping back.
"But don't worry. I'll be with you. Guiding you. Teaching you." The scar split face widening. "Motivating you."
The guards hauled Sunniless to his feet, linking him into the chain column. Half-meter chains bit with every step. Prisoners ignored him; empty sockets reflected torchlight that didn't exist.
Cassius raised a hand.
"Forward march, lambs. The Labyrinth hungers."
They moved. Stumbled. Fell. Dragged three lengths before chains jerked them upright. Flesh scraped against stone. Whimpers echoed like kicked dogs.
Time fractured. Pain became rhythm. Flesh became melody.
Hours—or minutes—passed. The corridor opened into a cavernous hall, pillars carved as screaming faces. Torches burned black fire that gave no heat. Chains as thick as torsos swayed in darkness, as if alive.
Cassius walked backward, boots clicking.
"Do you know why the Realm brings you here? Not punishment. Selection. The Spell seeks sparks, slivers of will sharp enough to cut fate itself. Most are kindling. Few… blades. You? Sawdust."
Whip cracked. Fire lanced from temple to jaw. Blood hissed.
"But sawdust burns brightest," Cassius whispered. "Let's see how bright."
They marched until pain was the only world.
Eventually, the column reached a red bronze gate, runes crawling like insects. Cassius touched it, spoke a word that made the air ache.
The gate swung inward.
A desert lay beyond: sky the color of fresh bruises. Three bleeding suns, one cracked like a broken plate. The sand was shards of glass, glittering and sharp.
Cassius turned, final words:
"Welcome to Phase Two. The Crimson Labyrinth. Chains off in one minute. Then… everything wants you dead: beasts, traps, others, even me."
He drew his sword, drinking the crimson light.
"Survive until the Broken Sun rises. Fail…" He grinned. "Glass worms don't like screaming."
Chains glowed. Fell with a clatter. For one heartbeat, silence.
Then chaos.
A skeletal girl sprinted, sand erupting beneath her. Mandibles of old blood shredded her in ten steps. Her scream ended in wet finality.
The column erupted. Bodies trampled, clawed, fought. Someone slammed into Orion, knocking him to knees. Bones cracked. He rolled under flailing limbs and ran.
Glass shredded his feet, leaving red blossoms with each step. The air resisted, thick as blood. Behind, Cassius's laughter pursued him.
He ran until lungs bled, until wind swallowed the screams. Collapsed behind a dune. Alone. Truly, completely alone.
For the first time since the cell, fear sharpened into something new: curiosity.
Bleeding feet. Empty desert. Broken suns.
A cracked, ugly laugh escaped him. Sawdust didn't just burn. Pressure, heat, suffering…
Sawdust became diamond.
He pressed torn palms together, whispered to the indifferent sky:
"Fine. Let's play."
Far below, something vast shifted beneath the glass. Fresh blood.
The First Nightmare had only just begun.