Arhelia woke.
There was no transition. No sleep. Just a blink, and the world unraveled. A single heartbeat was enough to pull her from the void.
The first sensation was cold. Not the ordinary cold of the basement, but one older, crueler. The stone beneath her hands seemed to breathe with the memories of every death that had occurred upon it, every horror shared simultaneously, as if the rock itself reveled in torment.
She rose slowly. Every muscle protested, as if the memory of physical pain had fused with her spirit.
—Where…? —she murmured, but her voice did not return. No echo. The air swallowed it, dark and voracious, like a tiny animal falling into a bottomless pit.
She stood.
The place was a corridor of polished stone, tall, wide, inhuman. She looked up, searching for a vault, a ceiling, a dome—any sign of construction. Nothing recognizable. Above her stretched an impossible sky: swirls of darkness pierced by fragments of broken light, shapes attempting to be clouds, stars, order… but were only mutilations. The notion of a sky had shattered. Only disorder remained.
Arhelia swallowed.
—This… is not the fortress —she said, without conviction.
The Law Object All or Nothing no longer floated before her. It did not pulse. It did not shine. Yet its essence was embedded in the air, in her chest, in her nape, like an invisible hand pushing her forward.
The Spiritual Labyrinth.
She did not know the name, but her body did. Every fiber recognized it as one recognizes an executioner before seeing them.
She began to walk.
The corridors branched without logic. Some were so narrow she had to move sideways, stone scraping her shoulders, forcing her to breathe ancient dust and something else… something organic. Others opened into square, almost ceremonial corridors, with low columns and stairways ascending toward blind walls, visual traps whispering promises of exit and death alike.
The Labyrinth was not a static board. It was alive. Creative. Malicious.
The walls were covered with impossible decorations.
Old gold outlined filigree so delicate it would have made any Luminar artisan weep. But within those elegant curves were blasphemies: impossible symbols, eyes within eyes, hands emerging from mouths, geometries that twisted logic and mind alike.
Arhelia stopped before a mural.
It was a sequence: nine beings surrounding a smaller one. The enclosed figure was wounded, pierced, broken. But it smiled. A wide, disturbing smile, too human for the scene depicted. The nine had no defined features: shadows, light, incomplete shapes. It did not show victory or defeat. It showed something worse: inevitability.
Further along, another mural.
An ocean. Gigantic.
The waves were liquid mountains rising and crashing as if the sky itself wanted to crush them. On the water, standing as if on solid ground, was a figure. Its face was hidden beneath long black hair, but its eyes shone: pure silver, painful, cold. The figure's skin had the tone of ash accumulated after a thousand wars. Beneath the surface, in the ocean's depths, shapes hinted at things that should not exist. Arhelia felt vertigo. She instinctively understood that staring too long at these images could break her.
She continued walking, aware that each step was a pact with madness.
The silence was thick, almost tangible. No wind, no water, no visible life. Yet the tension was absolute, like the instant before a sword falls on an unsuspecting neck.
Then, a wet sound broke the stillness: chewing. Flesh tearing.
She stopped.
The sound came from a corridor with two branches: left and right. Instinct screamed to flee. Curiosity—that cursed curiosity—pushed her to the right.
And she saw it.
A nearly three-meter-tall monster, its anatomy warped by some cosmic mistake: twisted horns, six eyes distributed without symmetry, an abyssal mouth like the deepest fish. It was devouring a corpse, crushing bones and scattering entrails. The blood was black, thick, reeking of rot.
Arhelia stepped back.
The stone creaked.
The monster lifted its head. Its six eyes locked onto her. It growled. And it lunged.
Arhelia ran.
The labyrinth reacted. Passages deformed, closed, and opened, expelling more forms: grotesque beasts, incomplete bodies crawling and walking, leaving trails of slime and shadow. The ground opened into traps; walls shot out spines that hissed in the air.
—Damn it! —she shouted, dodging a claw that would have ripped her head off.
She jumped. Rolled. Hit a wall. Felt her skin split. The blood was hot. The pain was real.
A serpentine monster emerged from a side corridor. Its long body was covered in dull scales. It opened four jaws at once, spreading them like petals of flesh and teeth, a living, pulsating horror.
Arhelia did not think. She ran straight at it. In the last second, she jumped, planted a foot on the wall, and leaned her body, using the wall as floor. The world spun. The impossible skies reflected in her bicolored eyes, confusing space and gravity. She jumped again, stomping on one of the jaws with brutality. The beast screeched; the momentum launched her upward.
For an instant, from that height, she saw the full board. Two colossal figures. Beyond the Labyrinth.
To the left, a woman of pure light. Headless; dove wings breathing in her place.
To the right, absolute darkness. Headless; tentacles twisted from the neck like patient serpents.
They moved pieces. The beasts were pawns. The traps too.
Arhelia fell on the serpent's torso, something tearing in her side. She staggered, running toward the direction where she glimpsed a break, an exit. The serpent pursued her, with impossible eyes and jaws, roaring a hunger that transcended all logic.
She felt every second: the Labyrinth was watching her. Not with eyes. With intent.
Finally, she saw the opening. A stone arch, distinct from the rest. Silent, expectant.
She ran. Every fiber of her being screamed, every wound burned, every breath was an act of defiance.
She crossed.
The Labyrinth was left behind.
The board trembled.
The pieces stopped.
And the air became only air, for a moment.
Arhelia woke.
There was no sleep, no transition. A blink sufficed. A heartbeat.
The cold of stone under her hands was the first sensation. Not the honest cold of the basement, but an older, crueler one, as if the rock remembered every death that had occurred upon it and decided to share them all at once.
She rose slowly.
—Where…? —she murmured.
Her voice did not return. No echo. The sound was swallowed like a small animal in a deep pit.
She stood.
The place was a corridor of polished stone, high and wide, but there was no sky. She looked up, expecting a vault, dome, or ceiling. She found nothing recognizable. Above her stretched a living chaos: swirls of darkness, torn fragments of light, shapes that seemed attempts at clouds, stars, or anything that tried to be order and were mutilated before birth.
The sky did not exist.
There was only disorder.
Arhelia swallowed.
—This… is not the fortress —she said, without conviction.
The Law Object All or Nothing was no longer in front of her. It did not float. Did not pulse. But its presence remained, embedded in the air, her chest, her nape. Like an invisible hand pushing her forward.
The Spiritual Labyrinth.
She did not know the name, but her body did. Every fiber recognized it as one recognizes an executioner before seeing them.
She began to walk.
The corridors branched without logic. Some were so narrow she had to move sideways, like endless aligned closets, the stone scraping her shoulders, forcing her to breathe old dust and something more… organic. Others opened into square, perfect, almost ceremonial corridors, with low columns and stairs climbing toward blind walls where one could not see what awaited beyond.
It was not an orderly board.
It was a living labyrinth, vast, maliciously creative.
The walls were covered in decorations.
Old gold marked edges, filigree worked with a delicacy that could make any Luminar artisan weep. But among those elegant curves were carved blasphemies: impossible symbols, eyes within eyes, hands sprouting from mouths, geometries that respected no human law.
Arhelia stopped before one mural.
It was a sequence.
A group of nine beings surrounded a smaller one. The enclosed figure was wounded, pierced, broken. But it smiled. A wide, disturbing smile, too human for what it seemed to be. The nine had no defined features: shadows, lights, incomplete shapes. The scene showed neither victory nor defeat. It showed something worse.
Inevitability.
Further along, another mural.
An ocean.
Gigantic.
The waves were so high they seemed like liquid mountains. In the middle of the sea, standing on the water as if on solid ground, was a figure. Its face was hidden; long black hair covered it like a veil. But its eyes… its eyes were visible.
Pure silver. Brilliant. Painful.
Its skin had the color of ash accumulated after a thousand wars. Around it, beneath the ocean's surface, shapes hinted at things that should not be seen. Arhelia felt immediate nausea.
She understood without knowing how that staring too long at these images could drive her mad.
She continued walking.
The silence was thick. No wind. No water. No visible life. But the tension was absolute, like before a public execution. Like the second before a sword falls.
Then she heard something.
A wet sound.
Chewing.
Flesh tearing.
She stopped.
The noise came from a corridor with two branches: left and right. Instinct screamed to flee. Curiosity—that sick thing always living inside her—pushed her to the right.
She turned.
And she saw it.
A nearly three-meter-tall monster, with anatomy that seemed the result of a cosmic mistake. Twisted horns, six eyes distributed asymmetrically, and an abyssal fish-like mouth filled with long, translucent, wet teeth.
It was eating.
The corpse under its claws was another monster, or what remained of it. Bones crushed. Entrails scattered. The blood was black and thick.
Arhelia stepped back.
The stone creaked.
The monster stopped.
It turned its head.
Six eyes stared at her simultaneously.
It growled.
And it lunged.
Arhelia ran.
The labyrinth exploded into motion. From the passages emerged more forms: deformed beasts, incomplete bodies, things crawling, walking, leaving slime and shadow trails. The ground opened into traps; walls expelled spines; corridors closed like jaws.
—Damn it! —Arhelia shouted, dodging a claw that would have ripped her head off.
She jumped. Rolled. Hit a wall. Felt her skin split on her arm. The blood was real. The pain too.
It was not a dream.
It was a hunt.
A serpentine monster emerged from a side corridor. Its long body was covered with dull scales, and it had four jaws. When it opened them, it did so like an obscene flower, petals of flesh and teeth unfolding in all directions.
Arhelia did not think.
She ran straight at it.
At the last second, she jumped, planted a foot on the wall, and began running horizontally, leaning her body, using the wall as floor. The world spun. The chaos of the sky reflected in her bicolored eyes.
She jumped.
He stepped on one of the monster's jaws, slightly losing his balance.
The beast shrieked in annoyance.
The momentum launched her upward. For a moment, from that height, Arhelia saw it.
Two figures.
Beyond the labyrinth.
Colossal.
The full stage was a board. A labyrinthine board stretching to nothingness. And beyond, seated on two colossal chairs, were them.
To the left, a woman made of pure light. Headless. Dove wings rose and fell slowly, as if breathing.
To the right, a figure of absolute darkness. Also headless. Tentacles emerged from the neck, twisting with infinite patience.
They moved pieces.
The beasts were pawns.
The traps too.
Arhelia fell.
She rolled over the serpent. Something tore in her side. She staggered, running toward the direction where she had seen something different: an opening, a break, an exit.
The serpent twisted its impossible body and pursued her.
Arhelia ran, wounded, covered in blood and dust, cursing, losing herself and finding herself, feeling at all times that unbearable sensation:
Something was watching her.
Not with eyes.
With intent.
Finally, she saw the exit.
A stone arch distinct from the rest. Silent. Expectant.
She ran toward it.
And crossed.
The labyrinth was left behind.
The board trembled.
And the pieces stopped.
Then she saw them.
The corridors had vanished. The traps, the beasts, all the labyrinth's chaos dissolved like smoke in wind that no one blew. Before her opened an infinite void, a space suspended between everything and nothing, where perception itself seemed to waver. And there they were, not as entities, but as concepts of pure power, seated where the colossal chairs had been, now reduced to thrones of idea.
To the left:
A woman made of light so white it hurt the eyes, pierced the mind, shredded the perception of reality. She had no face. In her place sprouted dove wings, infinite, layered, flapping without wind, each feather emitting a silence so absolute it hurt the ears. It was the stillness of empty temples, forgotten eras, dead hopes.
To the right:
A male figure chiseled in absolute shadow, taller than any tower in the Stygian Fortress. His body reflected nothing: everything he touched disappeared. Where there should have been a head, heavy ancient tentacles curled slowly, roots of a predatory power devouring worlds with centuries-long patience.
Arhelia stood before them. Small. Dirty. Bleeding. But alive.
The woman of light spoke first. Her voice did not come from any mouth; it emerged from space itself, enveloping, like a prayer recited for no one, like a chant traversing the threads of time.
—Child —she said—. I can give you perfection. You will not fail again. You will not suffer again. You will not feel the void that consumes you when the world despises you.
The light leaned toward her, and Arhelia saw glimpses of promises: a body without error, a mind without cracks, a straight path, where every step was guaranteed, without effort, without pain.
The shadow laughed. It was not sound, but vibration, iron dragged over ancient bones.
—Or you can take my hand —it said—. I will give you power. Power enough to break everything, so that the world bleeds at your feet and begs for mercy.
The tentacles stirred, containing wars, ruined empires, cities reduced to dust by a barely conscious gesture.
Arhelia spat. The dried blood fell into the void and disappeared.
She looked at the light first, then the shadow. Her eyes—one black as a starless abyss, the other white as a dead sun—showed no doubt.
—I will obey neither of you.
The light trembled, not from fear, but disbelief. The shadow growled, annoyed like a predator denied a guaranteed prey.
—Insolent child —said the luminous woman—. You do not understand what you are rejecting.
Arhelia stepped forward. The nonexistent ground held her.
—On the contrary —she replied—. You do not understand who I am.
The shadow extended a massive hand that eclipsed the chaos of the sky.
—Then die —it said—. That works too.
The attack was not a blow. It was an entire world collapsing. Reality bent. Space fractured. The intention to annihilate her was absolute.
She did not step back. Did not scream. Did not defend herself. She simply walked.
Each step resonated with negation and pure will. The light responded, launching spears of radiation that pierced space, but shattered against her body, useless, like glass against steel. The shadow stirred infinite cracks in the nonexistent ground, attempting to swallow her. She continued, unhurried, unafraid, obedient to no one.
When she reached them, she raised her small, bloody, human hands. She touched the light first. The woman emitted an impossible, empty sound, fracturing the whiteness of her being. Fragments of light were absorbed by Arhelia, piercing chest, throat, and soul like sweet blades.
Then she touched the shadow. For the first time, the dark giant showed surprise. The tentacles tensed.
—You… are…? —it managed to say.
Arhelia closed her hand. The shadow split silently. Pieces of pure darkness slid inside her, like ink poured into clear water.
One by one, light and darkness descended through her spirit like long-awaited sustenance, as if her soul had been hungry since before birth.
The labyrinth began to close, the walls folding, the chaotic sky fading.
When all was done, Arhelia woke.
In the fortress. In the basement of the black stone Luminar. The air cold, real, heavy. She rose slowly. No open wounds, only internal scars burning fiercely.
At her side floated the sphere.
All or Nothing. Half light, half shadow, rotating slowly, obedient. It did not call. It waited, like a dog recognizing its mistress.
Arhelia looked at it. And smiled. It was not a happy smile. It was correct. The smile of someone who had just won her first war, and the world still did not know it.