Two Weeks Earlier
The sound was barely audible.
A faint scraping, like a nail dragged across glass.
Lynora (dazed) didn't hear it at first.
The pounding in her temples was too loud.
Her own breath too harsh.
Her heart too heavy, hanging in her chest like a stone no one could carry anymore.
The fog around her had grown thicker – sticky, suffocating, as if it had decided not just to surround but to sink into her skin.
Echo (motionless) lay trapped beneath a massive shard of crystal, which vibrated with a dim light. Not like a dead object, but like a living one – as if the island itself had decided to devour her.
Lynora (trembling) pressed both hands against the razor-sharp surface.
The crystal was ice-cold.
And it sliced through her skin immediately.
Blood dripped onto the ground – slowly, silently.
She screamed – from pain, from rage, from that kind of despair that no words could hold anymore.
"Come on… I'll get you out… I'll get you out…"
Echo (weak) barely moved. Only her eyes flickered, opening for a moment – dim, but alive.
"Lynora… listen…"
Her voice was barely more than a breath.
"It's not your fault if it doesn't work. I know you…"
A swallow.
"…that you're trying."
Lynora (softly) shook her head.
Tears streamed down her face, but she barely felt them.
Not from weakness.
From anger.
At herself.
At this island.
At everything.
She tugged at the crystal.
"You're not dying here. I'm not leaving you behind. Not you. Not another one."
Then.
Silence.
The fog, which until then had seemed alive, suddenly froze – as if something had looked at it and held it still.
The air changed.
Heavier. Thicker.
The world itself… stopped breathing.
And then –
someone spoke.
"Why do you try to deny the inevitable?"
Lynora (frozen) held her breath.
The voice was warm.
Gentle.
Almost soothing.
But beneath it lay something else.
Something cold.
Something that crawled up her spine like frost and held her soul in place.
She turned around slowly.
An old man stood there.
Fragile.
Small.
A torn coat hung loosely from his shoulders.
Barefoot.
His hands calmly folded in front of him.
His skin was like paper – wrinkled, thin, nearly translucent.
His eyes: pale like washed-out ink.
But they glowed.
Not like light – but like knowledge.
He looked at her as if he had seen everything.
Lived through everything.
Understood everything.
As if he had never left.
"Who… who are you?"
He smiled.
"An observer. A seeker. Maybe a Dea."
He raised one finger and drew a circle on the ground.
Two dots inside.
One black. One bright.
"What is that?"
"A choice."
"I… I don't understand."
"Oh, child. You understand it perfectly."
His gaze remained calm.
Too calm.
"You're tired. You've seen them die. One by one. And you know it was real. For you, it was. For them, it was."
Lynora (shaking) stepped back.
The ground beneath her felt like trembling flesh.
"Why… why are you showing me this?"
"Because there is no other way."
The man stepped closer.
"The island always demands a sacrifice. Life for life. Either you…"
He looked at Echo.
"…or her."
Lynora stumbled a step back.
Her knees were weak. Her breath shallow.
"I… I can't."
"You don't want to. But you can."
He pointed at the black dot in the circle.
"If you choose yourself, she will die. Gently. Without pain."
Then at the bright dot.
"If you choose her… you will forever become part of this place. Lost. No body. No voice. Only your consciousness – frozen in darkness."
Lynora (quietly) gasped for air.
"But… I have no one left…"
The man nodded.
"You're right. Only she remains. The question is: Is she enough?"
Lynora looked at Echo.
Her lips moved.
Maybe a prayer.
Maybe one last attempt to stay conscious.
Or just a silent goodbye.
Lynora (broken) sank to her knees.
The ground was cold. Wet.
Or was it her own blood pooling beneath her?
She didn't cry.
Not anymore.
She couldn't.
There was only emptiness.
And fear.
And the thought:
I want to live.
She stepped into the circle.
Onto the black dot.
Behind her, the crystal began to vibrate.
A deep, slow pulsation – like the final heartbeat of a dying god.
Echo opened her eyes.
"Lynora…?"
Her voice was calm.
Not accusing.
Not hurt.
Just… tired.
"I understand."
Lynora turned slowly.
Her hands trembling. Her lips trembling.
"I'm… I'm sorry."
Echo smiled.
A real smile.
Soft.
Forgiving.
"Expected it… from the Fourth Division."
A quiet breath.
"But I'm not angry at you."
A pause.
"You are strong… but not ready for this world. Not yet. Maybe one day."
Then –
she disappeared.
Slowly.
Without sound.
Without resistance.
The crystal crumbled to dust.
Lynora remained.
Soaked in blood.
Shaking.
Empty.
The old man was gone.
Nothing remained –
except a single carved message in the stone, as if left behind by a finger:
A. Dea was here.
And the fog
began to breathe again.