The moment Iris fell into the circle, the light swallowed her.
It was more than the darkness of night or shadow — it was thicker, heavier, like plunging into a sea where light had never been born. Her body vanished, her breath vanished, and yet she could still feel.
That was the first cruelty: to feel without flesh.
And then the first voice came.
It was a woman's scream. High, desperate, and then suddenly cut short by a sound like wet cloth tearing. The sensation hit her spine like a hammer — she could feel the ribs breaking, lungs collapsing, air burning in her chest until nothing was left but silence. It wasn't a vision. It was her. She was that woman. She felt her knees buckle, the dirt in her fingernails as she clawed at the ground, the heat of blood as it bubbled from her lips.
She was dead.
But she was still there.
