There was no tunnel of light.
No echoing voice. No divine figure.
Only silence — and then, a jolt.
Andrew gasped as if surfacing from drowning, lungs sucking in air too fast. He coughed violently, his whole-body convulsing against cold stone.
Andrew Brigh gasped awake, lungs dragging in air too fast. His body jolted, limbs stiff against a cold, solid surface beneath him. A second passed—then another. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, a panicked rhythm that didn't feel like his own.
He was lying on stone. Bare. Cold.
Above him stretched a low, cracked ceiling. Carved into it was the image of a creature he couldn't recognize — serpentine, with too many eyes and tendrils that twisted in unnatural geometry. It stared down at him in eternal silence, as if judging.
He sat up too fast and immediately threw up over the edge of the slab.
His stomach clenched violently. The bile stung his throat, but what hit him harder was the cold — and the realization:
He was nearly naked, wearing only rough, scratchy underwear made from some coarse fabric. His skin was slick with sweat. The stone altar beneath him was etched with deep grooves… and all around its base, a bloody pattern had been drawn — thick, crude lines that spiralled out into symbols he couldn't read.
Candles surrounded him, dozens of them, casting the room in a gloomy amber glow.
The air was damp. It smelled of iron, and ash, and something else — something rotten.
Andrew's hand flew to his chest.
He winced.
There was a mark there. A scar — no, a fully healed stab wound, right in the center of his sternum. The skin around it felt too smooth, as if it had been burned shut, not stitched.
"What the hell…" he whispered, his voice rough. Too rough.
And too young.
He staggered off the altar, knees buckling. The stone floor was freezing against his bare feet. He reached for a nearby barrel of water, desperate for something to rinse his mouth, to calm his spinning head.
He leaned over.
And saw his reflection.
A pale boy stared back at him. No more than fifteen. Short black hair matted to his forehead with sweat. Sharp jawline. Blue eyes — bright, almost glowing — that flickered faintly in the candlelight like a shallow pool lit by lightning.
That wasn't his face.
It wasn't him.
Andrew stumbled back from the barrel, breathing hard.
"This is a dream," he whispered. "I died. I was impaled. I—"
Then came the noise.
Clashing metal.
Shouts. Screams. The unmistakable sound of fighting in the distance, echoing faintly through the stone walls.
His head snapped toward a dark hallway at the far end of the chamber. The sounds came from beyond it — swords colliding, boots pounding, voices barking orders. The floor trembled slightly with each clash.
This wasn't a dream.
This was real.
And somehow… he was inside someone else's body. A boy. A victim, maybe. Or a vessel.
Panic clawed at his throat.
"Where the hell am I?"
The creature on the ceiling offered no answers.
The candles flickered.
And the fighting outside drew closer.
Andrew swallowed hard, forced himself to breathe. His legs still trembled. His mind raced. But instinct—the kind that had kept him alive for four decades in silence and systems—told him one thing:
Move.
He staggered toward the walls, scanning the chamber for anything he could use — clothing, weapons, a way out. There were barrels, broken crates, piles of dried herbs, melted wax, and stained scrolls — but no robes, no shirts, no shoes.
Nothing but the stone, the silence, and the blood.
His fingers clenched in frustration. He couldn't go wandering around like this — barefoot and half-naked in some ritual crypt.
Then he saw it.
In the far corner of the room, crumpled beside a splintered wooden stool, was a dusty, faded cloth — maybe once a banner or tapestry. It bore strange, arcane symbols, frayed at the edges, but it was thick and long enough to cover him.
He hesitated for half a second, then grabbed it and slung it around his shoulders like a cloak. It smelled of mildew and old smoke, but it would have to do.
He tied the ends together across his chest, adjusting it until it held. It wasn't much, but it gave him something — the barest sliver of dignity in a place where nothing made sense.
He moved to a nearby pile of scrolls and tattered books, hoping for something — anything — to explain where he was.
But the pages were filled with strange looping symbols, curves and dots that resembled no alphabet he recognized. Not English. Not Latin. Not even the symbols used in electrical engineering or schematics. Completely alien.
"I can't read any of this," he whispered.
He exhaled slowly. Then turned toward the dark hallway beyond the altar.
There were answers out there.
And whatever this place was…He wasn't dying here again.
Andrew turned toward the only visible exit — a narrow stone doorway at the far end of the room. The hallway beyond was dim, lit only by sparse sconces. It branched into two doors: one large and ornate, iron-bound and slightly ajar, and a smaller wooden one tucked beside it.
From the large door, the chaos spilled in full force — shouting, armor clanking, the ring of steel on steel.
Andrew didn't hesitate.
He turned toward the smaller door and slipped through.
It opened into a tight corridor, low-ceiling and claustrophobic, lined with other doors — storage rooms or cells maybe. He crept forward quietly, bare feet silent on the cold stone.
Then he heard it.
Voices. From the chamber he'd just left.
His blood turned cold.
They were coming back.
Panicked, he darted into the shadow beside a stack of old crates near one of the side doors. He crouched low, pulling the cloth tighter around his body.
Two figures passed by.
Hooded. Robed. Cultists.
He held his breath.
"Is it true?" one asked, voice hushed. "The founder's escaped?"
"I saw it with my own eyes," the other replied, tone bitter. "He used one of the old escape tunnels. Slipped right past the baron's soldiers. Coward."
"And the sacrifice?"
"Failed. Vessel wasn't viable. Burned out."
Andrew's heart skipped. They were talking about him.
The first cultist spat. "Then it was all for nothing."
"No. We delayed them, at least. But this place—" the cultist looked around, voice darkening, "—we'll have to abandon it. The baron's forces will scour it clean."
Their footsteps faded as they continued down the hallway toward the farthest door.
Andrew remained hidden, breath shallow.
Sacrifice. Escape tunnels. A baron.
His mind spun.
Who had this body belonged to? What had they tried to put in him?
And what did they mean by "burned out"?