The air lay heavy, thick with a stillness that was almost unnatural. Even the dust motes drifting in the faint half-light seemed to hang in suspension, unwilling to move. Sorin stood at the threshold of the chamber, the silence so dense it pressed against his skin like cold stone.
It wasn't the quiet of an empty room. It was the quiet of something watching.
Shadows pooled along the far walls, their edges frayed as if they were smoke caught in an unseen draft. They didn't move with the light—rather, they breathed, swelling and fading in a rhythm that matched no natural pulse.
The longer Sorin stared, the more he could sense it: a subtle inhalation, a soft exhale, like the chamber itself was alive.
He felt it in his chest, that same rhythm, though his own breath was shallow and quick.
The Silence Path stirred within him, a low thrum at the edge of perception. It didn't speak—not in words—but its presence coiled around his thoughts, urging him to step forward.
He obeyed.
The first step sent ripples through the air, faint distortions that blurred the outlines of the shadow pools. They drew toward him, stretching like ink pulled toward water. His pulse quickened.
They were not mere absences of light they were presences.
One rose higher than the rest, wavering like a half-formed memory. No face, no eyes, yet Sorin felt its gaze. The silence grew heavier it devoured sound.
A whisper brushed his ear, though no air moved.
Do you breathe… or are you breathed?
The question echoed inside him. Another step forward.
A shadow shifted, revealing something faintly luminous at its core—like a coal buried deep in ash. The light dimmed, flickered, and returned, fragile but stubborn. He reached for it.
The shadows recoiled. Cold brushed his hand. The Silence Path surged in warning: Not yet.
He froze. The chamber's breathing grew louder. Then he saw them—tall, impossibly thin figures, limbs bending at wrong angles. One stood in his path.
It leaned forward without moving its legs. The Silence Path rippled. Sorin could not speak.
A pinprick of gold bloomed inside him.
The Silence Path guided his breath—slow, deliberate, against the shadows' rhythm.
They noticed. Their breathing faltered. The tallest figure straightened. The others stilled.
The golden light pulsed. They recoiled.
Air rushed back into his lungs. He stood firm.
This was not a contest of lungs, but of will.
With each breath, the golden light grew, spilling faintly into the chamber. One by one, the figures retreated.
The coal-like glow in the shadows brightened. Sorin stepped forward. This time, nothing stopped him.
He reached out. Warmth kissed his fingertips.
The Silence Path hummed in recognition.
The light sank into his palm, spreading through his veins until it vanished. Warmth filled him.
The last thing he heard before the chamber faded was the whisper's answer:
You breathe.