The black fire roared around the circle, licking at the edges of the stone like a living creature. Its heat was strange — it didn't burn his skin, but it gnawed at something deeper, something buried in his core.
Erynd stood at the edge, jar of water still in his grip. He didn't dare drop it. Somehow, letting go felt like surrendering the last piece of the world he understood.
The figure within the circle tilted its head, watching him with those pit-like eyes.
"Step inside."
He hesitated. The shadows at his feet twitched, straining toward the flames as if eager to cross.
"What happens if I do?" Erynd asked, voice low.
The smile that followed was thin and sharp.
"You begin."
The flames parted just enough for a man to slip through. He stepped forward, the air beyond the barrier instantly heavier, pressing on his chest.
The ground here wasn't stone anymore. It shifted like wet sand beneath his boots, each step sinking an inch deeper. Whispers swirled in the air, brushing past his ears like cold fingers.
The chained figure straightened, and the sound of metal scraping echoed in the chamber.
"The First Circle tests the weight of your fear. Too much… and it drags you down."
Erynd's eyes darted around. The walls were gone. Only a grey horizon stretched in every direction, and above, the sky churned with black clouds.
Then the ground moved.
Hands — pale, thin, and clawed — burst from the shifting sand, grasping for his legs. Faces emerged, twisted and eyeless, their mouths moving silently.
His pulse hammered. He stepped back, but the ground swallowed him a little more.
The voice of the chained figure rolled across the air:
"Each hand is a memory you've buried. If you cannot face them, they will consume you."
One of the faces rose higher, lips curling. It spoke in a voice he hadn't heard in years — the voice of his mother, frail and exhausted.
"You left me to die."
Erynd's breath caught. "No… I didn't—"
Another hand seized his ankle, and a man's voice growled, "You should have fought back. You were too weak."
Memories he had fought to forget slammed into him. Hunger in the winter. The older boys in the village taking his food. The sound of coughing that never stopped until it was replaced by silence.
The shadows at his feet writhed, spreading like ink across the grey sand. He felt the pull — the temptation to let them take over, to drown the voices in darkness.
But the figure's warning echoed in his mind: Too much, and it drags you down.
He gritted his teeth.
"I'm not the boy I was."
The next time a hand reached for him, he seized it instead. His own shadow wrapped around his arm, forming a blade that sliced through the pale limb. The figure screamed before dissolving into mist.
The ground shuddered.
More hands came. Dozens.
Erynd moved through them, striking, tearing, forcing each memory to break apart. Some were harder — the ones that whispered truth instead of lies — but he didn't stop. He couldn't.
Minutes, or maybe hours later, the last hand slipped beneath the sand, and the grey world stilled.
The chained figure's voice came again, quieter now.
"You faced the weight. Few do."
The black fire flared once more, and the horizon shattered like glass.
Erynd stood again in the stone chamber, chest heaving. The jar of water was gone, replaced by a faint mark burned into his palm — a small black circle.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Your bond to the First Circle," the figure said. "Eight remain."
Chains rattled as it stepped back into the shadows.
"When the time comes, you will seek the Second. Until then… survive."
The chamber dissolved around him, and with a jolt, he was standing once more by the village well. The water in the bucket rippled as if nothing had happened.
But the mark in his palm burned faintly, and the shadows at his feet seemed… sharper.