I snapped out of my thoughts and shook my head hard, like I could throw the doubt out of it by force alone. The hesitation still clung to me, stubborn and unwelcome.
I looked at Trace, then Sare, meeting each of their eyes in turn.
"I need one of you to help me test an ability," I said. "If it works… our plan will be perfect for the deception I'm setting up."
Both of them glanced at each other, brows lifting in silent question before returning their attention to me.
I exhaled slowly. "I'm not going to lie — this is risky. The ability takes a lot of focus to enter and control. I don't know if it'll work while bringing someone else with me. And I don't know what happens if it fails."
The air between us tightened.
Trace's expression hardened with resolve. She stepped forward slightly.
"I'll help you test it," she said. "If it means we escape and survive these hellish ribs, then it's worth the risk."
She tilted her head just a fraction. "And Sare already made it clear she trusts your plan — no matter what."
Sare nodded once, firm and steady.
"I do," she said. "So stop doubting yourself."
"Alright," I said quietly. "Then listen carefully."
I looked between them to make sure I had their full attention.
"As you've both seen, I can enter what I call the Shadow Realm. It isn't just concealment — it's a separate layer of space. When I step into it, the world feels… thinner. Distant." I paused, choosing the words carefully. "But it also pulls at you. Constantly. Like it wants you to sink deeper and never come back."
I flexed my fingers unconsciously at the memory of it.
"It takes a lot of focus to enter and exit safely. Control isn't optional — if my concentration slips, it starts dragging me toward its abyss. That's why I stopped using it for a while. Mental fatigue makes it dangerous."
My gaze settled on Trace.
"And that's exactly why I don't know what will happen if I try to bring someone else with me. I've never tested it. Not once."
A brief silence followed.
Trace frowned slightly. "That… sounds more dangerous than you made it seem before," she said. "If it isn't handled perfectly, that's not a scouting tool — that's a trap."
She exhaled softly. "I really had no idea it was that severe."
I gave a small, humorless half-smile.
"Yeah," I said. "I try not to advertise the parts that can swallow me whole."
"First," I said quietly, grounding my breathing, "I want you to get used to the pull of the Shadow Realm while you're with me. I don't know if it behaves differently when I bring someone along."
I held her gaze. "Stay close. Don't let go — no matter what you feel."
She stepped in without hesitation.
I wrapped my right arm around her waist and drew her in until our balance centered together. Not for comfort — for stability. If the pull intensified, separation would be dangerous. She understood immediately and locked both arms around me, firm and unshaking. Close enough that I could feel the tension in her muscles and the steady rhythm of her breath.
"Ready?" I asked.
She nodded once. Determined.
I reached inward and opened the threshold.
At first, nothing happened.
Then the shadows beneath our feet thickened — not darkening, but deepening, like depth had been added to color. The edges of our silhouettes began to blur. The air turned cool and heavy, pressing softly against the skin like deep water.
Sound dulled.
The forest noise thinned into a distant hush.
A low, silent pressure gathered below us — not a force, but an invitation.
The ground softened like wet ink.
Shadows rose around our boots and ankles, curling upward in slow spirals. They did not grab — they welcomed. The sensation was unnervingly gentle.
Trace's grip tightened slightly.
We began to sink.
Not falling — being accepted.
The world above us stretched and smeared like paint dragged across glass. Light bent. Distance warped. The rib, the trees, the sky — all of it receded as if reality itself were exhaling us away.
The pull increased.
It pressed against the mind more than the body — a downward persuasion, a quiet suggestion to stop resisting and let go of direction entirely.
Trace exhaled softly against my shoulder.
"Wow… it feels smooth," she whispered. "Almost easy to enter."
"Yes," I said, keeping my focus anchored like a blade point in my thoughts. "That's how it traps you. It doesn't drag — it convinces."
The last outline of the surface world folded shut above us like a closing lid.
"If you accept the pull without control," I said quietly, "it takes you farther than you meant to go."
Darkness became dimension.
And we crossed fully inside.
The moment we crossed fully inside, the pull hit me.
Not like before.
Stronger. Closer. More intimate.
It didn't feel like gravity — it felt like persuasion.
Something pressed against my consciousness from every direction at once, not pushing, not tearing — inviting. A slow, patient pressure urging me to loosen my grip on thought, on intent, on self. Like a voice without sound repeating the same gentle command:
Stop trying. Sink. Rest.
My thoughts slowed immediately. Not blocked — softened. Edges rounded off. Urgency dulled. The instinct to act felt unnecessary here, almost foolish.
That was the real danger.
Focus, I ordered myself.
The word echoed — but faintly, like it had to travel a long distance to reach me. Holding onto it felt like gripping a rope with numb fingers. Every second I didn't actively resist, the pull wrapped tighter around my awareness, trying to redirect my attention inward and down.
Direction started losing meaning.
Up and down felt interchangeable. Distance felt optional. Time felt stretched — each heartbeat too wide apart.
The darkness here wasn't empty — it was thick. Layered. It felt less like standing in shadow and more like being submerged in it. My sense of where my body ended blurred at the edges, like my outline was dissolving into the space around me.
My breathing wanted to slow with it.
My will wanted to quiet.
Then—
"Asher!"
The sharp cry exploded right beside my ear and shattered the haze like glass.
I jolted, awareness snapping back into alignment, thoughts regaining their edges through sheer force.
"Trace—" I steadied my voice. "Sorry. It's… stronger this time."
The pressure immediately pushed back, annoyed — or maybe that was my imagination — coiling again around my mind with renewed patience.
Not angry.
Confident.
Like it knew that if it waited long enough, everything eventually stopped resisting.
Trace frowned toward me through the dark. "I don't feel anything," she said. "No pull. No pressure. Nothing at all. I can't even see shapes — it's just black. If I couldn't feel you holding me, I'd be panicking."
That confirmed it.
This wasn't environmental.
It was personal.
It's pulling on me — not her.
Another wave rolled through my awareness — deeper this time — and with it came a subtle, dangerous comfort. A suggestion that thinking was overrated. That effort was unnecessary. That letting go would feel better than holding on.
That was when I understood the real threat.
It didn't want bodies.
It wanted surrender.
My jaw set.
"We're leaving," I said quietly.
Because the longer I stayed —
the more reasonable surrender started to feel.