The cold was a knife in his ribs, a stale wind that curled through the cracked stone and pressed against the thin skin still clinging to his torn shirt. Blood seeped through his fingers, dark and thick, staining the floorboards of the hollowed chamber like a spilled omen. He could hear the faint scrape of something moving in the darkness beyond the thin shaft of moonlight that filtered through the fissure above—a low, deliberate grind of metal on stone, the whisper of a creature that should not have been there.
He lay half‑crouched, a jagged shard of obsidian buried in his right thigh, the pain a white flare that eclipsed every other sensation. The world narrowed to the ache, to the sound of his own breathing, to the steady drip of blood pooling at his boots. He tried to rise, but the weight of his own body felt as though it were made of lead; the wound a throbbing knot that threatened to tear his flesh open with each movement.
Think, Jorren, he muttered to himself, voice hoarse. Think, not fight. You're no warrior here, you're a scholar. Use what you have.
His mind flickered back to the night he'd been lured into the ruins of the Maw—an ancient labyrinth said to be built on the bones of forgotten gods. The rumors in the tavern had spoken of treasure, of forgotten magics, of a name whispered among the desperate: the Echo. He'd laughed then, a hollow sound that seemed to echo off the grimy walls of the tavern. But the echo was real, and now it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the present.
A rusted iron door creaked open somewhere deeper in the maze, the sound resonating through the stone like a warning bell. Something massive shifted, its breath a low rumble that vibrated the floorboards. Jorren pressed his back against the cold wall, the slick stone offering no comfort, only a reminder of his confinement. His eyes, bloodshot and unfocused, caught the faint glow of a sigil etched into the wall beside him—three interlocking circles, each line a different shade of crimson, pulsing ever so slowly as if breathing.
He had read about such markings in old codices, the sigils of the Binding. They were said to be contracts between mortal and whatever hungered beyond the veil, a ledger of debts and penalties. There were no words, only symbols that seemed to shift when not directly observed. He stared, trying to decode the pattern, but his mind, dulled by pain and blood loss, could not parse the ancient grammar.
A sudden, soft voice cut through the clamor of the creature's approach—a voice that seemed to emanate from the stone itself, hollow yet resonant.
You have invoked the Echo. It whispered, a susurrus that brushed his ears like a moth's wing.
The Echo. He remembered the legend: a curse bestowed upon those who dared to hear the world's hidden voice. It granted the ability to glimpse a fragment of the future—no more than a heartbeat ahead, no longer than a breath. In return, the listener surrendered a piece of themselves: memory, flesh, or perhaps a sliver of soul. The legend warned that the Echo was a double‑edged blade, a whisper that could shatter minds as easily as it could save them.
Jorren's pulse hammered against his throat. He closed his eyes, forcing the world to recede, willing his thoughts to become as thin as paper. The sound of the creature's movement grew louder, a metallic rasp that seemed to scrape the very air. He tried to picture the next instant—the creature's form, its intent, its weapon.
In the split second of his forced vision, a flash of obsidian armor surged forward, the creature's clawed hand extending to seize him. He saw the glint of a blade, the curve of a jagged spear, the flash of a desperate escape route—an opening in the far wall, a narrow slit that might be big enough for him to crawl through if he could muster the strength.
The vision snapped away as quickly as it had come, thrusting him back into the present with a jolt that sent a surge of sharp pain through his wound. He opened his eyes to find the darkness beyond had shifted; the creature's silhouette was now clearer—a hulking thing, its limbs a tangle of bone and rusted iron, its eyes twin pools of black that reflected the faint moonlight like twin voids.
Jorren's breath caught. He could feel the Echo's residue, a lingering vibration in his temples, a cold thread pulling at his thoughts. The creature's growl reverberated through the stone, a deep, resonant sound that promised death.
He could not fight. He could not run. He could only think.
The sigil on the wall pulsed faster now, each beat a low thud that resonated through his chest. He reached a trembling hand toward it, his fingers brushing the etched lines, feeling an odd warmth seep into his skin. The stone seemed to sigh, the vibration echoing his own heartbeat. He could sense a pattern emerging, a rule perhaps hidden within the design—three circles, each representing a covenant: Observe, Offer, Obliterate. The first circle, bright red, might be the observation—the Echo he had just used. The second, a darker crimson, seemed to throb in rhythm with his own pulse, as if demanding a price. The third, a deep scarlet, was a void, an unfilled space that felt like an absence waiting to be filled.
His mind raced, trying to fit the fragments together. He remembered a passage from an old manuscript he'd once read, a passage about the Covenant of the Maw—a pact that bound the seeker to the labyrinth's will. The text had warned: "When the Echo is called, the seeker must give up something of equal weight. The weight of flesh, the weight of memory, the weight of soul." The words had been cryptic, but the image of the sigil now gave a visual form to the abstract warning.
He tried to speak, to ask the stone what it wanted.
What do you demand? he whispered, his voice barely a rasp.
The stone answered, not in words but in a cold cascade of images that flooded his mind like a torrent. He saw himself as a child, sitting on his mother's lap, her laugh bright as sunrise. He saw the face of his sister, Elara, her eyes full of hope as she left for the capital to study the arcane arts. He saw the moment his mother fell ill, the fever that took her breath away, the helplessness that had gnawed at his heart. He saw a blackened ledger, pages turning, each line a name, a mark, a fate sealed by a sigil similar to the one before him.
The vision snapped, leaving a hollow echo in his brain—a sense that something had been taken. He tasted iron, not just from his wound, but from a deeper, more visceral loss. His fingertips tingled with a sudden numbness, as if a part of his memory had slipped away, a fragment of his past erased.
He tried to recall the details of the vision, but they were already fading, slipping like sand through his clenched fist. All that remained was a lingering dread: the Echo had cost him something vital, something that could not be reclaimed.
The creature lunged, its massive arm sweeping across the floor, scattering debris. The force of its movement sent a torrent of stone dust into the air, obscuring the sigil's light. Jorren scrambled to his feet, the shard in his thigh tearing with each motion, each step a fresh wound. He felt the cold bite of the floor against his bare skin, the jagged edges of the stone biting into his calves as he moved. He cursed the cruelty of the world—how a single mistake could seal a man's fate.
He glanced to his left, spotting a narrow fissure in the wall—a crack just wide enough for a wretched, injured man to squeeze through. The fissure seemed to pulse faintly, as if answering to the same rhythm as the sigil. He could hear the creature's claws scraping the stone, the sound growing louder, the echo of its heavy breaths reverberating through the chamber.
He hesitated. The fissure was a chance, but it was also a gamble. The passage beyond was unknown, perhaps a dead end, perhaps a deeper horror. Yet staying meant certain death; the creature's jaws were already a breath away. He thought of his sister, of the promise he had made to protect her when she left for the capital, of the ledger of names he had found hidden in the archives—names of those who had entered the Maw and never returned. He thought of his mother's soft hand on his forehead, the whisper of "be careful" that had haunted him for years. He felt the weight of his loss, the missing memory, pressing on his mind like a stone.
In that split second, a new rule flared in his mind, a whisper that seemed to come from the stone, the sigil, and his own blood simultaneously: Rule Four: The path of escape demands a sacrifice equal to the weight of the wound. He stared at his own bleeding thigh, at the throbbing shard, at the darkness beyond. He could cut the stone off, amputate his own leg to make the fissure wider, or he could surrender the Echo entirely, letting its lingering power dissipate into the walls, risking that the creature would seize him before he could slip away.
He made a choice. He pressed his hand against the fissure, feeling the coolness of the stone against his palm. He pressed harder, his fingers digging into the edge, his nails tearing at the rough surface. The stone gave way slightly, a small opening expanding, the blackness beyond a yawning maw that seemed to breathe.
He braced himself, the pain in his leg screaming, his breath shallow. He could feel the Echo still humming in his temples, a low, thrumming vibration that threatened to burst his head open. He forced his mind to focus, to hold onto the present as the future flashed before him in brief, jagged shards: the creature's claws, the stone walls crushing him, a sudden flash of light, a deep, resonant chime that seemed like a bell tolling in an empty cathedral.
He lunged forward, his body a twisted mass of agony and resolve. He slipped his arm through the fissure, his torso following, his legs scraping the edge as he forced himself into the narrow passage. The stone caught his thigh, the shard digging deeper, a surge of blood flooding his mouth. He clawed at the stone, pulling himself through the tight space, feeling the walls press against his skin, the darkness closing in like a living thing.
A sudden, sharp sound tore through his ears—a metallic clang, a hollow reverberation that seemed to echo from the very foundation of the maze. The creature's roar was ripped away as something massive shifted behind him, the stone floor trembling.
He emerged into a larger chamber, the floor slick with a dark, oily substance, the air thick with the scent of rot and ancient blood. A low hum vibrated through the stone, resonating with the Echo in his head. He staggered, his vision blackening at the edges, his mind a storm of pain, fear, and a dawning realization.
In the center of the room, a massive iron altar rose, etched with the same interlocking circles, the sigils now glowing with a fierce crimson light. Upon the altar lay a smooth, obsidian slab, black as night, pulsing with an inner light. The stone seemed to draw his gaze, to pull at his thoughts. He could feel the weight of the Echo pulling him toward it, as if the curse itself whispered, "Lay your blood, give your sight, and be freed."
He tried to step back, but a cold hand—more a presence than a physical form—grasped his shoulder. He turned to see a figure cloaked in ragged shadows, its face an empty void, its eyes twin hollows that reflected the altar's light.
You have invoked the Covenant, it said, voice like the grinding of stone. "The contract is sealed. Choose: surrender your sight for passage, or remain and become the Maw's next name."
The words were a knife, the choice a cruel bargain. He could close his eyes, feel the world fade into darkness, and perhaps slip through the altar's threshold, emerging into a realm of unknown safety. Or he could refuse, leave the altar untouched, and allow the creature that chased him to catch up, his blood spilling onto the stone, his name added to the ledger etched into the walls—forever recorded, forever forgotten.
He felt the Echo's tremor intensify, a surge of raw, searing power pressing against his temples, demanding release. The iron altar's light flared, casting shadows that seemed to writhe and whisper his sister's name, "Elara…" His heart hammered, his blood thinned, his breath ragged.
With a trembling hand, he reached toward the altar, his fingers brushing the obsidian slab. A sudden, deafening chime rang out, reverberating through the cavern, and the sigil on the wall burst into violet flame.
SYSTEM ALERT: RULE IV VIOLATION – EXCESSIVE LOSS OF MEMORY DETECTED.
The voice was cold, mechanical, a distant echo that seemed to come from the walls themselves. "Immediate consequence: All remaining sensory input will be terminated unless compensatory sacrifice accepted."
He stared, horrified, as the flame danced, the violet light licking the edges of the altar, the black slab beginning to pulse faster. The void‑cloaked figure leaned closer, its breath a cold gust that brushed his cheek.
Choose, it hissed, or be swallowed by the Maw.
Jorren's mind was a maelstrom of terror, pain, and a flickering hope that perhaps, just perhaps, the Echo could be turned against whatever darkness ruled this place. The weight of his missing memories pressed like an invisible hand upon his thoughts, threatening to crush his resolve.
He clenched his fist, his bloodied knuckles white against the stone, and whispered a single word, barely audible over the humming of the sigils…
… (to be continued)