The Circle
The circle was complete. Five mages, five closed mouths. No words spoken — just a chant repeated inwardly, like an old nausea that wouldn't fade.
The bracelet in the center trembled. Not like an object. Like a creature. As if it had a heart still refusing to die.
The light it gave off wasn't gold. Or blue. It was burnt memory. A recollection that didn't want to return.
The ground groaned beneath the freshly carved runes, as if rejecting what they were trying to open.
"It's opening," whispered the youngest. But what opened wasn't a portal.
It was a tear. Not magical. Worldly.
As if reality itself wanted to spit something out.
The bracelet rose into the air. It spun — not like a dance, but like resistance.
The eldest mage touched the floor. Screamed. But the scream never finished. It stopped halfway, as if pain itself was too afraid to be heard.
He collapsed. Convulsing. The candle snuffed out. Sound vanished.
And then, the rift swallowed everything.
The Hero Didn't Come
Silence. Not the kind that rests — the kind that rots.
The circle had cracked the ground. The candles were now dried wax on bone.
At the center? Nothing.
No body. No light. No bracelet.
One mage dropped to his knees. Another stared at his hands, as if expecting guilt to appear there.
"We summoned. The king ordered…"
No echo.
"And nothing came."
The Break
Clara wasn't sleeping. Days had passed. Or weeks. Or just hours. Time no longer measured anything.
The sky outside the window was always the same — dirty, still, pretending to be a sky.
The bracelet tightened. Not like a memory. Like a threat.
She stared at her wrist. The red thread twitched. It was alive. Or close enough.
"Mom?"
The word came out thin. As if testing the air.
The mirror cracked. From the inside.
The fractures looked like roots. Like something was trying to grow from the other side.
The bracelet burned. Her wrist throbbed. The beads... stared back. Clara could feel it.
She tried to rip it off. With rage. With fear. With desperation. Nothing.
She screamed. But the sound turned inward, like it was ashamed to escape.
The floor sank. Not shattered. Not blasted. Just gave way.
As if gravity had lost interest.
And then — she was expelled from her own body.
When the Clown Stops Laughing
The throne had been silent too long. Until Lucas's chest moved.
The Abyss burst out like old vomit. Fast. Uneven.
It slithered forward, arms spinning in a mockery of grace.
"Gonna go... kill some boredom. Or maybe just watch. Someone has to enjoy the circus burning, right?"
Lucas watched him but said nothing.
The Abyss disappeared into the walls.
Gone.
But the urgency in his pace wasn't style. It was discomfort. He didn't like what he felt.
He followed the taste of the ritual. To Aurhan.
From the cracked statue above, he watched.
The king stood. The mages broken. The circle empty. The bracelet... gone.
"They summoned... and don't even know what."
He shrugged. Almost amused.
"Typical."
The rift still pulsed. Longing.
"Let's see what you dragged into this world this time."
And he slipped through the scar in reality.
The Encounter
She was there. On the ground. Shaking.
The bracelet still alive. Still warm.
The Abyss stopped.
No joke. No rehearsed line.
Just a whisper.
"…what the fuck."
He didn't move. Long enough to seem human.
"No way."
He stared again.
"Could that be…"
Silence.
"…no."
But he didn't leave.
The Other Voice
The forest felt larger than the world.
Clara had been walking for hours.
Or maybe minutes.
Time bent there — like the wind, which came and went without sound.
She tripped on a root.
Fell.
Her hands sank into the mud.
Breathing was hard.
Her chest felt tight.
The blood on her arm had dried, but the pain… was fresh.
She looked around.
Nothing.
No birdsong. No human sound.
Just trees — and the sense they were closer than before.
"Anyone…?" she whispered. "Please…"
No response.
Then, a voice.
Low. Dry.
"You won't last long walking in circles, sweetheart."
She turned, gasping.
Spun around, alarmed.
"Who said that?!"
No one in sight.
Only shadows moving more than they should've.
"Relax. I'm not a monster."
"Then what are you?"
"A specter."
"An observer with too much time and too little faith."
"Are you following me?"
"I'm guiding you. Lucky you."
"Why?"
"Because you stink of 'summoned without a manual.'"
"You know someone who came from another world?"
"Know? No."
"But I've heard stories."
"Some end badly."
"The rest just take longer."
"Do you know who I am?"
"Not yet. But I'm curious."
"There's something about you… different."
"What do you want from me?"
"Nothing."
"Just making sure you don't die before you figure out your purpose."
"Purpose for what?"
"That's your job to find out. But if you die here, no one ever will."
Heat flushed her cheeks.
The bracelet... pulsed. Not like memory — like warning.
She tried to hide it.
She turned to keep walking.
But the mud pulled at her steps.
The air felt heavier.
"I... I'm trying to understand why I'm here."
"Then keep trying."
"Just don't expect free answers."
She fell again.
This time, slower to rise.
"I'm not making it out alive."
The shadow thickened behind a broken tree.
"Maybe not."
"But you know what happens to people who die here?"
Silence.
"No one dreams about them."
"No one remembers."
"They become part of the forest."
The bracelet pulsed.
Didn't glow.
Just hurt.
"What's happening to me?"
"No idea. But I know it's gonna be annoying."
She looked around.
Again.
But now with something between fear and fury.
"I didn't ask for this."
"Where have I heard that one before?"
"Tragedies love surprises."
Clara leaned on a tree.
Almost fell again.
But she breathed.
"You're gonna keep watching me?"
"Maybe."
"Or maybe I'm just curious to see if you become a monster... or a legend."
"Either way, just keep walking. With luck, she'll let you pass."
And the shadow vanished.
No sound.
No goodbye.
As if it had never been there.
But Clara knew.
She was being watched.
Not by a savior.
Not by an enemy.
But by something that hadn't decided what she was yet.
The Edge
The sky opened slowly.
Clara stepped out of the forest like someone escaping a nightmare — not whole, but alive.
Ahead, a clearing.
Four figures sat around a fire.
High-ranking adventurers.
The first to spot her was the swordsman — tall, broad-shouldered, hair shaved at the sides, a scar crossing his jaw. His sword — larger than Clara — was stabbed into the ground beside him like part of the scenery.
Next to him, a blonde woman sharpened a dagger. She was the weapons master. Wore reinforced leather, and the number of blades visible on her body hinted there were more hidden.
The third was a thin mage with hollow cheeks, dark skin, and deep-set eyes. The grimoire at his belt looked more worn than his robes.
The last stood back. A young healer, but with steady hands and a golden ring on his middle finger — the kind worn by magical evaluators.
The swordsman stood up.
"Hey!"
"You okay?"
Clara stopped.
"I… I think so."
The healer approached.
He made a gesture — a circle with his thumb in the center.
The ring glowed.
He froze.
"Hmm…"
"What is it?" asked the blonde, now standing, alert.
He tapped the ring again.
Frowned.
"This… this can't be right."
"Spit it out," the mage muttered without looking up.
The healer looked at Clara.
Then at the others.
"She has a magical core."
"Raw. Unstable."
"But the potential…"
"Say it," the blonde pushed.
He exhaled.
"If refined…"
"She could become the next hero."
Silence.
The swordsman crossed his arms.
"You serious?"
"I've never seen a reading like this. Not even in the Sanctuary records."
"Is it worth the risk?" asked the mage.
"We have a better shot with her than without."
The swordsman nodded.
"Then we train her."
The healer turned to Clara.
"We're heading out."
"One of those missions where idiots become legends. Or corpses."
"What kind of mission?"
"To kill the Demon King."
She didn't answer.
Just looked back at the forest.
Then at them.
"I… I'm looking for answers."
The blonde shrugged.
"Sometimes answers come in the middle of a good fight."
Clara hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Okay."
The swordsman lifted his blade onto his shoulder.
"No promises, though."
"No one promises anything around here."
"Just try not to die along the way."
They began preparing.
The healer held out a hand.
"By the way… I'm Auren."
The blonde crossed her arms.
"And I'm Rhiannon."
The mage closed his grimoire with one hand.
"Kain."
The swordsman rolled his shoulder like a man about to dive into war.
"Call me Daren."
"Or just try to keep up."
Clara didn't smile.
But for the first time in days… she wasn't afraid.
"I'm Clara."
And with that, the group set off on their journey.
Return
On the unmoving throne, Lucas remained silent.
The ground trembled faintly.
A whisper slipped through the cracks.
The Abyss returned — like smoke sliding back into flesh.
Lucas simply watched.
"Where were you?"
The Abyss slithered to the side of the throne.
"You sound like my wife."
Lucas didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
The Abyss looked toward the wall — as if it were a window.
And it was.
In the shadow cast by the moonlight, Clara's footsteps marched alongside the group.
Small.
Determined.
Watched.
He was watching through her.
"Let's see where this goes."