I woke in a bed that felt spun from clouds, the warm embrace of a blanket wrapping me like a protective mother bear. The sensation was so alien in its comfort, so out of place in the grim abyss of the Underworld, that it left me momentarily disoriented. My body felt renewed, every ache and scar replaced with a strange vitality that unnerved me.

  Across the room, the symbol of the Parliament of Owls loomed on the wall—a sigil etched in obsidian and silver, an emblem of dread. That mark had haunted my childhood like a specter. My parents spoke of it in hushed tones, their terror palpable. The Parliament of Owls was no mere assassin’s guild; they were shadows given form, executioners whose loyalty lay not with kingdoms or gods, but with the weight of their contracts.

  Their blades had severed the throats of kings and unmade empires across realms and multiverses. Their methods, cold and surgical, left no room for mercy or error. No one understood their criteria for selecting jobs—only that paying their exorbitant fee didn’t guarantee acceptance. And if you dared cross them? Their vengeance wasn’t death; it was obliteration, a descent into madness so complete that even the soul couldn’t escape.

  I swung my legs off the edge of the bed, the cool floor grounding me in the present. The room around me was expansive yet stark in its simplicity. No gaudy ornaments, no false pretense of luxury—just a silent, imposing atmosphere that whispered power and precision.

  The door creaked as I pushed it open, the corridor beyond bathed in a soft, unearthly light. A figure stood waiting, clad in white robes that contrasted sharply with the darkness of this realm. His presence was serene, yet there was an edge to his movements, a grace that betrayed lethal intent.

  “Follow me,” he said, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of command.

  I hesitated, my instincts screaming to question, to resist. But this wasn’t a place for rebellion, not with the mark of the Owls carved into the very air I breathed. With a silent nod, I stepped into the corridor, the man in white leading me deeper into the unknown.

  The air inside the Temple of the Parliament of Owls was heavier than I imagined, pressing against my chest like the weight of unspoken sins. Each breath tasted of damp stone and ancient secrets, and the faint glow of the ghostly lanterns above cast trembling reflections on the obsidian floors. It felt like walking through the ribcage of some great beast, its hollow bones whispering the echoes of its last breaths.

  The acolyte leading me moved with the precision of a shadow, his white robes swallowing the light. His owl-like mask, beaked and hollow-eyed, glanced back at me only once, just long enough for a wordless warning: Do not falter. His footsteps made no sound against the polished stone, and mine, though careful, seemed loud and clumsy in comparison.

  As we passed through the endless corridors, the walls seemed to shift and writhe, the runes etched into the stone shimmering as if alive. I had heard tales of this place—the labyrinth that bent to the will of the Parliament. A temple that devoured those without purpose. I could feel the eyes of the gargoyle-like statues upon me, their hollow gazes burning holes in my back as if testing the worth of my resolve.

  We descended deeper into the bowels of the temple, the air growing colder with each step. I noticed the faint tang of blood in the air, sharp and metallic. Circular chambers flanked the corridor, their interiors barely visible through arched doorways. Inside, acolytes trained with deadly precision, their movements fluid, their strikes fatal. The sound of steel meeting flesh echoed faintly, punctuated by the occasional low murmur of a master correcting his pupil.

  The acolyte ahead never paused, his path certain, his silence absolute. I wondered how long it had taken him to master such poise, such discipline. I wondered if I could ever strip myself down to that kind of purpose, to move as he did—like a blade in flight, cutting through the night.

  At last, we reached a massive door carved from black marble, its surface adorned with the sigil of the Parliament: an owl with outstretched wings, each feather etched in haunting detail. The acolyte placed a gloved hand against the door, and a low, grinding sound filled the hall as it swung open, revealing a chamber bathed in faint, silvery light.

  The Sanctum of Feathers.

  It was even more imposing than the tales had described. Monolithic pillars rose like ancient sentinels, each one bearing sigils marking the Parliament's countless assassinations. I could feel the weight of those deeds, of lives stolen with precision and purpose, pressing against my soul. At the center of the chamber, upon a raised dais, stood a figure unlike any I had seen before.

  The Sage.

  He wore white robes that shimmered faintly, like frost kissed by moonlight. His mask was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, its beak longer, its eyes deeper than any of the others I had seen. It was not a mask of concealment—it was a visage of command. From beneath it, his voice rang out, low and deliberate, cutting through the oppressive silence like a blade.

  As I stood before the Sage, his presence bore the weight of centuries. He was ancient, a relic of the Parliament’s unyielding legacy, his white robes flowing like smoke in the faint, cold light of the Sanctum. His mask, carved with intricate detail, seemed less a disguise and more a second face, its hollow eyes gazing through me as if peeling away my very soul.

  Moments later, Mattie and Zefpyre arrived, their footsteps eerily muted against the onyx floor. The Sage turned his masked visage toward them, inclining his head slightly—a gesture that felt less like respect and more like acknowledgment.

  “It is rare,” he said, his voice a low murmur that echoed through the chamber like a distant thunderclap, “for me to stand in the presence of those blessed by our holy Matriarch.” His tone carried no awe, only the cold finality of fact. “I know of your quest. Behind me lies the entrance to the River Acheron, the River of Pain. Few of our order have crossed its cursed waters and returned with their minds intact. Yet that is the path that awaits you.”

  His words hung heavy in the air, a grim proclamation that seemed to seep into the very walls. My thoughts turned to the Phlegethon, the River of Fire, where we had already endured torment beyond comprehension. Yet the Sage’s voice carried no doubt, only cold certainty.

  “I believe,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the three of us, “that with the Mother of Night’s blessing and your survival of the Phlegethon, you may endure this next trial. It is my recommendation,” he gestured to a basket carved from pure onyx, its polished surface gleaming in the ghostly light, “that you place the stones in this vessel. They must be bathed as you cross, their sanctity preserved against the river’s corruption.”

  I inclined my head in gratitude. “Thank you, Sage.”

  I turned to Mattie, half-expecting to see fear etched into her features. But her eyes, shadowed though they were, carried only unyielding confidence, a quiet determination that burned against the oppressive atmosphere of the sanctum. Zefpyre, however, broke the silence with a sharp, dry tone.

  “There’s no point in preamble,” he said, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “The river’s down there, isn’t it? Past those doors at the far end of the sanctum.”

  The Sage’s response was silent. He stepped aside with the grace of a predator, his robes whispering against the polished floor. With a sweeping gesture, he directed us toward the towering black doors that loomed at the chamber’s edge, their surfaces etched with sigils that seemed to writhe and shift like living things.

  The path was clear now, the doors a grim gateway to the trial ahead. My heart pounded against my ribs, not with fear but with the weight of what lay ahead. The River Acheron awaited, and beyond it, perhaps, answers—or death. Without a word, the three of us stepped forward, the sanctum’s oppressive silence broken only by the faint sound of our breath and the whispering shadows.

  We pushed open the heavy double doors, and the sound of distant drums rolled over us like a dirge, their rhythm a heartbeat for the forsaken. The air beyond was thick, shrouded in purple and red mist that clung to the skin like the breath of the damned. Shadows danced within the haze, twisted and restless, while the ground beneath our feet crunched with the brittle lament of ancient pebbles. Each step toward the shoreline was a march into oblivion.

  The heat began to rise within me, a searing pulse that made my heart falter, its rhythm struggling against an unseen force. My hands trembled as I slid the Blue Soul Gems from the sack on my back into the gleaming Onyx Basket. Each gem carried an unbearable weight, their light dimming as if the souls within sensed the trial ahead, their silent agony pressing against my spirit.

  We exchanged a glance, a wordless pact forged in the crucible of shared suffering. No words needed to be spoken—we were bound to this path, chained by purpose and fate alike. The silence between us was its own language, a vow etched in the tension of the moment.

  With each step toward the river, the air grew heavier, oppressive. My legs felt as though they were weighed down by iron shackles, every motion a battle against unseen chains. The world around me blurred, the mists coiling tighter, and the relentless pressure of the gems bore down on me like a mountain on my shoulders.

  Then my foot touched the water.

  A searing agony surged through me, sharp as a blade driven into my flesh. Pain climbed from my toes, coursing through my veins, until it filled every corner of my being. My mouth flooded with the acrid taste of blood, metallic and bitter, mingling with the choking tang of ozone that burned my nostrils. The river reeked of decay and power, its current cold as the void and alive with a malevolent pulse.

  I staggered but forced myself onward. The water climbed higher, its icy grip gnawing at my flesh and bones. Each step was a torment, the pain deepening with every inch I advanced. The weight of the gems became unbearable, as though the souls themselves screamed against their impending journey.

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  The river consumed me, its dark embrace pulling me deeper. Every nerve in my body screamed, but I kept moving, my will the only thing keeping me from succumbing. The River Acheron demanded a toll, and with each step, it took its price in blood, pain, and pieces of my soul.

  The river seemed to come alive as I waded deeper, its current a relentless pull, not just on my body but on my very mind. It wasn’t simply water that pressed against my legs and climbed to my chest—it was anguish given form, liquid torment that seeped into every pore, clawing at my soul with talons forged of despair.

  Every heartbeat was a thunderclap in my ears, every breath a labor. The pain didn’t remain physical; it sank deeper, into the recesses of my thoughts, dredging up memories I had buried and wounds I thought had healed. Faces emerged in the mist—the ones I’d failed, the ones I’d betrayed, and the ones who had betrayed me. Their voices rose in a cacophony, each syllable a dagger of doubt.

  You’ll fail like you always do, one hissed.

  Why should you be spared when so many others suffered? came another.

  Their words were not accusations—they were truths I feared to admit, fears I had spent a lifetime running from. The river knew me, every dark corner, every whispered regret. It didn’t just want me to endure; it wanted to break me.

  I fell to my knees, the gems in the Onyx Basket glowing faintly now, their light flickering as if they too were fighting the weight of the river’s malice. The water closed over my shoulders, cold as death, heavy as eternity. I gritted my teeth, the taste of blood still sharp in my mouth, and forced myself to stand.

  But then the visions began.

  The mist swirled and congealed into shapes. I saw Mattie, screaming, her form twisted and writhing in agony. Zefpyre followed, his face contorted in rage and sorrow, his blade turned against himself. I wanted to scream at them that it wasn’t real, but the river stole my voice. Their cries echoed in my skull, louder than the drums, louder than my own thoughts.

  And then I saw myself—broken, kneeling in the water, my hands empty, the basket overturned. I was drowning in failure, the weight of my own inadequacy dragging me into the abyss. The river whispered then, its voice a thousand murmurs, all clawing at the edges of my sanity.

  Give in, it said, as if the words had been carved into my bones. Relinquish. You’ve carried the weight too long. Lay it down, and you will feel peace.

  Peace. The word hung there, tantalizing, a mirage in this hell. The idea of surrendering, of letting go of the burden, was almost seductive. But deep inside, in the core of who I was, I knew peace wasn’t my path. It never had been.

  I clenched my fists, every muscle in my body screaming in rebellion, and I roared against the river. My voice shattered the illusions, though it felt like tearing myself apart to do so. The vision of Mattie faded, the cries of Zefpyre silenced, and the version of myself that had fallen into despair dissolved into the mist.

  The pain didn’t relent, but it changed. It became a forge, a crucible where my resolve was the metal, and the river the flame. I took a step forward, and then another, my legs burning, my lungs on fire. Every movement was a rebellion against the river’s will, a declaration that I would not bend.

  By the time I reached the far shore, the Onyx Basket was still clutched in my hands, the soul gems within pulsing faintly like dying stars. My body ached with a pain that would never fully leave, my mind scarred from what I had endured. But I stood, battered yet unbroken, staring into the darkness ahead.

  The river had tested me, had tried to unravel me down to my very core. And though I was less of myself than when I had entered, I was something more as well. Something harder, something colder, something forged in the crucible of pain and tempered by sheer will.

  I turned back to see Mattie and Zefpyre stepping into the current, their faces set in grim determination. My lips curled into a faint, bitter smile. Their turn had come, and the river would not be kind.

  The shore held me like a cold embrace, my breath ragged, each inhale a battle against the weight of the ordeal. The Soul Gems in the Onyx Basket began to shimmer, their blue sapphire hue fading into a rich, haunting plum. They pulsed faintly, like the dying embers of a fire rekindling, their light seeping into the misty air around me.

  I closed my eyes, feeling something stir deep within me. Power coursed through my veins, threading like molten fire through my mana channels, winding its way into the heart of my being. My Mana Heart throbbed in rhythm with the Soul Gems, a force beyond comprehension coiling within, reshaping me. I felt myself teetering on the edge of transformation, and the world fell away.

  I drifted into a vision.

  Before me stood a place etched into my very soul, a relic of my youth, yet warped in subtle ways that unnerved me. Behind me lay the shores of Avalon, golden sands whispering forgotten tales, while ahead stood the stone—the hallowed pedestal where Excalibur once rested. But the blade was no longer there; it had long since passed to the Pendragon, its destiny entwined with kings and thrones.

  The Isle of the Blessed stretched before me, familiar yet wrong, like a painting rendered from memory by hands that had not touched it in centuries. The air felt heavy with enchantment, the kind that hung in the spaces between dreams and waking. I walked toward the stone, the crunch of grass beneath my boots muffled as though the very ground was reluctant to acknowledge my presence.

  Then, the water stirred.

  She rose from the lake as if sculpted from moonlight and shadow, the Lady of the Lake, her form a masterpiece of grace and power. Her beauty was undeniable, but it washed over me like rain on stone—my heart was already spoken for, bound elsewhere. Her voice rang out, weaving through the air like a melody of starlight and sorrow, each word weighted with an ageless authority.

  “You have come far, child of the House of Holmes,” she said, her eyes piercing yet kind. “It has been years since you trespassed here as a boy, sneaking onto these shores with your friends to play at knighthood, pretending to battle shadows and monsters. I watched as this place kindled within you the spark of Honor, Loyalty, and courage. You dreamt of protecting the innocent, of living by the old code:, Courtesy, Protection, Truth, Respect, Faith, Obedience, and most importantly Perseverance. But time has worn you down.”

  Her words cut deep, sharper than any blade.

  “You let the hatred of your parents, the cruelty they inflicted, fester within you. You allowed your trauma to weigh you like a millstone, dragging you further from the light. But not all was lost. Even in your darkest moments, a part of you clung to faith, to the possibility of redemption.”

  Her gaze softened as she stepped closer, her feet never breaking the lake’s glassy surface. “Now, here you are, on the precipice of transformation. The blessing of the Mother of Night marks you, a power I cannot rival, but one I respect. Yet I, too, have a gift for you—a gift that lies beyond the Underworld, waiting for the moment you emerge victorious from this crucible.”

  She gestured toward the lake, its surface rippling as though alive with secrets. “When your quest is done, when the blood and ash of this underworld have shaped you, you will have a way to return to Avalon. Bring your staff, for the trials of this world are only the beginning, my knight.”

  Her words lingered in the air as she turned, her form dissolving into the shimmering waters. The Isle of the Blessed faded, its splendor swallowed by the void of my vision, leaving only her final words echoing in my mind.

  I awoke on the shore, the scent of the River of Pain still sharp in my nostrils, my body heavy but my soul alight with purpose. The path ahead was still unclear, but one truth crystallized in my heart: the journey was far from over, and I was no longer the man I had been. The metamorphosis had begun, and there was no turning back.

  The weight of survival hung heavy in the air as we lay sprawled on the cold, unforgiving ground. Mattie and Zefpyre lay beside me, their breaths shallow, their faces marked with the exhaustion of their trials. The second river was behind us, but three more loomed like dark omens on the horizon, their challenges whispering promises of torment yet to come. And then there was the Offering—a mystery shrouded in dread. What would it demand of us? My mind clawed at the enormity of it, the suffocating weight of an impossible quest pressing down like a stone slab on my chest.

  Mattie’s voice broke the silence, soft but trembling with doubt. "I wish we never came here. I thought... I thought this was honorable, to set the stones free from the Necromancer’s evil. But now, Julius, I don’t know. It feels impossible."

  Her words hung in the air, bitter and raw, and for a moment, I felt the same despair clawing at my insides. But then, something deeper stirred—an ember buried beneath the ash.

  "Mattie," I began, my voice hoarse but steady, "you’re right. We shouldn’t be here. If we’d known the cost, the pain, maybe we’d have turned back before we even started. But we’re here now, and that’s the thing about quests, isn’t it? The ones that really matter, the ones they sing about in songs and carve into the annals of legend—they’re never sought out. People don’t go looking for them like some grand adventure to escape a dull life. No, they stumble into them, get dragged along paths they never wanted, forced into trials they never asked for."

  I sat up, the movement slow and deliberate, my muscles screaming with protest. The dull red and purple mist of the Underworld seemed to shiver in time with my words.

  "It’s like those old tales we heard as kids," I continued, staring into the fog. "The ones about magic and wonder, honor and courage. We thought they were simple, stories of heroes who chose to be great, to seek glory for sport. But it’s never like that, not in the tales that stick, the ones that linger in your soul. The people in those stories? They didn’t choose the path—they were chosen by it. Their roads were laid before them, and they had every chance to turn back. Many did, and we never hear of them. But the ones who kept going, who didn’t let fear or pain or doubt win... those are the ones who become legends."

  Mattie watched me, her eyes wide, something unspoken flickering there.

  "And not all those stories end well," I said, my tone darkening. "Sometimes, they end in ruin or death. But they endure because they mattered. They shaped the world. And us? We’re here, in the Underworld, alive. This place is death incarnate, yet we’ve survived what kills most. That’s something. That’s more than most ever dream of. There’s honor in perseverance, in standing up when the world wants you to stay down."

  I turned to Mattie, then Zefpyre, my voice harder now, forged by the fire of conviction. "Gabriel threw us into this because he thought we were expendable, nobodies who wouldn’t be missed. And maybe we were fools to take this on. But here’s the thing: we’re part of something bigger now, something vast and stirring in the shadows. There’s a war coming, and no one else sees it. Not Gabriel, not the Necromancer, not even Lord Pendragon. Sure, Pendragon believes in the threat, but he won’t come down from his throne to fight it. He’ll never dirty his hands with the muck of this world. That leaves us. Us. And this trial, this crucible? It’s not just to free these stones or prove our worth. It’s to prepare us for the storm ahead. We’re not just fighting for the here and now. We’re fighting for everything."

  Silence fell, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant, mournful howl of the river behind us. Then Zefpyre snorted, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. "Who the fuck are you, and what happened to Julius?"

  Mattie burst into laughter, a sound sharp and startling, like a song forgotten in a place where joy had long been dead. Her laughter echoed through the mist, strange and wild, a note of defiance in a land of despair. It was the sound of hope—a thing this realm of pain had never known, and it made the very air tremble.

  For the first time since this nightmare began, I felt the faintest flicker of something I hadn’t dared to name. We were broken, battered, and half-mad. But we were still here. And that was enough.