The Temple was ancient. Its walls were of stone that had stood for centuries. They breathed history and fear. Trey walked down the long corridor, accompanied by two guards, the heavy clanking of his chains echoing. Each reverberation grated on his nerves, like a countdown to execution.
Kyra walked ahead. Silent, composed. But he could feel it: she was no less tense than he was. Her fingers trembled at her side. Soundlessly, but still betraying the inner turmoil.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked quietly, not lifting his head.
"No," she replied. "But it's the only chance you have to stay alive."
They entered the hall.
The high ceiling disappeared into darkness. Columns inscribed with symbols that pulsed in time with his mark stood in a circle. In the center—a platform. Stone, with circles and symbols, as if carved by something hot and sharp. On it—stood a figure.
The High One. Hooded, face hidden by a mask. Beside him—four other elder priests.
"He is brought," Kyra said. "Ready for the test."
The High One raised his hand.
"Remove the chains."
"What?!" one of the guards exclaimed. "But if he..."
"Remove them," the High One repeated, his voice devoid of emotion. Only a power that made the guard obey without a word.
The metal fell with a dull clang.
Trey remained standing. His hands were free—but he felt no lighter.
"Stand in the circle," said the High One. "And let the mark speak."
He stepped forward. The stone beneath his feet was cold. With each step, the mark began to glow brighter. As if reacting. Pulse. Pulse. Pulse.
"We will observe. If you lie—it will burn you. If you are Marked but control the mark—you will live."
"And if I lose control?"
"We will stop you. Or you will burn yourself."
Kyra nervously retreated to the wall. Her eyes pleaded: Hold on.
He stood in the circle. Closed his eyes.
The mark flared.
Inside—a flash of pain, as if a red-hot blade had pierced his chest. Visions flooded his mind: worlds covered in shadow. Voices not belonging to humans. Creatures with eyes like the sun. Streams of magma and blood. And he—at the center of it all.
You are not the master. You are a vessel.
You are not the chosen one. You are an open door.
They will come. Through you.
He roared, collapsing to his knees. The ground trembled. The symbols around them blazed with fire. One of the priests cried out:
"He's losing control!"
"No!" Kyra screamed. "He's fighting!"
And at that moment, he stood up.
His gaze was full of pain—but also determination. The mark burned, but he didn't let it break through. He held it... on the edge.
The High One slowly lowered his hand.
"Enough. He lives."
The flames vanished. The darkness dissipated. The mark dimmed again. Trey stood, breathing heavily, sweat streaming down his face, but he—stood.
"You... you survived," Kyra whispered, approaching. "You didn't give up."
"Don't know how much longer I can hold on," he replied hoarsely. "But if anyone thinks I'll just give up... let them try to live with this hell in their chest."
He looked into the High One's eyes. The High One nodded.
"We will let you live. For now. But remember: you are now under observation. One wrong step—and the temple itself will become your grave."
Trey smirked.
"Cool, at least I survived."