The four of us returned to the basement, then into the crypt. Jasmine clung to Madeleine, who continued to softly caress her back. Ophelia led the way forward, returning to the fresco I had her “ruin.” I pushed past all three of them to the hollow and stared at the excavated hole.

  I nodded at Ophelia. She gave me a polite curtsy, her fingers spreading the hem of her skirt. The three pairs of eyes were on me, as the semifinal chamber was to be constructed. The storage room could be built later; they weren’t here for that.

  Gloom was crawling out of the hole already, and the damp, cavernous air had this off tone to its scent—like dirt that became mud and ran too long. I swallowed again and began to work.

  The 200 gold coins disappeared from my coin pouch, and the soul I was holding dispersed from the vial, illuminating the hollow with its green light. I held my breath, peering into the darkness for something—for anything—to happen.

  Nothing did.

  The unending gloom crept out, swallowing the flickering torchlight of the crypt into its voracious darkness. It swallowed my gold, and then the soul I offered it as well.

  I turned around to look at my companions. Ophelia’s eyes were glazed over, staring into the darkness. Her body moved less than it usually did, and her chest neglected to heave in and out in a mockery of breathing. Her eyes were unblinking, luminescent red pupils scanning the growing blackness.

  Jasmine clung to Madeleine, and I could see her nails dig into the blue dress the witch had worn. Her body shook, and her head turned slightly off Madeleine’s shoulder, letting her singular, fearful blue eye peek. Her knees were buckling, and the flats she had worn kept going up and down.

  Madeleine, however, raised her head, her hand holding her chin and her fingers tapping her cheek. “You weren’t present at your boy-toy’s ascension, were you, chérie?”

  “I didn’t even know he became a [Paladin],” I responded.

  Jasmine took a deep breath. “Melissa and I went,” she began, and I felt my heart throb. Those two went? And I wasn’t even invited? Though, I imagine, that would have been part of the letters from home I had ignored at the Academy…

  Madeleine rubbed Jasmine’s neck, pulling the trembling woman into her bosom. “You probably know of the judgment room, then, pipelette?”

  “No. I just remember seeing him walk into the Room of Tri—” she cut herself off. “That’s a judgment room?”

  Madeleine nodded, and pointedly looked at Ophelia, then me, then Jasmine. “I know you three haven’t seen this before, but when an adventurer finally advances, they are to be judged. Either by their god, their school, their guild… or, by the forest itself, in my case.”

  Her attention shifted to the darkness. “Grandmother Willow has no altars that can be made by man. Her greatest gifts are the ancient willows in the Hecarian Forest, ruled by the falling stars and the fair-folk of the woods. In its bosom lies my coven’s altar—Mother Willow Bark. When I was a [Herbalist] and became a [Wiccan], that is where I learned the secrets of the Fae.”

  She stared at the darkness. “It is also where I returned to be tested into a [Witch], after my resolve was made.” Madeleine’s eyes shifted down. “...Good luck, Ms. Hart. Your boy-toy went through Amaril’s judgment in his hall. No one knows what goes within those hallowed halls, except for a moment of reckoning.”

  Finally, Madeleine’s lips broke into a smile. “I too passed my reckoning. This is the first time I’ve seen a personal judgment hall, but with Rhy… the Enemy, it makes sense. Only the dead, the nearly dead, and the mad worship her.” Her head turned to Jasmine. “I know your trade; you aren’t the first [Fence] I’ve met. Yours will be nothing like this.”

  Jasmine gave a half-hearted smile to Madeleine. I, however, just looked at her. “I’ll be fine,” I finally stated, my body burning with this growing desire.

  “Please remain ‘fine’ when you return, chérie. The Enemy only judges you when you invite her in,” Madeleine stated.

  “Good luck, Ashy,” Jasmine whispered.

  Ophelia said nothing, staring at the darkness. Her mouth opened softly, before closing. I patted her on the back and walked inside.

  A step inside, and that gloom became harrowing darkness. My eyes flashed to memories of caving with Adrian and Mark, going underneath the Oakheart Caverns to the depths below. Bioluminescent mushrooms and flying insects gave some form of light, and Mark was wise enough to bring a lamp.

  That changed when we entered the depths. Bones of various animals were scattered about, tossed into a central pile. While the three of us investigated, Mark swore he could hear something scratching against the walls. Adrian and I didn’t hear it—until it got close.

  Something was scratching against the walls. When it sounded like it was barely five feet away, the lanterns faded, and the light of insects and animals dispersed.

  We couldn’t see anything. I could feel Adrian grab my arm, and Mark grab my hand, but I couldn’t see them.

  And then I felt sharp fingers squeeze on my shoulders.

  I broke free from that memory, shaking it off. I likely hallucinated that event in my fear, but it’s the smell that never left me. The cave was mostly dank and smelled of water and dust, but when the darkness came…

  It smelled of winter.

  I smelled winter here now too. Snowfall had this distinct tone, and the dry, arid conditions made it ever-present, but never forced. I also smelled the rot.

  So I opened my eyes. I wasn’t a child anymore, and I could handle myself. I already saw the world in grays and blacks thanks to my new eyesight, so what was complete darkness to me?

  [Mortis Visio].

  I couldn’t see better, but I could sense.

  There was something else in this room with me. On the other end of the ten-by-ten tile room was the presence of a powerful corpse—a powerful undead entity—a powerful… something.

  It burned into my skull like prey being stalked by a predator. I was a deer, seeing the wolf, and the wolf just… smiled. It was happy knowing I knew it was there.

  The only two abilities I had that could help me in this situation were [Skeletal Grasp] and [Carrion’s Call]. And as much as chucking a knife at it would be fun, it felt less than useless.

  And I still hadn’t found a reason to ever summon bugs of all things. Don’t get me wrong, I loved insects and snails and spiders, but…

  The presence moved forward.

  SCREECH.

  Nails scraped against the stone, the dirt, the something that was the floor.

  Clack!

  I could hear the figure’s bones and body move with effort.

  And then I smelled it. Blood congeals into dried-up mold being fed by bacteria and viruses alike. Bones being feasted upon by the cycle, turned from whatever they were made of—carbon, I think—into nothing but dust.

  A strange thought burned into my head.

  “Rheavis’akinla-ozfa-kmka’ratkl’zil.”

  What has happened, will happen. What can happen, has already happened.

  It wasn’t in gravespeech, but it sounded similar. The words formed in my mind, and their meaning formed in my heart.

  My attention was forced upon the first part—Rheavis. Alone, that part meant nothing—not to me, not to anyone.

  But it was a name. One that I think people feared to speak.

  Another thought burned into my brain:

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  If one were to have an enemy, the easiest way for them to fade from memory was to make people fear a false name.

  Rhyvesta.

  Rheavis’akinla-ozfa…

  The caretaker of the Grand Cycle.

  “I know you’re in here, Rhea,” I shouted, trying to project courage I didn’t have. It came off as a hoarse whisper, barely audible to my own ears as it left my lips.

  There was no echo. No response.

  Just that rancid, rotting stench.

  And then I felt a claw hook into my dress. It pressed between the silken center, tearing it apart and coming upwards. It pulled me deeper into the darkness, tired of waiting for a silly little girl to grow up.

  My feet pressed into the dirt, scraping and pushing the soil aside. The thing still tugged me, until I was approaching the presence.

  The “light” of the crypt had long since died in shadows, and all that remained was the blackness, the presence, and the stench. The air was too damp, dry, and cold. Even with my naturally lowered body temperature, I was freezing. I couldn’t see my breath in the black, but I’m sure it’d have been warmer than wherever I was. I shivered, looking around for anything to make sense of this growing abyss.

  And I wish I didn’t.

  A red glow revealed the presence. I couldn’t tell if the light was coming from below it, above it, to the side, or if the red light radiated from it. My eyes were too focused on what it actually was.

  A black sarcophagus stood against the wall. I had heard the Builders of the Nile made these for their god-kings, and the front was fashioned after what they had hoped to look like.

  This was modeled after a dried-up corpse, whose features were on full display. Black, leathery skin clung to the bone tightly—no liquid, blood, or any vital fluid having blessed its frame. Each segment of the fingers was visible underneath the dried-up black leather, and the recess of her ribcage was on full display.

  Yet it was the face! Before, Rhyvesta… Rhea’s face was hidden in a veil, concealing it. Now? The face was…

  I stared at it, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Eyes that were not eyes stared at me hatefully. A mouth that was not a mouth scowled at me. As I looked at the teeth and jaws, it went in forever, sharp fangs replacing the broken fragments into a spiraling hole of nothing.

  Every time I tried to look at her face it shifted in worse ways. Her eyes that were not eyes were replaced by the same unending spiral of teeth. Her mouth was replaced by a singular eyeball that blinked.

  And when I blinked, it turned into something different again.

  Then the sarcophagus creaked open. The fetid stench of the grave wafted out, and I knew inside that there was a darkness so black I would not know if I was looking up or down, falling or standing, alive or dead.

  I felt warmth from behind me. I knew that light too intimately. I could turn back now.

  “And be taken as the nobody you were destined to be?”

  The voice was feminine. I had assumed that deities sounded like neither, but this was clearly a woman. Her tone was sweet like overripe, molding fruit. Her cadence was like maggots squirming in their feast.

  “Leave.”

  I stood my ground.

  “Coward.”

  I took a step forward.

  “Ungrateful.”

  My hand touched the metal of the sarcophagus.

  “Harming those who want to help.”

  There was no cushioning there. It was metal, cold and unfeeling.

  “They think you’re not worthy. An empty-headed shrew lashing out at the world like a baby with a temper tantrum.”

  I stepped inside.

  “They want you to be something you’re not.”

  I turned around, facing the other end. “Fuck them. I will prove myself.”

  The sarcophagus shut tightly around me. All around was darkness so deep. A silence so pervading that I couldn’t even hear myself breathe or my heartbeat. A stillness so vast that the metal boundaries of the coffin seemed infinitely far away.

  Every moment of my life was ruled by self-doubt. Hatred. I was a girl whose parents wanted the gods to love them, and couldn’t be loved. I was the student whose classmates mocked her for being poor.

  And this was my choice.

  My only choice.

  My first, true choice.

  I smiled in the darkness.

  Rhea’s face smiled back, staring at me.

  All the hair on my body stood up, and my mouth opened to scream. The visage that was carved on the other side moved its carved fingers off its chest and placed its fingers on my lips. I felt a needle pierce my flesh, and black blood spill. It went through my lips, then out, then back in, over and over.

  My mouth was silent.

  Rhea’s gaze—how I wish she did not look at me—inspected my face. Her red light illuminated her eyes and, by proxy, illuminated my own face. It shifted, eyes forming where her cheek was, her hand was, her tongue was, and where her eye was.

  Her dark, pale fingers caressed my cheek. Its nails scratched into my skin, and her glowing orbs came closer.

  Her mouth opened and a hand extended out. The fingertips spoke at me, its voice and tone too similar.

  Pa.

  “A farmer gives all to their land. Their sweat, their tears, their blood.”

  A third arm extended out from Rhea, extruding from its eye. A black, black dagger whose edge was sharp.

  The fingertips talked.

  Ma.

  “Ashley Hart! You keep running with that knife and you’ll—”

  The voice shifted back to that overripe-sweet tone, with the cadence of squirming maggots.

  “Gouge your left eye.”

  It dropped the knife into my hands, and its bony fingers clenched against mine. It forced me to grip the blade, but then released. The orbs continued to scour my face.

  The fingertips talked again.

  Adrian.

  “Ashy… I’ll be here for you. Just say the word…”

  My stomach dropped. I wished he was here. He’d stop me from doing this insanity.

  Melissa.

  “I’m not scared of you stealing him—I’m scared of you killing him. You’d be better off dead, Ashley.”

  That’s not what she said, was it?

  My fingers held the knife, and then I looked at Rhea.

  Ophelia.

  “My claws are stronger than any knife.”

  I swallowed. Even my thoughts were being judged, heard, and seen.

  Jasmine.

  “You could leave at any point—you don’t have to do this. Even the priest likes you, the community would help you out.”

  They’d help me out again. And again. And again. I’d always be this poor peasant that couldn’t accomplish anything for herself.

  Madeleine.

  “You read Tragedy… not Romance, Ashley Hart.”

  I sighed, bringing the knife up.

  The hand clasped my wrist.

  Ma.

  “I have great plans for you—my child. My sweetest girl. You’ll take the world by storm, and everyone will know your name.”

  I wish I could deliver on that.

  Rhea.

  “Your choice must be your own. You can stab your heart and end this, you can push on the door and leave and fail my judgment, or you can gouge your eye and follow the path of the First Cycle.”

  I felt tears forming in my eyes, and then pushed forward.

  The knife slid underneath my eyelids, and it burned and it hurt. I tried to scream, but my lips were sewn shut.

  More blood.

  The blade pushed inward. It slid underneath the eyeball itself, pushing underneath again. I could feel my eyeball dislodge, and the searing pain.

  I could do this.

  It slid upward and hit the retinal nerve. My hands trembled.

  I sliced it through, and popped my eyeball with a wet, disgusting snap. It landed on the floor.

  And Rhea touched my bleeding hole. Her fingers—all 18 of them—moved inside and touched the goop and gore.

  Eighteen fingers exited, and smeared my blood on my face. The sarcophagus didn’t open.

  My heart beat, my face hurt, and I could barely keep myself conscious. My breathing picked up, and my mouth opened up to finally scream!

  And the scream roared into the empty room; my lips were unbound. The room had shifted once more and I found myself seated at a table.

  On the other end was the corpse-woman. Rhea.

  She took my eyeball and opened her mouth. The retinal cord wiggled, trying to escape. The endless pit of fangs and teeth swallowed my eye.

  Her fourth arm, coming from the fingertip of her third, reached toward me. It rotated from side to side, before its wrist also spiraled in a different movement.

  A green eyeball stood in the center of its palm.

  “The Eye of the First Cycle, my [Necromancer].”

  She offered it to me. My hand moved forward and… plucked it from her palm. The retinal cord slid out like a carrot, and the black blood seeped into the land—her hand—below.

  The cord coiled around my wrist before the eye moved by itself. It squirmed like a worm.

  “This will hurt. Scream if you must.”

  And it did.

  The eye found itself lodged in my skull, and it felt different, but familiar.

  “Sweetest child, I am so, so, very proud of you, and what you have done. What you have become. My home will be your home. My kin will be your kin. If any were to harm you, they are to harm me. If any were to serve you, they are to serve me. Sweetest child, stand.”

  I did as I was told.

  The room flashed white, and was different. I could see out of both of my eyes. I was still holding the blackest knife.

  “ASHLEY! YOU’RE ALRIGHT!” Jasmine’s voice came from behind me, her flats running against the now marble-stone floor.

  The room was a perfect necromancer’s study, with a throne of bone. The unending gloom was gone, and… this new area felt cozy.

  I turned around to hug Jasmine, who looked at my eyes. “I WAS SO WORRIED! YOU STARTED SCREAMING.”

  Wait, I was hugging Jasmine? Tears formed from both of my eyes, and I dropped the blackest knife.

  Madeleine picked it up, inspecting it. Ophelia was already in the room, looking at the bookshelf and… another fresco of Rhyves—Rhea. I’d keep that name to myself.

  Madeleine looked over at me. “Chérie… your hair is white, [Necromancer].”