The molten rivers shimmered like veins of fire beneath the bruise-colored sky, stretching endlessly across the obsidian plateau. Thomas moved cautiously, claws scraping against jagged black stone, molten veins pulsing faintly as he adjusted to the rhythm of the hellscape. Liora coiled beside him, eyes scanning the shadows, her serpentine body flowing with silent precision. Eddric followed, long limbs stretching and flexing unnaturally as he navigated fissures and spires.
"Do you feel it?" Liora hissed, voice low and tense. "The whispers… the echoes? The Circle leaves remnants behind. Fragments of the fallen."
Thomas paused, claws flexing. "Fragments? Of what?"
"Of memory, of guilt, of sins unfulfilled," Liora said. Her eyes glimmered in the molten glow. "The Circle feeds not only on flesh and instinct, but on the remnants of humanity. Every step you take, every echo you hear—it is a test, a temptation, a lesson."
Thomas glanced at Eddric, who crouched low, examining a fissure in the obsidian plain. "We are not alone," Eddric said, voice like grinding stone. "Some remnants linger longer than others. Pay attention. These are not merely illusions—they can teach… or destroy."
Thomas stepped carefully across the cracked ground, ears straining. From the shadows, he heard whispers: fragmented voices, half-remembered cries, soft pleas that seemed impossibly human. He froze, claws digging into rock. The whispers coalesced into images—visions hovering in the heat above the fissures, glowing faintly, flickering like broken flames.
A small village appeared before him—Brackenford, or something like it. Houses flickered in molten distortion, the cobbled streets stretching endlessly, warped by heat and memory. Figures moved in half-formed shapes: villagers with molten veins, faces twisted with fear and sorrow. Thomas recognized some, or thought he did, fragments of the world he had known.
"Careful," Liora warned, coiling closer. "These are not your friends. They are fragments, twisted by the Circle. Engage too deeply, and you risk losing yourself. The memories… they are hunger, too."
Thomas swallowed, molten veins flaring. He felt an urge to reach out, to touch the vision of his parents, of the cobbled streets, of the well where he had drawn water countless times. But the instinct to survive, sharpened by the first hunt, held him back. He flexed his claws, focusing, separating instinct from longing.
A new vision appeared, darker and more intense: a man, once a merchant, lying bleeding in the streets, hands outstretched as if begging for mercy. His screams echoed across the plateau, piercing Thomas's ears. The air shimmered, and Thomas realized the Circle had conjured this vision to test him—to see if he would hesitate, if he would succumb to guilt, if he would fail.
Eddric moved closer, eyes scanning the vision. "Do not mistake this for reality," he said, voice low. "The Circle distorts memory, amplifies guilt, twists it into a weapon. We must learn, but not be consumed. Remember who you are… and what you have become."
Thomas's claws flexed, molten energy flaring along his arms. "It… it feels so real," he admitted. The fragment of humanity inside him recoiled at the sight: memories of kindness, of family, of innocence. Yet the instinct—the hunger, the survival drive—reminded him that he was no longer the boy who had drawn water from the well. He was Thomas Hale, demon-born, clawed and molten, and he had survived the fall.
"Good," Liora hissed softly. "Recognition without surrender. That is strength. But be warned—the Circle will not stop with visions. It can manifest these fragments into threats, into tests of morality and instinct."
The ground trembled suddenly, and Thomas turned to see the vision of the merchant rise, transformed. Molten veins pulsed across his body, jagged obsidian plates forming along limbs and torso. Rage and hunger replaced pleading, and the figure lunged with unnatural speed, teeth snapping. The Circle had turned the fragment of memory into a weapon.
Thomas reacted instantly, claws slashing in molten arcs, veins burning bright. Liora struck from the side, coils wrapping around the transformed merchant, while Eddric's limbs extended to deliver precise, crushing blows. The fragment screamed, twisting in pain, but did not vanish—it lingered, forcing Thomas to make a choice. Kill it, or retreat and risk its unpredictable strength?
Thomas hesitated for the briefest moment. The image of the man's outstretched hands flashed in his mind—pleading, human, vulnerable. But survival demanded action. He struck again, claws sinking deep, and the vision dissipated into molten shards, leaving only faint echoes in the heat-soaked air.
He exhaled heavily, molten veins dimming slightly. "It… was him," he muttered. "And not him. The Circle… it manipulates even the dead."
"Yes," Liora hissed, eyes glimmering. "Every fragment is a lesson. Every echo is a test. Do not lose yourself in them, Thomas. The hunger of hell is not only in flesh, but in memory, in guilt, in regret. The Circle watches how you handle it."
They continued across the plateau, more fragments appearing: visions of lovers twisted by envy, children transformed by pride, soldiers consumed by wrath. Each one challenged Thomas and his companions, forcing them to balance instinct, morality, and survival. Every engagement was a test, a lesson from the Circle, and each taught them to act quickly, decisively, and with awareness of both environment and instinct.
Thomas flexed his claws, molten veins burning bright. He realized that survival in hell demanded more than strength or instinct—it demanded understanding. Observation, calculation, and discernment were as important as any physical weapon. The Circle was teaching him, shaping him, pushing him toward mastery.
As night—or the closest approximation in the empty sky—fell, the echoes of the past faded, leaving Thomas and his companions on a ridge overlooking the molten plateau. The distant Circle pulsed green, a constant reminder of authority, power, and threat. The lessons of instinct, of pride and wrath, and now of memory and morality, weighed heavily in his mind.
"Tomorrow," Thomas said, claws flexing, molten veins pulsing with renewed energy, "we learn more. The fragments, the echoes… they will not break us. We will endure, we will survive, and we will learn."
Liora coiled beside him, eyes gleaming. "Good. The shadows of the past are dangerous. But they also teach. Remember: only mastery of instinct, strategy, and memory can allow you to rise in this world. Do not forget it."
Thomas gazed toward the distant Circle, the pulsing green light reflecting across rivers of molten fire. The lessons of instinct, combat, and memory had been harsh—but survival demanded everything. Hell was patient, and the Circle eternal.
But Thomas Hale, clawed, molten, and wary, had survived. And he would continue to survive.