The desert held its breath.
Will stood in the center of the circle, surrounded by cultists whose faces flickered in torchlight. The sand beneath his feet felt colder now, as if the earth itself recoiled from what was about to happen. The wind had stilled, unnaturally so, and the silence pressed against his ears like a scream waiting to happen.
The cult leader loomed before him, cloaked in black, symbols stitched into the fabric like scars. His face was hidden, but Will could feel the weight of his gaze — heavy, ancient, and merciless.
"You've shown your teeth," the leader said, voice smooth as polished stone. "Now we will see if you are beast… or chosen."
Will's fists clenched. His body ached from the earlier fight, but adrenaline surged through him. He didn't know what "chosen" meant, and he didn't care. All he knew was that his grandmother was gone, and these people — these monsters — had taken her.
"I'm not part of your cult," Will spat. "I didn't ask for this."
The leader tilted his head. "No one asks. The storm chooses. The crystal confirms."
Will's heart stuttered. "Crystal?" The leader raised a hand, and the cultists responded instantly. Two stepped forward, carrying a small chest carved from bone and wrapped in cloth. They knelt and opened it.
Inside lay a jagged crystal, pulsing with a dull blue light. It didn't glow — it throbbed, like it had a heartbeat of its own. The air around it shimmered, and Will felt a pressure in his chest, like something inside him recognized it.
"What is that?" he whispered.
"The beginning," the leader said. "And the end."
Will took a step back. "I'm not touching that."
"You won't need to," the leader replied.
Before Will could react, hands grabbed him from behind — strong, silent cultists pinning his arms and legs. He kicked, thrashed, shouted, but it was like fighting statues. The leader stepped closer, holding the crystal in both hands.
"You will fight," he said. "But first… you will awaken."
Will screamed as the crystal was forced toward his mouth. He clenched his jaw, but the cultists pried it open. The crystal didn't enter like a solid object — it dissolved into light, into heat, into something that wasn't physical but still tore through him. Pain exploded in his chest. Not burning, not freezing — something deeper. His veins lit up, his thoughts fractured. He saw flashes: his grandmother's face, the storm swallowing her, the cultists chanting, a vast black sky filled with stars that whispered his name.
He felt everything and nothing. He was falling, flying, drowning in light.
Then — silence.
Will woke in darkness.
His body was sprawled in the sand, the torches now burned low. The cultists were gone, or maybe just farther away. The desert stretched around him, vast and empty, but something had changed.
He sat up slowly. His skin tingled, his heartbeat thundered in his ears. He touched his chest — no wound, no mark — but the memory of the crystal was etched into him.
He didn't know what they had done. But he knew he couldn't stay.
Staggering to his feet, Will looked around. The wind had returned, gentle now, brushing against his face like a warning. He took a step, then another, moving away from the circle.
Behind him, the chanting began again.
Low. Rhythmic. Rising. Will didn't look back.
He ran.
The sand shifted beneath Will's feet as he ran, each step a battle against exhaustion. His breath came in ragged bursts, the dry air slicing his throat. Behind him, the chanting grew louder — not chasing him, but echoing through the dunes like a curse that refused to die.
He didn't know where he was going. The desert stretched endlessly in every direction, lit only by the pale glow of the moon and the dying torches behind him. His legs threatened to give out, but something inside him — something new — kept him upright.
The crystal.
It pulsed in his chest, not physically, but in a way he could feel. Like a second heartbeat. Like a whisper threading through his veins.
You are not alone.
Will stumbled, dropping to his knees. The sand was cold now, biting into his skin. He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to breathe, trying to think. Images flashed behind his eyes — stars, storms, his grandmother's face, the cult leader's voice.
He wanted to scream, but the sound wouldn't come.
Then — movement.
A figure emerged from the dunes ahead. Not cloaked like the cultists. Not glowing. Just… watching.
Will froze.
The figure stepped closer, and moonlight revealed a face — young, scarred, eyes sharp with recognition.
"You made it," the stranger said.
Will blinked. "Who are you?"
"Vex," the stranger replied. "And you're late."
Will tried to speak, but only a rasp came out. "They… they put something in me."
"I know," Vex said. "That's why you're still alive."
She reached out a hand. Will hesitated, then took it.
As they moved deeper into the desert, Will glanced back once more. The torches were gone. The chanting had stopped.
But the crystal still pulsed.
And somewhere, far behind them, the cult leader smiled.