"I wonder where El has gone off to," Leon murmured as he continued the ritual of divination within the stillness of his room.
The chamber was spacious yet austere, stripped of comfort and ornament beyond what was necessary. Wooden tiles stretched across the floor, each one engraved with delicate, almost imperceptible designs that seemed to shift beneath the candlelight. In the far corner stood an iron bed, rigid and cold in appearance. Its mattress was stark white, undisturbed, and a thick blanket lined in black lay folded with deliberate care across its surface.
Beside the bed rested a narrow cupboard. Upon it lay a single pen, a folded tissue, and a small clock whose ticking blended with the hush of the room. The sound did not measure time so much as disturb it. The walls were adorned with portraits of those who had once occupied the chamber. Their painted eyes followed the room in silent observation, as though unwilling to relinquish their claim over it.
There were no windows to welcome the dawn, nor any vent to stir warmth into the stale air. Light came only from a lone candle positioned on the wooden floor and a solitary lamp suspended from the ceiling. The flame trembled without wind, casting shadows that crawled slowly across the walls and over Leon's bowed figure.
Seated at the centre of the floor in a lotus position, he was surrounded by an intricate array of black symbols, elegant and unsettling in equal measure. They had been drawn with precision; each curve and angle deliberate. At the heart of the design spread three dark wings, their tips nearly touching the inner circle that enclosed them. Upon those wings rested a throne of gold, rendered in fine detail. Around it were three unblinking eyes and sharp triangles, all contained within two concentric circles traced in black ink.
He stood and crossed the room in measured steps, the wooden tiles whispering beneath his feet. At the small cupboard beside his iron bed, he paused and gripped its edge, steadying himself. He took the pen from its surface, turned, and returned to the centre of the chamber. Lowering himself once more into a lotus position, he faced south of the ritual circle, his posture rigid with intent.
He exhaled slowly. With careful fingers, he drew the ink reservoir from the pen and held it above the intricate symbols. For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then he shook it with sudden violence. Black ink splattered across the engraved wood, bleeding into the lines of the design, filling wings and circles, drowning the throne of gold beneath a spreading stain.
A tremor passed through him.
He began to chant. The words were clumsy on his tongue, unfamiliar and strained, yet he forced them into the air with growing intensity.
"Arrrezstance. Arrizomantc."
His eyes remained shut, lids trembling, while his hands clapped in uneven rhythm. The sharp sound cracked against the walls, rebounding through the chamber until it seemed as though unseen hands were clapping with him.
The candle flame shuddered.
Without warning, it bent sideways, though no window stood open, no door ajar. The flame thinned to a thread of light, flickered weakly, then vanished as if swallowed by an unseen breath. Darkness surged forward. Above him, the hanging lamp began to sway. Its chain rattled against the ceiling. The movement grew violent, metal striking metal, until the fixture tore loose and plunged to the floor. It shattered on impact, glass scattering across the wooden tiles like shards of frozen rain.
The room plunged into shadow.
The floor convulsed beneath him. The engraved patterns quaked, the ink lifting from the wood in trembling strands. It rose against gravity, pulled inward by a force that had no visible source. The black liquid twisted together, spiralling into a dense, radiating vortex at the heart of the circle. It pulsed as though alive, swallowing the candle's final wisp of smoke.
Leon felt something answer it from within his own body.
A violent force awakened in his core. His stomach churned, twisting upon itself. Heat surged upward through his chest, and blood flooded into his mouth with brutal force. The metallic taste scorched his throat. He gagged, his body urging him to spit it out, to abandon the ritual, to breathe.
He did not stop.
"Arrrezstance. Arrizomantc."
The chant tore from him, wet and ragged. Blood slipped from the corners of his mouth, easing the pressure enough for the words to continue. His lungs burned. Each breath felt stolen, unwanted, as though the air itself resisted entering him.
A sharp pain split behind his eyes. Warmth streamed down his cheeks. Blood spilled from his eyes and nose in thin, relentless trails. It dripped onto the wooden floor, onto the blackened symbols, onto the spiralling mass of ink that throbbed with gathering strength.
Soon the chamber reeked of iron.
His cloak clung to him, soaked through with red. The floor was drenched, blood seeping into carvings older than memory. His heart hammered against his ribs with unnatural force, each beat heavier than the last, as though something within it struggled to break free.
The vortex of ink expanded, its dark light licking at the edges of the circle.
Leon's pulse surged again, violently, painfully, and without aid or mercy, he…
…
Leon drifted across a vast expanse unmoored from time and space. It was not merely dark. It was the absence of light itself, a depth blacker than night, more ravenous than the abyss, untouched by mercy or memory. There were no stars, no horizon, no sense of above or below. Only an endless void.
He floated without balance or will, his body carried by unseen currents as if seized by the violent tides of a shattered sea. There was no wind, yet he moved. No gravity, yet he swayed. No sound, yet the silence roared in his ears.
His form was the only thing that did not belong.
A faint radiance clung to him, outlining the shape of his body against the devouring dark. It was not enough to illuminate the void, not enough to push back the blackness even an inch. It did not brighten the expanse, nor soften it. It simply marked him as present.
It made him visible.
His eyes opened slowly.
Pain trembled through his skull, a dull echo of what he had endured. His heartbeat stumbled in uneven rhythms, each pulse sharp and hollow. Panic rose before thought could restrain it. He tried to stand, to brace himself, to find footing in something solid.
There was nothing.
No ground pressed against his feet. No air supported his weight. No surface answered his touch. He forced his body upright regardless, resisting the invisible pressure that weighed against him from all directions. It was not physical, yet it pressed upon his mind, heavy and unyielding.
His thoughts quivered
The expanse itself did not terrify him. It did not amplify his trauma. It did not whisper threats or bare its teeth. It simply existed, indifferent and immeasurable.
What chilled him was something far simpler.
Death.
He drew in a short, unsteady breath. The action felt unnatural, as though breathing were a habit he had forgotten. He steadied himself as best he could, suspended in nothingness.
Where am I?
The question echoed within him, though no sound escaped his lips.
Did I die from the ritual of awakening? I saw El perform it in the flowery white chamber. I saw him awaken such magnificent abilities. I studied every detail before attempting it myself. I traced each symbol carefully. I followed the procedure without deviation. I made no mistake.
His memories replayed in fragments. The ink. The chant. The blood. The spiralling force.
What went wrong?
Is this the outcome? Was the divination incomplete? Did the awakening devour me instead of answering?
His mind searched relentlessly for error, combing through each step with obsessive precision. He found none.
The void remained silent, offering neither confirmation nor denial.
A colder thought crept forward.
Have I become a Lost?
The words lingered in his consciousness, heavier than the darkness surrounding him. The faint light outlining his body flickered once, subtly, as though the expanse itself had heard the question and was considering its reply.