Morning light filtered through the main hall’s windows. She paced back and forth by the staircase, her knees still aching from the long vigil, as she waited for the Masters to arrive. The urge to go down and see if Damian had survived gnawed at her, but she forced herself to wait.

  What felt like a lifetime passed before she heard their footsteps. Master Tormund, Master Vickers and Scribe Willem made their way into the main hall. They didn’t speak to one another as the distance closed, dread hung over them, they all knew what to expect from the conclusion of the Trial.

  Master Tormund was armed, she noted. A short sword, perfect for the confined space below and a dagger for if things became personal. He was prepared to face an Awakened Brother.

  Their eyes were blank as they passed her without acknowledgement. She turned, taking in the deafening silence of the staircase that hours ago rang with anguish. She took the first step down into what surely must now be a crypt.

  “Not you,” Master Tormund firmly said as the others continued downward. “Bring water and wait here by the stairs.”

  “Of course, Master,” she said. She hastily walked through the main hall and down the corridor leading to the kitchen. She gathered four flagons and filled them from the fortress’ cistern. Her mind raced, was this too much, was it too little? She placed them on a serving tray and began the precarious journey back to the staircase. Her physical and mental exhaustion showed through as she struggled to balance what seemed the most trivial task.

  The flagons clinked against the tray from her jellied arms. She placed the tray on the floor next to the staircase and paced beside it, listening for any indication of what might be happening below. Nothing. Only the pressure of anxiety constricting her breathing through the excruciating wait.

  Gods, please… I’m begging you. I’m begging you. Let him walk up those steps.

  She couldn’t tell if she had actually heard it or not, it seemed just on the edge of hearing. A footstep. She held her breath and felt her heartbeat drumming in her ears. Another. For certain this time. They were coming back up.

  Louder now. Her pacing stopped as she squatted down, grabbing two handfuls of hair. Her eyes focused on the staircase, blinding her to the rest of her surroundings. Multiple footsteps now. Some strong while others weak.

  Master Vickers emerged first, supporting Konrad’s weight with her shoulder. His cloak draped over him, his head was barely up. His hair, once black, had turned snow white, eyes half black and half bloodshot. The veins in his face, arms and legs, were pitch black.

  She jolted up and rushed over to help support him. They lowered him down to his knees.

  “Water, Alessia,” Vickers calmly said.

  He looked like death had touched him but got bored, like a cat, toying with its prey until the entertainment passed.

  “Alessia, water,” Vickers repeated.

  Her mind snapped back to the task given. She lifted the flagon up to his lips and what once seemed a corpse began to guzzle the water. It ran from his chin, down his chest and began dripping onto the floor.

  “Is he…”

  “He’s fine,” she said. “He needs time.”

  Alessia looked to Vickers, not believing a single word of what was being said. This is fine?

  “Brother,” he gasped. “Brother Marcus, where are you?”

  His whole body was covered in sweat.

  Vickers met her eyes, confronting the disbelief. “He’s fine and he needs you. They need you now. Pull it together.”

  They? There’s more, Marcus for sure. Gods please let Damian walk up.

  She raised the flagon back to Konrad’s lips. Vickers whispered reassurances to him while Alessia fixated back on the staircase. She could hear more footsteps approaching.

  A deathly pale hand pressed against the stone wall, those same black veins stood out like ink against bleached parchment. He was struggling to continue up. “Here,” Alessia said as she handed the flagon over to Vickers. She ran over and wrapped Varian’s arm over her shoulder. His weight shifted into her, stressing the already fatigued muscles.

  “I got you,” she said. “Come on. Easy steps.”

  “Konrad!” He rasped. “Brother!” He paused, taking in a few deep breaths. “We did it!”

  Konrad's head turned toward the sound, a ghost of his old grin crossing his lips. “F-F-Fuck you, Varian.”

  Varian tried to laugh but immediately went into a coughing fit.

  “Enough, both of you,” Vickers said. “Drink, don’t speak.”

  Varian practically tore himself from Alessia when he noticed the flagons of water. He fell to his knees, lifted one, with shaky arms, like a holy object before proceeding to drink. He appeared like his old self, no physical alterations like Konrad had displayed, but still managed to turn the mundane into grand acts of theater.

  He leaned towards Vickers, opening his eyelids unnecessarily wide. “Are my eyes black, Master?”

  She paused, taken aback by the question he should already know the answer to, then nodded gently.

  “Black eyes!” He howled. He got to his feet, woozily spun in place with the flagon raised over his head. “Empty, like moonless midnight! Black as my soul!”

  She couldn’t help but consider the math, Damian’s odds just became abysmal. Maybe two more at best. She frantically looked back to the staircase.

  Scribe Willem made his way up next, he looked tired, but not the kind that came from the stairs. It looked like the kind that came from seeing the same scene, over and over again.

  Then, Master Tormund. She immediately noticed the dagger he’d tried to clean, but which still held a smeared sheen of blood. Someone, or someones had experienced unspeakable miseries just to finally find peace through a mercy killing.

  She fell to her knees, numb, the impact even after the vigil didn’t register. The world around her faded away. Voices distorted into a distant unintelligible mass, until a dull buzzing overlaid everything around her. Then, a tear. It all felt so surreal, like she had become a ghost, watching herself from out of body through a hazy lens.

  Everything slowed down around her, Master Tormund’s bloodied blade, glinting from torchlight as he stepped closer. Master Vickers raising the flagon to Konrad’s lips, whispering comforts. Varian standing, triumphantly, pouring water onto his face. Scribe Willem rubbing the deep lines of his forehead, stretching the skin.

  “Alessia.” Master Tormund’s voice called out, as if spoken from underwater.

  She looked at him, watching his lips move but not hearing the rest of what was being said.

  Her attention returned to the staircase. No. No. Please.

  Master Tormund knelt beside her. “Sister…”

  “No! No!” She screamed as she raced towards the stairs. He didn’t try to stop her.

  Six steps down the spiralling staircase and there he was, leaning against the wall, trying to catch his breath. “Damian?” She hesitantly reached out. Her fingers touched his bare chest through the cloak that draped over him, testing the reality her mind refused to believe, he was warm.

  “I’m about to get that pretty neat hawk medallion you mentioned.”

  She embraced him and didn’t care if it was seen. Her head sunk into his chest as she stifled the whimpers.

  He managed to catch his balance at her sudden action, placing a hand on the back of her head. “Careful,” he said. “I’m dizzy.”

  Like the others, his veins were black. She knew it was to be expected, but losing those gentle brown eyes felt like losing a piece of him.

  “Come on,” she said as she took his arm over her shoulder. “Who else is down there? Where’s Brother Marcus?”

  His answer never came, only the sounds of their footsteps ascending stairs filled the space. It didn’t make sense, Brother Konrad had called him by name specifically.

  It crushed her harder than him just saying it. She had gotten just what she wanted, prayed for, but she wondered if it was at the expense of all their other Brothers lying cold against their cell floors.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “There’s water up here,” she said, trying to refocus both of their attention to something solvable.

  Master Tormund turned his efforts from Konrad towards Damian. Varian was in good spirits, all things considered, or he was coping the only way he knew how. Master Tormund walked towards her and Damian, taking his other arm over his shoulder. “Next to Vickers,” he said.

  They got him to his knees, he immediately shifted and sat cross-legged, Vickers handed him one of the flagons. He acted like he’d spent days in the Sandstorm Desert as he desperately chugged from the vessel.

  “Careful, Brother,” Varian teased. “No telling what they are giving us now.”

  He choked, water coming up through his nose as he laughed.

  She saw it, so brief but so telling. The hardened Hunter slipped. Master Tormund smiled. “Let your Brother drink.”

  “Master Tormund,” Konrad said quietly. “Did any of our Brothers… did they Awaken? Marcus, h-he was making these weird comments about—”

  Master Vickers interrupted gently, but firmly. “That’s enough.”

  “Brother Konrad, remember your Brothers how they were, not what the Trial did to them,” Master Tormund said.

  “He said it spoke to him that… thing that’s in us now,” Konrad said.

  “Brother Konrad,” Master Vickers’ gentle tone now lost. “That’s enough.”

  “It didn’t speak to me,” Damian said after wiping water from his lips.

  “It spoke to Hadrian the Mad,” Varian pointed out.

  Master Vickers glared at Master Tormund and shifted the gaze to Scribe Willem.

  “It does not speak,” Scribe Willem calmly said. “Falsehoods. Hadrian the Mad thought he heard it, the Trial… altered his mind.”

  Konrad shook his head. “Then why did Brother Marcus say that?”

  “He Awakened during the Trial,” Master Tormund said quietly. “That was not your Brother anymore, the Presence claimed him, spoke through him as if he was himself.”

  Her fear made sense now. Brother Konrad hadn’t been delirious, Brother Marcus was alive as they left the cells. Until Master Tormund’s dagger gave him peace. What was more troubling though was the totality in which the Presence took over someone. How would you know if someone was still them?

  “How do you know? He spoke to me. Knew things only he could know.”

  “It’s possession to the fullest extent, borne from emotions,” Scribe Willem said. “It knows everything about you. It knows your fears. It knows your wants. All your memories. It will twist them, until the mind snaps, allowing it to enter.”

  She closed her eyes. It was disturbing on a scale far larger than she imagined. the Presence seemed to use what made people them and used it as a weapon against themselves. If Damian had it in him when he had killed Aldrick… would it have forced him into Awakening?

  “It’s why we suggest you don’t form attachments,” Vickers added.

  “Not sure we’ve enforced that one enough,” Master Tormund said under his breath.

  Does he mean me and Damian?

  “You and Master Vickers have brought the one thing into Last Pass that was much needed,” Scribe Willem said, “Humanity.” He shook his head. “Before, under previous leadership…”

  Konrad laughed, but it wasn’t humor. “How do we know you haven’t Awakened?” He gestured to Master Tormund. “How do we know he hasn’t?”

  “Because you’d all be dead by now,” Master Tormund said.

  Master Vickers chimed in. “It is a rabid wolf, focused solely on its own self interests, the pack no longer matters.”

  Damian echoed her words from the night before the Trial. “‘What remains is driven by rage, not reason.’”

  It wasn’t the damage control response Alessia thought it to be at first, it was an inconvenient truth about the Presence. Warning. Wisdom.

  Konrad looked from Damian over to Scribe Willem. “Then how have you lived this long?”

  “Oh, dear Brother,” he began. “I assure you, my visitor still comes knocking. I acknowledge its arrival, but refuse to treat with it. My life has been one of peace. One that doesn’t require me to send for it, but it does come, and I wave it away as my quill returns to parchment.” He paused. “Even so, that Final Hunt finds us all, eventually.”

  Varian had been pacing through the whole exchange. Damian still sat, flagon between his legs. Vickers rubbed her face and Tormund stood straight as if inspecting another drill.

  “True God,” Varian pleaded. “I need a drink.”

  “I’m sure there’s another vial tucked away somewhere,” Konrad said.

  Varian chuckled. “Not that kind of drink, Brother.”

  “Forget about it,” Master Tormund said. “Alcohol is poison to you now.”

  Konrad scoffed. “Of course it is. Any more comforts we should know about that may kill us? Food? Sleep?”

  “You won’t need much of either of those anymore,” he replied.

  They all had assumed that Master Tormund chose not to eat with them, during their time here, it had always just been her and her Brothers. Fraternization, simple logic. Now it all made much more sense. When he did eat, it was hardly anything. Half an apple maybe, a few spoonfuls of soup, a morsel of rabbit.

  “Now is not the time for this discussion,” Master Vickers said. “Tomorrow, after some rest and clearer minds we should speak further.”

  “Apparently we don’t need to sleep,” Konrad said bitterly.

  “Stop!” Alessia shouted. “Our Brothers are under our feet, and we stand here, breathing. Honor them. Honor them, as they would have honored you. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be, but think of them. Live for them.”

  Reflection took over them. The complaining, the questions, the explanations all died at the stark reminder. Master Tormund whispered a prayer to himself. Master Vickers looked at her, pride, gleaming in her eyes. Varian looked to the staircase. Damian’s face rested on clasped hands. Konrad’s black veins glistened from the tears that ran down his cheeks.

  Scribe Willem eventually broke the silence and softly said, “Their Hunt has ended.”

  “Their Hunt has ended,” Vickers and Tormund echoed.

  There was a pause before he gave the words life, she could see Damian working through them in his mind. “You should just give her the Trial, Master Tormund.”

  He meant it. She had earned it as much as any of them. The first Brother, her friend, that truly stood next to her against authority, she imagined what it must have felt like for Sister Ophelia to have that support. Right in this very hall.

  Konrad shook his head. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

  Varian looked at her. “If any Sister can do this, it’s Sister Alessia.” There was no sarcasm there, no last second witty follow-up. Just respect.

  Her heart skipped beats. After everything they had just gone through, the horrors of the long night, they were rallying around her. Lending their support for the one thing they all knew she wanted more than anything else. The tension was mounting, Vickers’ cold eyes locked onto Tormund. She couldn’t believe it. Their voices wrestled with his thoughts. He was considering it.

  Master Tormund turned his attention over to Scribe Willem. The two of them spoke without words for a long moment.

  Then the verdict, louder than the words ever could have been. A slight shake of Scribe Willem’s head.

  He might as well have spit on her in front of them all. Hope shattered into indifference. What was she expecting though, that things would somehow be different now from last night? From last month? From all the previous years before this moment? She took his blow with unwavering grace. It was clear now, she’d get nowhere with the three of them even with support. After her Brothers’ funerals, she’d lay the foundation of her own plan to take what they so adamantly denied, and Scribe Willem would be the one to assist in its creation.

  Varian threw his hands up and turned from them. Damian shook his head as he brought the flagon up to his mouth. Vickers looked torn between relief and frustration as she rubbed her temple. Master Tormund’s eyes appeared distant, weighing the result against personal feelings.

  “Probably for the best,” Konrad said quietly.

  “Probably so,” Alessia said. Each word revolted her, like the lingering burn in the back of the throat after vomiting.

  “Get yourselves more water if you need. Then go to your rooms,” Master Tormund said. “Vickers, Willem, we have work to do below.”

  They were going down to do the unsettling task of preparing the Brothers’ bodies for funeral. She could only imagine what must be going through their minds. The carnage they’d have to endure.

  Konrad and Varian made their way to the kitchen. She and Damian walked together through the dormitory wing, their footsteps echoing in the unnaturally quiet halls.

  She’d watched him disappear into those cells yesterday, not knowing if she’d ever see him alive again. Now he was here, pale and transformed, but breathing. When she reached for his hand, he gripped it immediately, as if she were anchoring him to something solid.

  “I kept thinking about the shrine,” he said quietly. “What you said about the Old Ones listening.”

  “Did they?”

  He stopped walking and looked at her with those new black eyes. “I'm here.”

  At his door, neither moved to let go. The silence stretched between them, heavy with things that had changed. She could see something different in his expression, not just the physical transformation, but the way he looked at her now.

  “I thought I’d lost you,” she whispered.

  “You almost did.” His thumb traced across her knuckles. “More than once.”

  Voices echoed from down the hall. Konrad and Varian were returning from the kitchen. Their hands fell apart, but their eyes remained locked as the other Brothers approached.

  “Evening,” Varian said with forced cheer as they passed, too absorbed in their own processing to notice the tension.

  When they were alone again, Damian hesitated at his door.

  “Thank you,” Alessia said. “For speaking up earlier. For…” she gestured vaguely, “everything.”

  “I should have done it sooner. Before. With Tormund.” He leaned against his doorframe. “I promised myself not to make that mistake again, if it meant seeing you again.”

  She couldn’t help but smile at the quiet determination in his voice.

  “Goodnight, Damian.”

  “Goodnight.”

  She entered her room, turning as she closed the door. Damian mirrored her action. For a moment, they watched each other through the narrowing gaps, both understanding that something fundamental had shifted between them.

  She lay on her bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. Three survivors out of nineteen. The numbers felt abstract until she pictured the faces. Marcus with his easy laugh, Anders who’d shared his rations when she was sick, Felix who’d fallen behind on the mountain runs despite her attempts to help him keep pace.

  Damian was alive. Varian and Konrad too. But sixteen others would never walk these halls again, never complain about Tormund’s training, never bicker over card games in the common room.

  The silence in the fortress felt different now, not peaceful, but hollow. Empty spaces where voices should be. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, knowing tomorrow would bring the weight of all those absences.