The gurney lurched over cracked stone, wheels shrieking like rats clawing for air. Ophelia’s breath scraped her throat, shallow, sharp—she gagged on the stench, iron thick with rot, sour with her own sweat. The air hung heavy, cold as a blade’s edge, and it buzzed—faint, deep, a tremor under the floor she couldn’t place.

  Hooded figures flanked her, shadows in motion, their robes rasping against the stone like dry leaves. Their chants clawed her skull—low, jagged, a rhythm that bent the air, words she didn’t know but felt, tugging at her pulse. Not again… not that voice…

  She twisted, spine arching, but the gurney’s steel frame bit back, icy against her skin. A figure leaned closer—fingers bony, gloved—tightening a strap with a snap. Another held a vial, its glow pulsing violet, like a trapped flame licking glass. “Steady now,” one muttered, voice muffled, reverent, “she’s the one.” The words sank into her gut, heavy as stone. Please… no more… The memory hit—blurred, sharp—a needle’s sting, her screams echoing in a smaller room, the air tasting of ash as that voice laughed, low and endless. She’d begged then, too, and it hadn’t stopped.

  The table loomed ahead, steel glinting under a halo of pale light—sconces flickered, casting jagged shadows that danced like claws. Straps dangled, leather worn dark with stains she didn’t want to name. The chants swelled, a gust rattling loose chains on the gurney, and the air shimmered as if it breathed with them.

  A figure traced a rune in the air, fingers trembling; the mark flared, faint gold, then faded. “Kismet wills it,” another hissed, barely audible, and the hum pulsed louder, threading the stone, the walls, her bones. Ophelia’s chest tightened—each breath a fight, each exhale a plea she couldn’t voice.

  They wheeled her closer, the gurney’s clatter swallowed by the chant’s rise—high, piercing, a wind she couldn’t see. The room stretched: walls of black stone, etched with runes that glowed faintly violet; a ceiling lost to shadow, dripping with damp that smelled of earth and decay.

  Her hands clenched, nails digging into palms, drawing blood she couldn’t feel. The figures parted, revealing a slab of instruments—blades, tubes, a basin crusted with something dark. One lifted a scalpel, its edge catching the light, and her stomach heaved. Not deeper… not again… The hum shifted—sharp now, a needle in her ears—and the table waited, cold, inevitable, its straps swaying like jaws ready to snap shut.

  Fear wasn’t instinct to Ophelia—it was her oldest scar, flaring as they strapped her down. The cultists’ hands moved like machines—quick, cold—snapping steel over wrists, ankles, pinning her to the table’s chill.

  Leather bit her forehead, creaking as they cinched it tight. She bucked, hard, spine bowing, shackles gouging flesh—blood welled, hot and slick, dripping to the steel with a faint hiss. No more… the burning, that fucking voice—it’s not me! Her wrists twisted, skin tearing, the metal sparking where it scraped—sharp, blue, a whine in the air like Kismet’s breath catching. Her chest heaved, ribs aching, each pulse a bellows stoking a fire she couldn’t kill.

  She’d felt it before—months, years ago, strapped to a slab like this, smaller, filthier. They’d plunged a rod into her chest then, glowing white-hot, and the voice had come—Give in, child—as her veins lit up, burning from the inside, her screams drowned by their chants.

  The room stilled—just a heartbeat—the chants dipping, the hum softening to a murmur. A woman stepped closer, her shadow cutting the light, glove dripping red. “She’s fighting it,” she snapped, voice low, edged with strain.

  “It’s too much,” the doctor rasped, wiping sweat from his brow. “The core’s not ready—Kismet hasn’t—”

  “Silence,” she cut him off, eyes flicking to the runes glowing faintly red. “Fate bends for no one. Push her.” The hum flared, sharp, as if it heard—a gust rattling the shackles, cold against her skin.

  She’d clawed the table, nails splintering, blood streaking the stone, until the dark took her. Now it roared back, molten roots clawing up her spine, threading her arms, her legs, pulsing with the hum she’d heard rolling in.

  Her muscles locked, trembling, sweat stinging her eyes, mixing with the blood on her face. The leather groaned louder, a scream of its own, threatening to snap—but it held, cruel and unyielding.

  Her breath came in ragged gasps.ragged. Each one a fight against the weight crushing her lungs. Why me…? Not again… The fire spread—her fingers twitched, numb then blazing, as if the tendrils were already there, waiting.

  She jerked her head, leather cutting deeper, a trickle of warmth down her temple—blood or tears, she couldn’t tell. The chants outside her skull sharpened, their rhythm syncing with her pulse, tugging it faster, harder—Kismet’s strings, she’d learn too late, playing her like a broken harp. Fuck you… I won’t… She spat, weak, the taste of copper flooding her mouth—her lip, split from clenching teeth.

  The table rattled under her, steel humming low, a vibration that sank into her bones. Her legs kicked, heels slamming the slab, bruising, useless—each thud echoed, swallowed by the room’s vast dark.

  The heat wasn’t just pain now—it moved, alive, curling around her heart, squeezing.

  Get out…

  Her vision blurred—lights above, flickering, or her eyes failing?—and the voice flickered too, a rasp at the edge of hearing: Weak… so weak… She screamed, raw, throat tearing, the sound bouncing off rune-etched walls, merging with the chants, the hum, the fire.

  She twisted, wrists grinding, blood smearing steel. The leather bit her forehead, creaking louder, a scream of its own. No more… the burning, that fucking voice…! It’s not me!

  Her screams ripped seconds into eternity—past, present, future bleeding into one endless wound. The room spun: stone walls, rune-carved, flickering with her cries; the table’s cold edge biting her spine; a child’s face—hers?—swallowed by shadow.

  “She’s slipping,” the woman barked, voice a blade slicing the haze. Her hood cast jagged shadows, eyes glinting like frost over a grave. The doctor flinched, his gaze darting to the assistant—a wiry man, trembling, clutching a violet vial, its light staining his gloves. “More strain will unravel her—!” he snapped, voice tight, hands hovering over a tray of blades, their edges dulled with rust and blood.

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  The assistant’s lips quivered, sweat beading under his hood. “The cores—they tore three apart already,” he whispered, gaze dropping to the floor. “Kael’s burned first—screamed ‘til his lungs gave. Mara’s cracked open, black smoke pouring out. Jin…” He trailed off, fingers twitching around the vial. The chants faltered—a low note hung, dissonant, as the hum beneath the stone pulsed sharper, rattling loose screws on the tray.

  Ophelia’s scream faded to a whimper, her chest heaving, blood pooling under her wrists—each drip a faint echo in the vast dark.

  The woman straightened, her shadow swallowing the light, glove glistening wet.

  The doctor’s eyes widened, darting to the runes now glowing red. “The core’s untested—Kismet’s will isn’t clear!”

  “It’s clear enough,” she shot back, stepping closer, her breath misting in the chill. “Fate chose her. We break her, or we burn.”

  The assistant clutched the vial tighter, its glow flaring. “And if it takes us too?”

  Her hand twitched, tracing a rune on the table’s edge—blood flared briefly, a hiss of smoke curling up—then lashed out, glove cracking the doctor’s cheek. “Then Kismet claims us all.” The hum surged—a gust, sharp, bending the air—and the runes flared brighter, casting their faces in crimson. “The core will hold. It has to.”

  The assistant stumbled back, vial trembling, violet light spilling over his boots as he fumbled for a syringe. The doctor rubbed his face, red blooming under stubble, and grabbed a blade—its handle wrapped in leather, stained black.

  The blade bit—cold, then hot—scraping ribs, and Ophelia’s scream shattered into a sob. Why me…? Blood welled, thick, pooling in her chest’s hollow; her vision blurred, lights overhead smearing into streaks.

  The woman’s hands shook, sweat beading under her hood, then steadied—slicing wider, a wet rasp of steel on bone. Pain flared—white, blinding—her spine arched, shackles gouging deeper, blood streaking the table in thin rivers.

  A glow flickered beneath her skin—dim, red, an ember stirring in the dark. Her breath hitched, shallow, each gasp clawing past the fire in her throat—No… not yours…—but her voice died, a whisper lost to the hum swelling under the stone.

  The air thickened, heavy, pressing down—a weight that wasn’t sound but force, bending light, warping shadows on the rune-etched walls. The glow slowly pulsed, deliberate—like a heart waking after centuries.

  The woman grunted, “Wider,” her voice a raw thread swallowed by the drone. Her blade tore deeper, splitting flesh, scraping marrow. The hum sharpened—low, then high, a whine threading the room, rattling blades on the tray, cracking a vial’s edge.

  Runes flared—crimson veins crawling up the stone—casting jagged light over the cultists’ robes, their hoods trembling as if caught in wind. Ophelia’s fingers twitched, numb, then burned—tendrils already there, unseen, clawing beneath her skin.

  The orb erupted—crimson beyond blood—its light clawing upward, a flare that stung the eyes, painting the ceiling in shifting red. Her chest split wider, ribs creaking, and the glow spilled out—liquid fire, alive, pulsing with her fading heart.

  Tendrils slithered from it—black as pitch, violet-edged—slow at first, threading her arms like veins, curling around her spine, her legs, each one a cold burn sinking deep. The air crackled—ozone, sharp—runes pulsing faster, their light syncing with the hum now shaking the walls, the table, her bones. Get out… I won’t… Her thoughts frayed, defiance a flicker drowned by heat—molten, relentless—curling tighter around her heart, squeezing until her pulse stuttered.

  Her vision swam. Cultists blurred into shadows, their robes rippling as if underwater; the woman’s hands, red-slick, froze mid-cut, glinting in the orb’s glare.

  The hum deepened—a growl under the stone, threading the tendrils, tugging them tighter. You’re weak, something rasped—too deep to hear, a vibration in her skull, echoing the chants she’d heard rolling in, the wind that bent the air.

  Her scream tried to rise—raw, broken—but it choked, trapped in her chest as the tendrils pulsed, alien, stealing her rhythm. The light shifted—crimson to violet, back again—runes bleeding brighter, walls groaning as if they’d crack.

  A prisoner in her own body.

  Her body betrayed her—tremors racking her limbs, sweat mixing with blood, dripping to the steel with faint hisses. The orb’s glow pulsed faster—each beat a hammer on her ribs—and the tendrils spread, thin threads branching, threading muscle, bone, sinking into her marrow. Not me… not… Her mind slipped—lights above flickered, or her eyes failed—darkness creeping at the edges, swallowing the room’s edges.

  The hum surged—high, piercing—merging with the tendrils’ pulse, the runes’ flare, a song Kismet wove through her breaking frame. She clawed at nothing—fingers curling, weak—lost to the tide of heat, light, and that rasp whispering her end.

  I’m tired.

  The doctor lurched back, tray clattering, scalpels skittering across stone, their edges glinting red in the orb’s glow. “If we fail,” he gasped, voice breaking as he stumbled against the wall, hands clutching his blood-streaked face.

  Glass splintered, the assistant’s vial bursting in his grip, violet shards biting his palms, a sharp cry escaping as he dropped to his knees.

  The woman’s reflection warped in the orb’s crimson iris, her hood slipping, revealing gaunt cheeks slick with sweat, eyes wide with something beyond fear, fanatic and fraying.

  “We won’t,” she snapped, voice raw, stepping over the assistant’s crumpled form. “We can’t, Merciful Kismet, guide us.” Her plea rasped out, a prayer to the hum now shaking the room, tools dancing on the table, vials rolling, cracking against stone.

  The air crackled, thick with ozone, a gust bending light, tugging robes, rippling the blood pooled under Ophelia. Runes pulsed faster, their crimson light bleeding up the walls, stone groaning under the strain, fine cracks spidering out.

  The assistant whimpered, clutching his hands, violet liquid mixing with red, staining the floor, his hood fallen back to show wild, terrified eyes.

  Ophelia’s pulse faltered, tendrils tightening, each thread a cold burn sinking deeper, stealing her rhythm. Her chest shuddered, breaths shallow, ragged, barely there, her heart skipping, tripping over itself. Not… me… Her thoughts fragmented, slipping like sand, defiance a faint ember snuffed by the growing heat, the hum, the light.

  The woman’s hands clawed the air as if she could pull fate itself into line.

  The hum deepened, a growl rolling through the stone, shaking the table, her bones, syncing with the tendrils’ pulse. The orb flared brighter, crimson shifting violet, its light clawing the ceiling, casting jagged shapes that writhed like living things.

  Her fingers curled, weak, nails scraping steel, leaving faint marks, her last fight bleeding out. The woman staggered, catching herself on the table, her glove slipping in Ophelia’s blood, smearing it across the edge. She muttered, fast, “Hold, hold,” voice cracking, eyes locked on the orb as if it could answer, as if Kismet stared back.

  The song surged, high and piercing, threading fire, wind, stone into one force. Glass shattered, vials exploding, shards flying, one slicing the doctor’s arm, red blooming fast. He yelled, clutching it, dropping to the floor beside the assistant, their panic a tangle of limbs and cries.

  The woman stood alone, robes whipping in the unseen gust, her prayer lost to the roar. The tendrils pulsed, fast, hard, her heart lurching once, twice, then stilling. The song surged—high, piercing, hers and not hers—as she fell into it.