Mark grits his teeth, digging his fingers into the rock, pulling himself up. The stone is slick with blood, his blood but his muscles scream for him to climb anyway.

  Behind him, the beast snarls and lunges. Mark twists at the last second, pressing himself flat against the stone as the creature’s momentum sends it slamming full force into the outcropping. There’s a sickening crunch as bone meets unyielding rock. The creature stumbles backward, dazed.

  Mark sees his opening. With every last ounce of strength, he grabs a broken, jagged stalagmite and rams it directly into the beast’s chest. The impact knocks it backward, impaling it against the pit wall. It thrashes, roaring, its massive arms clawing at the spike buried in its torso.

  Mark doesn’t wait to see if it frees itself. Each handhold is agony. His fingers are slick with blood, his shoulder burns, his muscles scream but he climbs. Beneath him, the beast roars again, and Mark risks one glance down.

  The thing is still alive. It watches him, its glowing eyes flickering with hatred, its tongue dragging across one of the bloodied rocks, tasting Mark’s blood. Mark’s stomach tightens, and he pushes himself harder. Above him, floating effortlessly, is Donovan.

  "Now, as I was saying before you rudely ignored me," Donovan drawls, "this is the Astral Wasteland, where the unclaimed and forsaken are tested. Survival here is "

  "Shut up," Mark grits out, hauling himself higher.

  "Ah, the silent type. They’re always great at listening or at least shutting up while I talk." Donovan floats lazily beside him, grinning ear to ear. "You do know that thing’s still watching you, right?"

  Mark doesn’t look down. He knows. He feels it.

  "I gotta say, you really know how to make an entrance," Donovan continues. "And here I thought you’d be paste by now. But, no, you had to go and stab the big guy. Not a great long-term survival strategy."

  Mark’s hands slip for a second, his fingers grasping desperately for purchase.

  Donovan tilts his head. "Need a hand?"

  Mark glares. "You gonna help?"

  "Absolutely not. But I like to offer."

  Mark grits his teeth and pulls himself over the edge, collapsing onto solid ground, his chest heaving. Below, the pit still howls, the chaos continuing. The creature stands at the base, still staring up. Mark watches as it huffs once, then turns away, lumbering back into the fray, likely seeking easier prey.

  Mark grips his side, still bleeding, and turns to Donovan.

  Donovan throws up his hands. "See? This is exactly what I was going to warn you about! But no, you had to do it the hard way, didn’t you?"

  Mark doesn’t reply. He rises unsteadily to his feet. He takes a step forward...

  Mark doesn’t look down. He knows. He feels it.

  "I gotta say, you really know how to make an entrance," Donovan continues. "And here I thought you’d be paste by now. But, no, you had to go and stab the big guy. Not a great long-term survival strategy."

  Mark’s hands slip for a second, his fingers grasping desperately for purchase.

  Donovan tilts his head. "Need a hand?"

  Mark glares. "You gonna help?"

  "Absolutely not. But I find that its polite to offer."

  Mark grits his teeth and pulls himself over the edge, collapsing onto solid ground, his chest heaving. Below, the pit still howls, the chaos continuing. The creature stands at the base, still staring up. Mark watches as it huffs once, then turns away, lumbering back into the fray, likely seeking easier prey.

  Mark grips his side, still bleeding, and turns to Donovan.

  Donovan throws up his hands. "See? This is exactly what I was going to warn you about! But no, you had to do it the hard way, didn’t you?"

  Mark doesn’t reply. He rises unsteadily to his feet. He takes a step forward and immediately slips, tumbling down a long decline.

  Mark’s body isn’t moving right. His arms tremble, his legs burn, and his ribs feel like shattered glass shifting with every breath. But he keeps going, crawling, dragging himself up the incline, one jagged rock at a time. Behind him, the pit howls a cacophony of death and hunger, bodies still ripping into each other, parasites still burrowing and above it all, that thing is still watching him.

  Mark forces himself up onto his knees, coughing up thick, bloody mucus. His fingers claw at the dirt, scraping against jagged stone as he hauls himself another foot up. The incline isn’t natural it’s a wound in the earth, uneven, sharp, with places that feel deliberately slick, as if the world itself wants to pull him back down.

  Above him, Donovan hovers effortlessly, arms folded, his translucent form practically glowing with smug satisfaction.

  "I thought about telling you about the drop," Donovan muses, his voice carrying over the wind, "but then I thought, wouldn’t it be funnier to watch you tumble down like a ragdoll instead?"

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  Mark doesn’t answer. He can’t. He digs his fingers into a deep crack in the rock, using it to hoist himself higher, pain screaming through his body with every movement.

  "See? This is why I love mortals," Donovan continues, watching Mark struggle. "You could just lay down and die like a reasonable person, but nooo, you have to be stubborn about it. Honestly, it’s exhausting just watching you."

  Mark grits his teeth. The bastard isn’t even breaking a sweat.

  "Shut up," he rasps.

  Donovan gasps, clutching his chest theatrically. "Rude! Here I am, offering my moral support well, immoral support and this is the thanks I get? No wonder you got thrown into the pit."

  Mark keeps climbing.

  The incline grows sharper, his bloody fingers slipping against the smooth stone, forcing him to lean into the rock, pressing his chest against the surface to keep from sliding backward. Then, he makes the mistake of looking up.

  The crater is massive. A realization slams into his brain like a freight train this was a volcano once. Or a crater left from something big enough to shake existence itself. And at the very top, standing at the rim of the pit, the four-armed creature has made it up.

  Mark freezes. It shouldn’t have been able to climb. It should still be down there, drowning in the slaughter below. But it isn’t. It stands at the edge, its massive form silhouetted against the dim, violet-tinged sky, those ember eyes locked onto Mark like a hunter marking a wounded animal.

  Mark barely has a second to breathe before the ground beneath him gives way. The rock shifts suddenly, crumbling under his weight, and in a horrifying instant, he realizes he’s falling. Again.

  "Ah, shit !" The curse barely escapes his lips before gravity yanks him backward, his stomach lurching as he topples over the edge. The other side of the crater is just as steep, but instead of jagged rocks to grab onto, it's a near-vertical slide of unstable debris a treacherous slope of shifting stone, splintered bone, and loose ash.

  Instinct kicks in. Mark twists midair, his hands scrambling for anything solid. His fingers catch a ledge then it crumbles. A sharp boulder slams into his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs in a violent gasp. Pain explodes through his side, white-hot and unrelenting, as he tumbles down, his body bouncing off the jagged incline like a discarded puppet. His skin tears in places, raw scrapes burning against the rough terrain. A sharp edge grazes his temple, sending a fresh wave of blood into his vision.

  Then impact.

  His body crashes into something solid, a rocky outcrop jutting from the slope. His back arches painfully as the force drives the breath from his lungs, leaving him momentarily paralyzed. The world spins, his limbs trembling violently, every fiber of his being screaming in protest. For a long, agonizing moment, he just lays there, chest heaving, vision swimming in a haze of pain.

  Somewhere above, Donovan’s voice drifts lazily down.

  "Oh. Oh no. You fell again," he says, voice dripping with mock horror. "And here I was thinking you’d mastered the complex skill of standing upright."

  Mark grits his teeth, forcing air back into his lungs. "Go to hell."

  "Been there," Donovan replies smoothly, floating closer with zero urgency. "Decent scenery, too many rules. But thanks for the invitation, love."

  Mark forces himself onto his side, his vision blurring with exhaustion. He looks up and realizes something new. From down here, he sees the full scope of where he is. This isn’t just a crater. It’s a wound in the world, something long since broken and abandoned. The pit he barely escaped is only one part. The slope he’s now fallen onto stretches endlessly, leading further downward into something worse.

  It’s a burial ground.

  Mark sees them. Bodies. Not fresh, not moving, but long-dead figures frozen in place some half-buried in the shifting rock, others sprawled lifeless, their skeletal hands still reaching for something they never found.

  And then at the very top of the crater’s rim it’s back.

  The four-armed creature stands there, silhouetted against the dim, twilight-hued sky. Watching. Waiting. It made it to the top again.

  Mark’s breath shudders, his fingers curling into the dust beneath him. The creature doesn’t move immediately. It just… stares. Then, with a huff, it turns away, disappearing back into the pit. Mark isn’t stupid enough to think it’s over. The train is his only way out.

  "Right," Donovan says, interrupting Mark’s thoughts. "As entertaining as your downhill gymnastics routine has been, we do have a schedule to keep."

  Mark groans, forcing himself to his hands and knees. His entire body protests the movement, muscles locking up in rebellion. Every breath burns. His ribs ache with every inhale, and his arms feel too weak to push himself upright.

  Donovan leans forward, inspecting him like a particularly tragic roadside accident. "Hoo boy. You look rough."

  "Go… to hell," Mark rasps again.

  "Still not taking trips, but you really need to expand your insults," Donovan replies, unimpressed. "Anyway, let’s get moving. Chop chop, killer."

  Mark forces himself up, legs shaking. Then he hears it.

  A whistle. Low. Mournful. Wrong.

  Mark’s breath catches, his spine going rigid. The sound is not human. It’s metallic, but alive like the shriek of something that has suffered too long and refuses to die. He turns slowly. And sees it.

  The platform looms ahead, barely visible through the swirling dust. It looks ancient, decayed a warped thing of splintered wood and shifting angles, as if it was built in a place that never fully settled into reality. The train tracks beside it glow faintly, stretching off into an abyss of nothingness. A sign sways gently, though there is no wind. The runes above it twist as if they know he’s looking.

  And then it’s there.

  The train emerges from the void, its form impossibly large, yet eerily insubstantial. The cars flicker, the figures inside waving in and out of existence like dying flames. Mark stumbles forward, his body crying out for rest, but he doesn’t stop moving. Because he knows if he doesn’t get on that train, he will never leave this place.

  Donovan, to his eternal credit, floats beside him, completely relaxed. "Ah, I do love this part. The desperation. The overwhelming sense of inevitable doom. It’s all so… poetic."

  Mark ignores him, gritting his teeth as he climbs the first step onto the platform.

  Then Donovan sighs. "Ah, right. The toll."

  Mark pauses, eyes narrowing. "Toll?"

  Donovan grins, flipping a coin between his fingers. "Memories, Mark. That’s the price of admission."

  Mark glances at the skeletal conductor, whose hollow gaze is already fixed on him. Mark clenches his jaw. "And what if I don’t have any?"

  "Oh, you do," Donovan says sweetly. "Let’s take a little peek, shall we?"

  Before Mark can protest, Donovan plunges a hand into his chest. Mark gasps, his vision darkening. A lullaby. His mother’s voice. Lavender. Warmth.

  Then it’s gone.

  Mark stumbles, clutching his chest. It feels… emptier.

  Donovan flicks the newly formed coin to the conductor, who catches it without a word. "Don’t worry," Donovan says, his tone mockingly reassuring. "It’s just a tiny, tiny piece of your soul. Nothing you’ll miss… much."

  Mark forces himself forward, stepping into the train just as the doors hiss shut. No turning back now.