Mark barely had time to react before Ashburn stepped through the door and vanished into the blackness beyond. The doorway was not just dark, it was absence, an abyss that devoured light itself. He hesitated, the lingering echoes of the Courtyard of Judgment still clawing at his mind. The weight of what had transpired settled heavily on his chest, the brand beneath his skin still burning with a quiet, unnatural heat.

  The courtyard. The trees. The figures watching in the distance. The seething, pulsing essence that had slithered up his arms like a sentient parasite. The mark of Ereshka now permanently carved into his being.

  His fingers traced the rough texture of the brand over his sternum. Questions stormed in his mind, chaotic and unformed. He needed answers—about the essence, about the Quietus Pactum, about the strange forces that had bound themselves to his soul. But before he could voice them, Ashburn had already stepped forward into nothingness.

  And then, silence.

  Mark exhaled sharply. "Fucking cryptic bastard."

  No choice now. He clenched his fists and stepped through.

  Cold.

  Not the biting kind, not the shivering, flesh-tightening chill of winter. This was deeper, more profound. The kind of cold that seeps into bone and lingers in the soul. It passed through him like a tide, dragging at something unseen within. A brief eternity stretched between steps before the world returned, reshaping itself around him.

  A room gothic, dark, and breathtaking.

  Mark found himself in a space that felt suspended between eras, both modern and medieval, familiar yet deeply wrong. The walls, carved from smooth black stone, shimmered faintly under the flickering glow of a chandelier overhead. Each surface was etched with sprawling intricate carvings, scenes of a bygone era frozen in relief. To his left, a forest of skeletal trees stretched across the stone, their gnarled limbs weighed down with bloated, putrid apples that seemed to weep something thick and dark. Beyond them, a looming castle jutted from a craggy overlook, the moon above it vast and unnatural. Deeper and barely visible peeking out between the trunks, the suggestion of figures in masks. Watching quietly.

  Mark’s gaze shifted right. Gothic figures in finery stood frozen in the stone, statuesque yet potent in their stillness. The same masks, hidden in the background, blending so well they almost weren’t there. But he could feel them. Watching.

  At the center of the room, a massive four-poster bed, carved from dark wood, dominated the space. Its canopy twisted in elaborate gothic filigree, draped with red sheets and a thick fur blanket. A long dresser stretched along the right wall, its polished surface reflecting the dim light. Two nightstands flanked the bed, and to the left, a plush chair with a side table waited. Upon the table, two bottles of his favorite beer sat, untouched. And leaning against the chair-

  Mark’s breath caught.

  A six-string acoustic guitar. Black and perfectly maintained.

  The far wall held open gothic archways, leading to a balcony beyond. Curtains of deep red and violet swayed in a nonexistent breeze, their fabric patterned with intricate, haunted beauty. The chandelier above cast long, shifting shadows, its light playing against the carvings on the ceiling; faces, half-hidden in the clouds, staring down at him. White masks, painted lips, and hollow eyes.

  Mark forced himself to move, the weight of the room pressing against his ribs. His boots met the cool stone floor with soundless steps. The air was thick with something unnamable, something just beyond the edge of perception.

  He approached the chair, his fingers brushing over the guitar’s neck. It was real. Tangible. A relic from a different time, a different life. A life that had ended.

  A sharp inhale. The scent of wood and old strings.

  He set the guitar back down gently, his focus shifting to the archways beyond. The balcony called to him, the air outside heavy with something unseen. He stepped forward, past the curtains, into the open air.

  A city sprawled below, vast and endless, its architecture a tangled fusion of gothic spires and modern steel. Towers stretched toward the heavens, their shapes distorting in impossible ways, shifting when not directly observed. The sky above was neither day nor night, but something in between, a bruised twilight where stars burned in shifting constellations. Below, in the streets he can see movement, shadows blending together.

  Mark exhaled slowly, gripping the balcony’s railing. He could feel it. The weight of something vast pressing against the edges of reality. A tide of knowing. A world suspended on the precipice of something unspoken.

  His grip tightened. "Ashburn. Where the hell did you take me?"

  No answer. Only the city, breathing below, and the weight of a thousand unseen eyes.

  Mark turned away from the balcony, his head spinning slightly. It had been a long, relentless journey. The exhaustion settled into his bones, a reminder that even in death—or whatever liminal state he now occupied, fatigue still found him. Then there was the hunger. A deep, gnawing sensation curled in his stomach, demanding attention. He frowned. If he was dead, why did he still feel hunger?

  Liminal. The word surfaced in his mind. In-between. Not quite dead, not quite alive.

  "You should take a shower, sir. You do smell... something trite."

  Mark flinched, turning sharply to find Ashburn standing behind him, expression unreadable but with the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. "Damn it, Ashburn, could you stop sneaking up on me?"

  Ashburn’s smirk deepened. "That would be a direct violation of my occupational duties. It is my job to buttle."

  Mark narrowed his eyes. "Did you just make a joke?"

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  "If you find it amusing, sir, then perhaps." Ashburn gestured toward the door. "You are in your new residence within the Goddess’ Embrace. You will remain here until you complete your next set of trials."

  Mark sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Great. More trials. Just what I wanted."

  "Indeed, sir. Now, shall I once again recommend a shower?" Ashburn motioned toward the bathroom.

  Mark grumbled but made his way inside. The bathroom was gothic yet modern, lined with black tile and stone. The frosted glass of the shower depicted skeletal trees and sigils of justice held aloft by bony hands. He turned on the water, letting the steam fill the space before stepping in.

  To his surprise, the shelves held familiar bottles, shampoo and conditioner his ex-had always bought, the same floral-scented body wash she had insisted he use. He sighed, muttering to himself as he worked the lather into his hair. "I was always a bar soap guy."

  Mark sighed again, letting the water rinse away the soap and the weight of his thoughts.

  When he finally stepped out, drying himself with a thick towel, a scent drifted through the air. Food. Real food.

  He wrapped the towel around his waist and followed the scent back to the balcony. Where before there had been only the vast, looming cityscape, now a single-person dining setup awaited him. A gothic-style lord’s chair sat before a table adorned with a meal that looked almost too good to be real.

  Grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, and a crisp salad drizzled with ranch dressing. A second plate behind the chicken held warm rye dinner rolls, the butter set neatly beside them. Silverware was arranged meticulously—a dinner fork, a salad fork, two spoons, a bread knife, and a table knife. And next to it all, a frosty beer mug, beads of condensation trailing down its surface.

  Mark exhaled. "Well, damn. You really are good at buttling."

  He pulled out the chair, sat down, and dug in. The first bite was divine. Perfectly seasoned, tender, and filling in a way that food hadn't been in a long time. He ate in silence, letting the night air and the strange skyline serve as his only company. It wasn’t until he was finished, leaning back with a satisfied sigh, that he realized how much the exhaustion had crept up on him.

  Pushing away from the table, he made his way back into the bedroom. The heavy comfort of the bed called to him, and for once, he didn’t resist.

  Tomorrow, there would be questions. More trials. More cryptic bullshit.

  But for now, for this one moment, he let himself sleep.

  The bed is unbelievably comfortable. The exhaustion weighs heavy on Mark, pressing him into the mattress like an anchor dragging him into deep waters. Sleep comes swiftly, pulling him under before he has the chance to resist.

  And then the nightmares began.

  Shadows twist around him, laughter echoing from faceless figures. Cold steel plunges into his flesh, again and again, each stab punctuated by cruel, mocking mirth. He gasps, choking on the phantom pain, his body refusing to move as the faceless ones surround him. Then, something massive and inhuman looms from the darkness, its clawed fingers wrapping around his limbs. It drags him toward a river, an endless black expanse that ripples like a living void.

  Then, just as quickly as the nightmare came, it faded.

  A calm serenity washes over him, gentle and soothing. A soft hum, distant and comforting, resonates through his chest. It might be a lullaby, or perhaps the river itself is singing. He no longer fights the current. Instead, he drifts, lying in a small boat as it carries him effortlessly downstream. Overhead, constellations stretch infinitely across the sky, more vast and vibrant than he has ever seen. The peace is overwhelming, like an old warmth he has long since forgotten.

  A scent fills his senses, lavender, delicate yet unmistakable. In his dream, he lies in someone’s lap, a comforting presence cradling his head. Gentle fingers caress his hair, a touch filled with love, understanding, and something deeper he can’t name. The dream holds him in its embrace, refusing to let go until his consciousness stirs.

  Mark wakes slowly, the remnants of peace still clinging to him like mist before dawn. The scent of lavender lingered in his nostrils, but it was fading, slipping beyond his grasp like the dream itself.

  He sits up, rubbing his face before noticing his clothes, neatly folded at the foot of the bed. They had been completely mended; every tear, every bloodstain gone as if they had never existed. The fabric felt as new as the day he had first worn it.

  Then, his stomach grumbles, and another scent pulls his attention.

  Stepping onto the balcony, he finds a fresh meal waiting for him. This breakfast is far heartier than the last—a plate stacked with fried eggs, sausage patties, pan-fried potatoes, toast, and a small stack of pancakes. A carafe of warm syrup sits beside them, the scent instantly reminding him of his grandmother’s kitchen. Next to it is another carafe, this one filled with steaming hot coffee, accompanied by a cup, a small cream pitcher, and several sugar cubes resting on a plate.

  He sits down, taking in the surroundings. The city is gone. In its place, the distant horizon stretches into an endless wasteland, its cracked earth barren and lifeless. A great ziggurat looms in the distance, its once-imposing form now crumbling, its walls eroded by time and neglect.

  Mark frowns but doesn’t let it deter him from eating. Whatever was coming next, he needed strength.

  Just as he finishes his last bite, Ashburn appears, moving as silently as ever. In his gloved hands, he held a large glass jar. Inside, a silver flame flickered, swirling with an otherworldly shimmer.

  "This, sir," Ashburn said, holding the jar up slightly, "is the essence of Vatre. It will grant you the power of Spiritual Flame. You must learn this invocation to complete certain trials ahead."

  Mark eyes the flame warily. "And let me guess, I have to touch it?"

  "Indeed. You must place your hand inside and accept the essence for what it is." Ashburn’s expression remained composed, but there was a glint of something in his eye. "Like the Termina essence, this one must choose you. And it will, if you are courageous."

  Mark exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders as he stands. "And if it doesn’t?"

  "Then the flame will reject you, and you will fail. But I do not believe that will happen." Ashburn tilted his head slightly. "There is one distinction to note, however. Your previous essence, Termina, was a Prime Aspect because it was the first to claim you. This one, however, will be a Basic Aspect."

  Mark raises an eyebrow. "And that means what, exactly?"

  "A conversation for another time, sir. For now, steel yourself. The flame is waiting."

  Ashburn sets the jar on the table. To Mark’s amusement, he hadn’t even noticed the table being cleared—he had only turned around in the chair for a moment, and now everything is gone except for a single coffee cup, refilled and steaming.

  Mark stares at the flame, contemplating whether or not Ashburn is completely insane. The silver fire flickers in its glass prison, shifting like it knows it’s being watched. After several minutes of essentially eye-fucking the flame, he realizes it’s staring right back. The dance of fire hypnotizes him, daring him to make a move, to prove himself.

  Finally, with a deep breath, he takes the lid off and thrusts his right hand inside.

  The pain is instant.

  Heat, unbearable, searing, and absolute. The flames devour his fingers, and he watches as his skin blackens, curling and crisping under the assault. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t pull away. His teeth grind together, every instinct screaming at him to retreat, but he refuses. Sheer will locks his arm in place.

  Seconds stretch into eternity. His fingers feel like they are turning to ash, the agony twisting up his arm. Then, the flame moves.

  It surges, wrapping around his entire hand in a final, violent embrace. The pain sharpens to an unbearable peak and then implodes. The heat vanishes, along with every trace of damage it inflicted. His flesh is whole once more, unmarred as if the torment had never happened.

  Except something is different.

  On the back of his hand, a symbol emerges, burning into existence. A flaming skull, two inches by one and a half, flickers with spectral fire in hues of silver and red, its ethereal flames writhing like living things just above his skin. It is not a brand, nor an illusion. It is part of him now, a new power waiting to be unleashed.