Mark stumbles forward, his boots catching on the uneven, pulsing ground. The shift between worlds is immediate and violent, like being yanked through a knot in space and spit out onto something even worse. He barely gets a breath in before the pressure slams down on his chest, heavy and relentless, like an iron grip squeezing the air from his lungs.

  The place is wrong. The entire world around him twists and seethes, its textures in flux, never quite settling into something real. Jagged, skeletal trees loom in the distance, their bark slick and black, oozing with something that smells like rot and ozone. The sky above is vast and alien, a cosmic sprawl of shifting constellations, each light flickering like the dying embers of long-forgotten stars. But the darkness between them isn’t just empty space. It moves. It watches.

  Mark clenches his teeth, a fresh spike of pain tearing through his chest. His hand instinctively moves to the mark burned into his skin, the four concentric rings still searing hot, pulsing like a brand hammered straight into his soul. He growls under his breath. “Fucking fantastic. I always wanted a permanent reminder of the worst moment of my life.”

  The void above whispers. The words slither against his mind, scraping like shattered glass. He forces himself to look away.

  Then the ground writhes beneath him.

  Mark jerks his foot back just as a mass of black tendrils slithers toward him, curling like grasping fingers. The entire surface pulses like it’s alive, shifting and retracting in slow, deliberate movements. Ghostly flowers bloom in erratic patches, their translucent petals casting eerie, fractured light. Between them, the black tendrils ripple, reacting to his presence.

  Mark exhales sharply. “Nope. Don’t like that.”

  A deep hum vibrates through the air, so low it rattles his bones. It doesn’t come from above, or below it’s everywhere, a constant pressure burrowing into his skull. His instincts scream at him to move, to run, but there’s nowhere to go. Just the endless, shifting wasteland stretching in every direction.

  And the figures standing at its edges.

  They flicker in and out of focus, too quick to track, but unmistakably there. Watching.

  “Welcome, Neophyte.”

  The voice slices through the oppressive silence like a knife through flesh. Mark spins, hand reaching for a weapon he doesn’t have, only to come face to face with something even worse.

  A man, no, something that looks like a man, stands just a few feet away, untouched by the roiling landscape. His form is stark against the eerie glow of the ghostly flowers, his features sharp and hollow, as if someone had stretched skin over a skull and called it a face. His eyes are pale, almost glassy, reflecting the strange lights around them, and his attire is disturbingly pristine. A dark, formal jacket with coattails that sway despite the absence of wind. His skeletal fingers rest neatly in front of him, each movement deliberate, rehearsed.

  Behind him, the shadows stretch unnaturally, elongating and deepening. They are there. Lined up in the void beyond, their presence nearly imperceptible but undeniably real. Thirteen figures, each barely out of focus, standing in the depths of the gloom. Not watching but waiting. Silent sentinels in the shadows of death.

  Mark’s stomach tightens at the sight, his breath coming out sharper. He doesn't acknowledge them directly, but the weight of their existence coils around him like a vice.

  Mark glares at Ashburn. “You’re either a bad dream or another pain in my ass. Either way, I’m already sick of you.”

  The thing doesn’t react. “I am Ashburn. Your handler. Your guide. It is my duty to ensure you walk the path Ereshka has laid before you.” His voice is calm, precise. “I trust the transition was... illuminating?”

  Mark snorts. “Oh, yeah. I love being thrown into nightmare dimensions with no warning. Five stars. Would get branded and traumatized again.”

  Ashburn tilts his head slightly, expression unreadable. “Sarcasm is a poor shield against inevitability.”

  Mark rolls his shoulders, wincing at the lingering burn under his skin. “So is standing still and letting weird skeleton butlers lecture me to death. Where the hell am I?”

  “The Garden of Souls.” Ashburn gestures around them with an elegant motion. “Each tree, each flower, each root represents a Quietus Pactum of the past. Those who served, those who failed, those who found purpose.”

  Mark’s gaze sweeps over the grotesque landscape again, the twisted flora and writhing ink-like substance crawling over everything. “Yeah, real inspiring. Love what she’s done with the place.”

  Ashburn steps closer to a nearby tree, his skeletal fingers gliding over the inky substance slithering along its bark. “This is Termina essence. The manifestation of death’s inevitability. A gift from the goddess herself.”

  Mark eyes the writhing ink warily. “A gift, huh? Thought gifts were supposed to be wanted.”

  Ashburn’s glassy eyes flicker with something almost amused. “Touch it.”

  Mark’s brow furrows. “Yeah, that’s a hard pass.”

  “The essence does not take kindly to hesitation.” Ashburn’s voice remains eerily calm. “It will know your intent before you do.”

  Mark exhales sharply, his patience fraying. “And I don’t take kindly to cryptic bullshit.” He crosses his arms, refusing to move. “If it wants me so bad, it can come to me.”

  Ashburn’s glassy eyes flicker with something unreadable. “It already has.”

  Mark glances down. The black tendrils are shifting, stretching toward him by mere inches, hesitant, as if testing his resolve. He clenches his fists, his muscles taut. He doesn’t flinch.

  The essence trembles, coiling back slightly, uncertain. Mark smirks. “See? It knows better.”

  Ashburn tilts his head. “Do you?”

  The words settle over him like a weight, but Mark holds his ground. A long silence stretches between them, tension thick as a noose.

  Then the tendrils move.

  Not aggressively, not forcefully but hesitantly. Like something testing its boundaries, seeking approval it doesn’t understand how to ask for. The inky strands slither closer, creeping up his boots, curling around his ankles with a tentative touch, like a stray dog sniffing a hand it isn’t sure will pet or strike.

  Mark stiffens, his breath coming sharp. "No. Absolutely not."

  The essence pulses against him, not in defiance but in need. It climbs, pressing lightly against his calf, a cold caress that lacks the malice he expected. It wants something from him, something it cannot communicate except through instinct. It is like a snake curling around his leg, trying to show affection but failing at the only language it knows.

  He clenches his fists. "This is not happening."

  Ashburn watches impassively. "You resist as though it is a choice. It already knows you."

  Mark scowls, trying to shake it off, but the tendrils cling, not as an attack, but as if it fears rejection. He can feel the intent, the desperate need to bind, to be accepted. The sheer weight of it makes his stomach churn. It doesn’t want to consume him. It wants to be his.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  He forces himself to breathe through his teeth. "This is the worst goddamn courting ritual I’ve ever seen."

  The tendrils pulse, climbing higher, pressing against his wrist, coiling like a lover’s fingers; uncertain, unknowing, yet wanting.

  “Do not resist,” Ashburn murmurs. “The essence does not abide cowardice.”

  Mark glares at him. "Cowardice? I’m not the one acting like a desperate ex."

  Still, it does not stop. It cannot stop. Something in Mark, something primal and unwilling knows that this won’t end until he acknowledges it.

  “Fine,” he snarls, his patience snapping. He thrusts his hand toward the writhing mass, letting it make contact.

  The essence lunges.

  It lunges.

  The moment his fingers make contact, the black essence surges up his arm, spiraling like living chains, burning as it carves into his flesh. Agony lances through his nerves, cold and searing all at once, like his very veins are being rewritten.

  Mark staggers back, breath ragged. "Fuck-"

  He clenches his fists, grounding himself in the pain, his vision sharpening with fury. His patience, already paper-thin, shreds entirely. He swings his gaze toward Ashburn, eyes burning with barely contained rage.

  "You." The word is venom. "You're the only one here I can actually yell at, so guess what? Congratulations, you're today's lucky winner. Tell me, Ashburn, did you enjoy this? Watching me get dragged through this bullshit? Watching me get forced into something I never asked for?" His voice rises, raw, sharp. "Is this what you do for fun? Does it give you some kind of twisted satisfaction seeing people get broken and reshaped like fucking dolls?"

  Ashburn does not move. He does not react. He simply stands, accepting, steady, waiting.

  Mark wants to hit him. He wants to throw every ounce of frustration, every jagged piece of anger, straight at Ashburn's calm, infuriating face. But then-

  The sound.

  A whisper, but not a whisper. A song, but not a song. It drifts from the edges of the clearing, impossibly soft, like the hush of wind through forgotten ruins. It soothes, without words, without meaning; a pure sensation, stroking across his rage, cooling the fire until it flickers weakly. Mark's breath catches, his pulse skipping in confusion.

  He feels them before he sees them.

  Thirteen shadows, faceless, distant, yet unbearably close. He cannot see them, but he knows them and he can feel that they know him.

  Affection. Pure, unshakable, drowning affection crashes into him, surrounding him, weaving through his skin like silk. It is overwhelming. It is unbearable. It silences him.

  Mark goes rigid, his anger evaporating into the nothingness between heartbeats. His breathing is uneven, chest tight with something raw and unfamiliar.

  Ashburn steps forward, entering Mark's reach. He moves without hesitation, knowing full well that Mark might lash out, might let his emotions explode into something violent.

  But Mark does nothing. He stands there, lost in a tide of emotions he cannot sort through anger, confusion, hurt, and something else. Something that feels like losing control of everything, like being caught in the undertow of a current he never saw coming.

  Stunned in place by the overwhelming chaos that he feels, Mark just stands there, not knowing what to do.

  Mark’s vision swims. For a split second, he’s somewhere else, a place of shadows and chained figures, their faces flickering between agony and devotion. The whispers grow louder, threading into his mind.

  His knees threaten to buckle, but he refuses to fall. The pain shifts, dulling slightly as the inky substance seeps into his skin, leaving behind blackened veins that pulse faintly before fading beneath his flesh. A new design begins to etch itself over his chest, seared into place just below the Mark of Ereshka. A skeletal tree, its branches twisted with withered glyphs, its roots like grasping hands, chained to the mark above it.

  A whisper curls through his mind.

  Mine.

  Mark grits his teeth, steadying himself as the last traces of searing pain fade into a dull throb beneath his skin. His breathing is uneven, but his anger is buried beneath something heavier, something deeper.

  Ashburn remains within reach, composed as ever. "You are a Liminal now," he says, his voice cutting through the haze. "Not fully alive, not fully dead. You exist on the threshold between the two. That mark upon your skin binds you to the will of Termina. It is both a mantle and a burden."

  Mark swallows hard. "Great. So, what, I’m a walking paradox. Am I in hell? If not where exactly am I?"

  "You are within the boundary of the Nexus. A space between spaces. A place where souls linger, where judgment is rendered." Ashburn gestures outward, his skeletal fingers cutting through the dim glow surrounding them. "And your mark, it is your tether. It anchors you here, to both body and soul."

  Mark looks down at the pulsing mark on his chest, irritation creeping back into his voice. "So, what? I’m on some kind of cosmic leash now?"

  "Not a leash. A connection." Ashburn’s gaze is steady. "Flux is what binds your soul to your body. It is the force that sustains existence. When it deteriorates beyond its limits, the body falters, and the soul departs. What remains is what you might call the last spark of life. This spark is known as Quintessence. It is the essence of being, the final thread before dissolving into the universe."

  "The marks you bear now are not just symbols; they have altered you, granted you abilities. Each essence that binds to you bestows its own power, shaping the way you interact with the world. The mark of Ereshka, a True Aspect, ties you to the cycle of death, rebirth, and judgment. The first essence that claimed you, your Prime Aspect, influences how all other aspects will manifest within you. These gifts come at a cost, however, for every ability you use will draw upon your Flux."

  Mark scoffs. "And let me guess, these abilities I suddenly have? They run on Flux."

  Ashburn nods. "Correct. The power granted by your essence consumes Flux. It will regenerate, slowly, as long as you live. But its restoration depends on you. Being active slows its regeneration. Physical exertion and mental exhaustion put stress on the soul, causing Flux to dwindle. However, Flux restores itself naturally throughout the day. Resting and meditating will accelerate its regeneration. If you wish to replenish it faster, you must still your mind, focus, and meditate. Balance the pull and flow."

  Mark exhales through his nose, frustration curling at the edges of his thoughts. "So, what you’re saying is, if I don’t figure out how to control all this, I’ll burn myself out."

  Ashburn inclines his head slightly. "That is one way to put it. Another would be, if you fail to master this you will cease to be attached to your body. That is a different problem entirely."

  Mark's jaw tightens, but before he can speak, Ashburn continues. "There is more you need to understand. The marks upon you are not the same. One is a Divine mark, the True Aspect of the goddess herself. It is her will, her influence, and it is permanent. A True Aspect is given only by sentient entities, those willing to sacrifice a part of themselves to bind with you. Some entities can grant multiple essences, but most bestow between one and three. Divine beings, however, may grant up to five, though doing so takes a toll on them. Some who have given too much have ceased to exist entirely."

  Mark crosses his arms, his frustration not entirely subdued. "And the other mark?"

  "The second mark is Essence itself, the essence of Termina. It is the first to accept you, and because of that, it will become your Prime Aspect. All other essences you acquire will align with it thematically. You may only have one Prime Aspect, but there is no limit to the number of Basic Aspects you can accept; so long as you have space on your skin. Each one will take form as a branding, a mark of its own. This binding is not just physical; it is etched into your very soul."

  Mark exhales sharply. "So, this isn’t just about magic tricks. This is permanent."

  Ashburn nods. "Correct. True Aspects, like the one you bear from Ereshka, are rare. They take much from the one who grants them. And there is one more rare occurrence, though exceedingly uncommon—when a living being willingly bonds their entire essence to another. This can only happen through divine intervention, binding two souls so that neither can exist without the other. In ancient times, it was called the Familiar Bond. Those bound in such a way will share their existence, their strengths, their weaknesses. If one lives, the other lives. If one perishes, so does the other. It is a commitment beyond all others, often found when one being has gained longevity or immortality, and another does not wish to be left behind."

  Mark processes the information, his emotions roiling beneath the surface. "So, you're telling me I’m carrying a piece of a goddess and the first essence that decided I was worth claiming? And that whatever else I take on will leave a mark, literally and figuratively?"

  Ashburn meets his gaze, unwavering. "Yes. This is what it means to walk the path of a Quietus Pactum. You are no longer just yourself. You are bound to something greater."

  Mark lets out a long breath, staring down at the marks on his skin. The weight of it settles into him, heavier than before.

  He lifts his gaze back to Ashburn, his mind still reeling. "Alright, you keep throwing this term around, Quietus Pactum. What exactly is it?"

  Ashburn folds his hands behind his back. "A Quietus Pactum is a chosen executioner of balance, a warden of transition. Those who bear the Mark of Ereshka serve as a bridge between life and death, judgment and rebirth. However, you have not yet earned that title. You have been marked, but your path is not yet decided. Only those who pass the Trials of Ereshka are granted entrance into the Quietus Pactum."

  Mark's eyes narrow. "Trials? What kind of trials?"

  Ashburn exhales slowly. "Each trial is unique to the candidate. I do not know what yours will be, nor could I tell you even if I did. The trials are woven into the fabric of your fate, revealed only when it is time. Until then, you must prepare."

  Mark crosses his arms. "And if I fail?"

  Ashburn meets his gaze with a grave expression. "Then you will cease to be."

  Mark scoffs. "And here I thought I was just having a bad day. So, is gaining aspects something only granted to Quietus Pactum? Or can anyone collect these little soul tattoos?"

  Ashburn's expression remains neutral. "Aspects are not exclusive to the Quietus Pactum. Any being attuned to the flow of Flux and Essence may gain them. However, without the right tether, without the proper balance, such power is dangerous. Unstable. You have an anchor, a means of control, one that will allow you to survive what others would be consumed by. That is the difference."