The path after the monolith led downward.
Not metaphorically. Literally. The cracked earth gave way to a spiraling staircase of bone and obsidian, slick with condensation and writhing with runes that squirmed if I looked directly at them.
With every step, the air grew thicker. It pressed against my lungs like I was breathing through wet cloth. My heartbeat sounded distant. Like it was coming from outside my body.
Six left.
But there was no time here. No direction. No logic.
Only the Wager.
Only the weight of the blade on my back, and the hunger in my blood.
I don't know how long I walked before I saw the next one.
She was sitting on a throne of broken memories.
That's the only way I can describe it.
Old parchment, shattered lenses from my runic goggles, melted pieces of a tea kettle I'd once repaired for Felix—all fused together into a jagged seat that pulsed with forgotten warmth.
And she…
She wore my face. But hers was younger. Too young.
