"Are you worthy enough for our help?"
The voice wasn't threatening. It was composed—curious, even. But that only made it more unsettling.
A heavy silence fell over the group.
They all felt it—that subtle shift in atmosphere. Something had changed. The conversation wasn't casual anymore. This was the beginning of something... a test. One they hadn't studied for. One they didn't ask for. And behind them, the writhing mass of tentacles continued to swell and rise, black and slick and slow, like some ancient beast stretching after a long slumber.
Nathan's brows tightened. Harper gripped Alice tighter, knuckles pale. Ivy's posture stiffened, sharp like a wire pulled taut.
Only Alice smiled.
The strange, drugged glow in her eyes hadn't faded. She stared directly at the entity in front of them with the wide, delighted grin of a child watching fireworks. There was something eerie in it—her glee had no place here, not among the fear.
The entity didn't react. It simply tilted its head, studying her for a moment, almost sympathetically.
It understood what had happened to her.
It understood all of them.
Their panic. Their hesitation. The way their eyes kept flicking behind them to the growing monstrosity, as if measuring how long they had left.
Then it spoke again.
"My name is Spes. I am different from the others behind me."
Its voice was smooth. No malice. No urgency. Just truth—at least, what it believed to be true.
"I have a consciousness."
Ivy blinked, narrowing her eyes. That word stuck with her. Consciousness. The way it said it—it believed it. Truly. But Ivy couldn't shake the feeling that it was parroting something it had heard. Like a child claiming to understand adulthood.
In truth, none of the entities here were real people. They didn't know they weren't real. They didn't know they were trapped in a fabricated dimension built to torment or test or consume—whatever this place really was.
But they believed they were real. And maybe that was worse.
"I can help you," Spes continued, unfazed. "Only if you show us your worth."
His tone didn't waver. It wasn't cruel. It wasn't threatening. But there was no warmth in it, either. Just an unshakable neutrality. As if this was the hundredth time he'd said these words. As if the outcome didn't matter to him, so long as the rules were followed.
No one spoke. They couldn't. Every word felt like it would cost too much.
They listened.
"And do not worry about the creature behind you," Spes said, tilting his head slightly, sensing their dread. "It won't rise for another hour."
Harper glanced back, lips thin. That thing would rise, eventually. One hour wasn't a gift—it was a countdown.
Nathan's mouth was dry. Ivy's heartbeat thudded in her throat. Even she couldn't steady her nerves this time.
Spes stepped forward slightly.
Spes stood still as stone, the silent crowd of entities unmoving behind him.
"We offer you a single test," he said calmly. "We call it: The Offer."
The air changed. Dense. Tense. Like something was pulling the oxygen from the world around them. Even the wind died.
Nathan clenched his jaw. Ivy's heart skipped. Harper subtly tightened her grip on Alice, whose attention drifted dreamily toward the sky.
There was a pause.
Not the kind that happens when people are thinking. The kind that happens when no one wants to be the first to move. To breathe too loud. To say something that might shift the moment in the wrong direction.
Spes stood still, eyes—if they were even eyes—focused on them, as if waiting.
The silence stretched.
But it wasn't heavy with tension. It was something else. Expectant. Patient. Like Spes already knew they would speak, and was just giving them the space to do so.
Then… a slight tilt of the head. A subtle gesture. An invitation.
And finally, Ivy understood.
She stepped forward slightly, her voice quiet, but steady.
"…What is in that Offer?"
Her question didn't shake the air. It didn't shift the tone. It landed soft, like something placed gently on the table.
Spes responded immediately.
"That," he said, turning slightly—just enough to indicate a path, "we will discuss in my cottage."
There was no grand gesture. No cryptic metaphor. Just direction.
And with that, the next step became clear.
They weren't just trying to survive anymore.
They were about to be judged.
This would be the test of worthiness—the one that would determine whether they deserved the help of the entities in this phase… or if they would be left behind to face the rising creature alone.
*********************************************************************************************************
*********************************************************************************************************
Ivy, Harper, Alice, and Nathan followed Spes into the cottage.
It was uncanny.
The layout, the furniture, the smell in the air—it was a copy-paste replica of the old woman's home. The same red cushion on the creaky wooden chair. The same lantern casting a flickering glow through the window. The same table in the center, almost daring them to sit and pretend this was normal. The same door that led to the same kitchen.
Except it wasn't.
The other one had been swallowed. Consumed. This one felt… wrong in a different way.
Spes walked ahead of them, calm, unhurried, his steps evenly spaced. The sound of his feet on the wooden floor echoed softly, as if time was stretching around him. There was no rush in his movements.
Because he wasn't the one being hunted.
Nathan's jaw tightened. In his mind, he was screaming: Move faster, damn it. We don't have time for this.
"There is no point in rushing things. Preparations should be done with a calm mind, Nathan."
The words hit him like ice water down the spine.
Nathan froze.
He hadn't said anything out loud.
His name had never been spoken here.
And yet… Spes knew.
His stomach churned. He swallowed, glanced at Ivy. She met his eyes briefly. She'd caught it too. Mind reading. That had to be it. Somehow, this thing—this Spes—was in his head.
And maybe worse… it had been watching them longer than they realized.
What none of them knew—what Spes would never bother to explain—was this:
He could only hear thoughts that were clear. Vivid. Structured like speech. A passing feeling wouldn't reach him. A raw emotion wouldn't register. But a sentence in the mind—a line of internal dialogue, as if spoken out loud in silence—was as clear to him as an actual voice.
That was the rule, not just for Spes, but for all the mind reading entities in Palamine
A rule they didn't understand.
Nathan gave a stiff nod, embarrassed but trying to cover it with composure.
Ivy stayed silent. She didn't want to test the theory. Not now. Not until she understood the rules.
Harper's expression was cold, unreadable, but she was definitely terrified of the fact that Spes can read their minds.
Then Alice burst out.
"OH. MY. GOD!" She shouted with the glee of a child at a magic show. "DID THE CREEPY STICK MAN JUST TELL NATHAN TO ZIP IT?!"
She pointed dramatically at Spes, grinning ear to ear. "HE'S LITERALLY IN YOUR HEAD, DUDE! That's insane!"
Then she gasped, putting her hands to her cheeks in mock horror.
"Wait—WAIT—can he hear me right now? Like—hello? MISTER ENTITY GUY? Can you hear me thinking about soup right now?"
She paused.
"Because I'm totally thinking about soup."
SLAP.
The sound cracked the air.
Harper's hand connected cleanly with Alice's cheek—not brutal, but sharp enough to snap her out of it.
Alice recoiled, stunned. Her eyes blinked wide as she slowly reached up and touched her cheek, like a puppy that had been swatted with a newspaper. Then her gaze dropped to the floor.
"...You didn't have to hit me," she mumbled softly, suddenly small.
Harper said nothing. Her hand was still trembling from the contact, but her eyes remained forward—focused, unreadable.
The room settled again. But the tension didn't fade.
Spes did not take offense at Alice's outburst.
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Didn't respond.
Because he understood.
Her behavior—the erratic joy, the bursts of sarcasm, the untimely laughter—wasn't her own. It was the result of the apple. The same cursed fruit the old woman had offered. The same one they'd been warned about.
They had failed the rule.
And in doing so, they had triggered the Hunt.
Without a word, Spes turned and walked into the kitchen.
The silence that followed was uneasy. Alice sat on the floor, still rubbing the cheek Harper had slapped, her knees pulled up to her chest now. Her eyes darted lazily around the room, like a child half-listening to adults argue. Harper stood stiff beside her, fists clenched and jaw tight. Ivy stayed quiet, watching the way the shadows curved across the walls like watching water ripple in reverse.
Moments later, Spes returned.
In his hand: a small glass bottle. Dented, dusted, filled with a pale, thick liquid that shimmered faintly in the light. It looked like milk, but something about it didn't feel… ordinary.
He extended the bottle with care.
"Here," Spes said. "This will help your friend, Alice. It will ease the effects of the apple. Return her to clarity."
Ivy stepped forward and took it gently, eyes narrowing at the soft glow. It was warm in her hand—too warm. Like it had been sitting on a sunlit windowsill, even though there was no sun.
She looked back at Harper and nodded once.
"Here. Give it to her. Make sure she drinks all of it."
Harper took the bottle without hesitation, knelt in front of Alice, and held it out.
"Drink this."
Alice blinked, then leaned forward slightly, examining the bottle like it might jump out of her hand.
"Wait… is that glowing?" she said. "Are you trying to feed me with moon milk?"
Harper exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"It's not glowing. It's literally milk. Just drink it, Alice."
"It looks like alien breast milk. Are you sure this isn't gonna turn me into a spider?"
Harper didn't laugh. She face-palmed instead as the frustration was building up on her slowly and slowly.
"I swear, Alice—if you don't drink this, I'll pin you down and pour it in myself."
Alice raised her hands like she was surrendering to the cops.
"Okay! Okay! Sheesh. Just offering some humor to a stupid cottage experience, ALSO— Pin me down and pour it yourself? You have weird fantasies my girl"
She took the bottle with exaggerated care, sniffed it, and made a face.
"Smells like baby food and weird nostalgia…"
Then she drank.
One gulp. Then two. She paused—lips twitching. And then finished the rest in one long draw.
And something… shifted.
At first, it was subtle. Her breathing steadied. Her pupils adjusted, shrinking slightly, like the haze behind her eyes was retreating.
Her body, once jittery and loose like she was high on helium, seemed to ground itself. Muscles that had been trembling went still. Her posture straightened as though gravity had finally remembered her.
Then came the clarity.
It didn't hit like a wave. It crept. Slow. Like fog drawing back from a frozen field. She blinked—once, then twice—longer this time. Her lips parted slightly.
A dull ache formed at the back of her head. She reached up and touched her temple, brows knitting.
"What the hell…?" she murmured, her voice quieter now. Softer. Realer. "Why does it feel like someone's been rearranging and banging my thoughts with a sledgehammer?"
Harper stared at her in disbelief.
Nathan turned his head sharply.
Ivy took a step forward without realizing.
Alice looked up at them.
"Guys… I think I was on drugs." She blinked again. "Like, not fun drugs. Like… that creep kind of drugs."
Harper still didn't move.
"Are you… back?" she asked slowly.
Alice rubbed her face again. "Back? Girl, I just completed re-installed my whole personality back inside me, And wow, I missed me."
A beat passed. Then she smiled—a small, tired, but genuine smile.
Ivy stared in shock, then slowly looked toward Spes.
"...It worked," she whispered.
Nathan, still stunned, gave a slow nod.
Spes said nothing. His face was unreadable. But a faint nod of acknowledgment passed between him and Ivy.
"Good," he said finally, voice like a door closing behind them. "Now we may begin."