The sky bled with streaks of orange and crimson, a burning horizon that mirrored the cruel spectacle below. Smoke curled from the center of the town square, a pungent mixture of pine and damp wood filling the air as the townspeople gathered, their faces grim with purpose. It was a scene as timeless as any—a public execution, the alleged witch bound to a towering wooden stake, her fate sealed by the fearful murmurs of the masses. The crackling of the fire had not yet begun, but the anticipation clung to the air, thick and suffocating like the heat to come.
The townsfolk, garbed in coarse wool and linen, huddled close. Most wore expressions of vindication, their eyes narrow, lips tight with bitter satisfaction. Some whispered amongst themselves, heads low, too afraid to speak aloud their own misgivings. The children, too young to understand the magnitude of the cruelty unfolding before them, clung to their mothers' skirts, eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and fear.
But amidst the crowd were characters unique in their expressions, telling a story beyond the collective hatred. One elderly man, his face deeply lined with years of toil, gazed at the accused with a forlorn sadness. His hands, weathered and calloused, clutched a rosary tightly, as if praying for the soul of the woman who was about to die. A young boy nearby, his face twisted with anger and resentment, stared at the accused, tears brimming in his eyes—perhaps too young to understand his own rage, but old enough to feel its burden.
The sharp, accusatory voices rose from the crowd, swelling into a cacophony of hatred.
"Burn her! Burn the witch!" one woman shrieked, her finger jabbing toward the accused like a dagger.
"She's cursed our crops!" an older man bellowed, shaking his fist. "She's a blight on this town!"
"Send her to the flames!" another voice chimed in, the crowd's fervor building like the crackle of kindling beneath the pyre.
As the noise crescendoed, Erhling opened his eyes. But something was wrong—this was not his body. Panic surged through him as he realized that he was bound, ropes digging into slender wrists that were not his own. He looked down, his vision blurred for a moment, but the sensation was undeniable. He was in the body of a woman, and not just any woman—the accused witch.
A rush of memories flooded his mind, each one striking with the force of a hammer. Pain shot through his skull as her life poured into his consciousness: her name, Isolde. Her village, her family. Her crimes—no, not crimes, her truth. She had never practiced witchcraft; she had only been different, and for that, she was condemned.
The memories fractured his sense of self. Who was he? Who was she? The two identities collided violently, leaving him disoriented. His mind screamed against the violation of being trapped in another's skin, but at the same time, there was an eerie sense of belonging. He felt... normal in this body, though he knew it was not his own. A terrible paradox, a cruel twist of fate.
A piercing scream shattered his thoughts, dragging his gaze to the two stakes opposite him. His—no, her—family. Bound to the pyres were her eldest daughter and youngest brother, their faces twisted in terror and disbelief. They had not expected to die today. Isolde's heart—now Erhling's heart—shattered. The bond between them was visceral, undeniable. They were her blood, her life.
A sharp rock struck his—her—temple, sending a spray of crimson into the dirt below. The world spun for a moment, the pain blinding, but with it came something else—a memory, not of Isolde, but of his own past.
The streets of his home city, cobbled and unforgiving, stretched before him. Erhling had been just a boy then, no more than eight winters old. His sister, younger and frailer, clung to his side as they wandered aimlessly, their bellies empty and their future uncertain. They had been orphans for as long as he could remember, scavenging to survive in a world that had long since forgotten them.
He recalled the night they had first encountered the Duke. The man had been out riding, a regal figure atop a black steed, his entourage trailing behind him like shadows. Erhling had been caught stealing bread from one of the street vendors, and before he could flee, a guard had seized him by the collar, ready to deliver punishment. But then the Duke had intervened.
"Let the boy go," the Duke had said, his voice calm yet commanding. "He has a fire in his eyes. Perhaps that fire can be put to better use."
Erhling had expected cruelty, but instead, the Duke had extended a hand, offering them a chance—a home, a life of service, but a life nonetheless.
The memory faded, and with it came the present, harsh and unforgiving. His family—Isolde's family—was screaming, the flames licking at their feet. Panic swelled in his chest, and he struggled against the ropes, but it was useless. His—her—body was weak, and the townspeople continued to hurl rocks, their hatred palpable.
"Please... no..." he whispered, though whether it was Isolde's voice or his own, he could not tell. The two were one now, bound by a shared fate.
The flames grew higher, and his vision blurred. Desperation clawed at his mind as he felt his sanity slipping. Once again, he was powerless to stop the death of those he loved. Once again, he was helpless in the face of overwhelming cruelty.
And then, darkness. A cold, suffocating void swallowed him whole, cutting off the sounds of the screaming crowd, the crackling fire, and the pounding of his heart. It was as if the void had come to his rescue, enveloping him in a blanket of nothingness.
"Mortal..." A voice echoed in the emptiness, soft and serpentine, yet laced with a strange charisma. "Is a second death really worth this trouble?"
Erhling's eyes flickered open, and he found himself floating in the vast expanse of the void, unbound and weightless. He was no longer in Isolde's body. He was himself again, his own form restored, though how he had come to be here, he did not know.
"This is your second death, although this is more... literal." The voice chuckled, cold and husky, reverberating through the void like a distant storm. Yet, there was no one else there.
Erhling glanced around, trying to locate the source of the voice, but the darkness stretched on endlessly in all directions. The sensation was eerily similar to being within his Spirit Core—a vast expanse where cosmic energy was stored. Every Awakened human possessed such a space within their soul, a core that held the power of the stars themselves. The greater one's core, the greater the power they could wield, and it was this very essence that allowed them to form contracts with sponsors and survive the trials of the Labyrinth. It was a prerequisite, a mark of those chosen to enter the maze, where raw strength alone was never enough. Without this, without the connection to a sponsor, most would be devoured by the Labyrinth's horrors long before reaching its depths.
"Who are you?" Erhling demanded, his voice echoing through the void, though there was no fear, only confusion.
"I am the one who watches, who shapes. I am the Architect.Or you can call me Demiurge," the voice replied smoothly. "You have been given an opportunity, mortal. A second chance, if you will."
Erhling frowned. "Second chance?"
"You do not remember?" The voice was almost amused. "This is not the first time you have died, and it will not be the last, unless... you make a choice."
A swirl of cosmic energy began to gather in front of him, twisting and warping into a vague shape—still no face, no eyes, yet Erhling could feel its presence, powerful and all-encompassing.
"I can offer you a way out, a way forward," the Architect continued. "All you need to do is accept me as your sponsor. Call my name, break the scroll in your hand, and you will wield power beyond your imagination."
Erhling glanced down and, sure enough, there was a scroll in his hand. How it had gotten there, he had no idea. But the temptation was undeniable. The thought of surviving this ordeal, of not being helpless again, gnawed at him.
"And what do you gain from this?" Erhling asked, narrowing his eyes. His hand tightened around the scroll, though he hesitated to break it.
The voice chuckled again, that same cold, husky tone echoing through the void. "What do I gain? I gain an agent, a force within the Labyrinth. But more importantly, I gain... entertainment. Watching you mortals struggle for power, for survival, it's quite the spectacle."
The void around them seemed to pulse with energy, as though the Architect's amusement reverberated through the very fabric of the space.
"But be warned, mortal," the Architect continued, his tone now more serious, "Power comes at a price. You will become bound to me, just as I am bound to you. There will be no turning back. Once you call my name, our fates will be intertwined. Are you willing to pay that price?"
Erhling stood frozen in the dark expanse, the weight of the decision pressing down on him. The memory of his sister's suffering, of Isolde's helplessness, and of the countless others he had seen perish flashed before his eyes. Power had always come at a cost, but he had never known what that truly meant until now.
The Architect seemed to sense his hesitation. "This is your moment, Erhling. Think of what you could do with the power I offer. Think of the lives you could save—or destroy."
Erhling's breath caught in his throat. "You... you know my name?"
"I know everything about you," the Architect replied smoothly. "I have watched you, Erhling, from the moment you first stepped into the Labyrinth. You have potential, but you lack the means to fulfill it. With my power, you can take control of your fate, rather than letting others decide it for you."
Erhling looked down at the scroll again, feeling its weight in his hand. The thought of wielding such power, of finally being able to protect those he loved, was intoxicating. But there was also the fear—the fear of losing himself, of becoming something he couldn't control.
"I don't trust you," Erhling said finally, his voice low but firm.
The Architect laughed once more, the sound like a cold breeze swirling through the void. "Trust? Mortal, trust is a luxury you cannot afford. In the Labyrinth, power is the only currency that matters. Trust it at your own peril. But I am offering you something more valuable than trust—I am offering you survival. And you will need it if you are to face what lies ahead."
Erhling closed his eyes for a moment, thinking of the faces he had lost, the ones he had failed to protect. His hand trembled as he gripped the scroll tighter. Could he really afford to turn this down? Could he risk being powerless again, watching helplessly as others suffered because of his inability to act?
When his eyes opened again, there was a steely resolve in them. "Architect," he whispered, the name hanging in the void like a heavy weight. "I accept your offer."
"Good," the Architect purred, the satisfaction dripping from his voice. "Now, break the scroll."
Erhling's fingers tightened around the scroll, and with a swift motion, he snapped it in two. The moment he did, the void erupted with light. Ethereal sparks of energy danced around him, filling his vision with a blinding radiance. For a brief moment, it felt as though the very fabric of the void was tearing apart, reshaping itself around him.
"Marvelous," the Architect's voice echoed through the light, a cold chuckle following his words.
The sensation was overwhelming. The void, once empty and dark, was now alive with cosmic energy. It felt like being inside his Spirit Core—a place where the raw power of the universe was stored. He could feel it pulsing through him, filling every inch of his being with an energy that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the light faded. Erhling found himself standing in the square once more, the smell of smoke and burning wood filling his nostrils. The crowd was gone. The pyres were gone. Only the smoldering ashes remained, swirling in the air like embers from a long-forgotten fire.
The Architect's voice lingered in his mind, a faint whisper in the back of his thoughts. "Remember, Erhling, you are mine now. Call upon me when the time comes, and I will lend you my power. But know this: every time you do, you will be one step closer to becoming what you fear most."
Erhling stared at his hands, still feeling the echo of the void within them. The power was there, just beneath the surface, waiting to be called upon. But at what cost? And who was this Architect, really?
He clenched his fists, determination setting his jaw. Whatever the price, he would pay it. He had to. There was no turning back now.
The wind blew through the empty square, carrying with it the faint smell of burning, and for a moment, Erhling stood alone in the ashes of his past, the weight of the future pressing down on him like a stone.
...