Their bodies floated over the sea of obelisks, slowly nearing the arch where the priest sat imposingly, his presence radiating a terrifying, almost suffocating aura. His cold eyes scanned the remaining figures like they were nothing more than objects. Horu, on the other hand, stood at the edge of the platform, unmoved, as indifferent as ever. It was as though the entire ritual was just a tedious formality for him—a pointless obligation that needed fulfilling.
As Sorken floated alongside the others, his thoughts wandered, but a sharp scream ripped him back into the moment. A man tumbled through the air without warning, his body impaled on one of the towering obelisks below. Blood pooled beneath him before the last of his cries died in the wind. Sorken's heart skipped. He hadn't noticed any sudden movement or attack. The man had simply fallen. No one glanced his way, not even the priest. It was as if his death held no more significance than a leaf falling from a tree.
"What... what just happened?" Sorken muttered, barely audible, trying to rationalize the horror unfolding before him. He gripped the thin air, searching for answers, but the fear within him swelled, drowning out all sense of logic.
Before he could fully process the scene, another shriek pierced the air. A woman plummeted, her body colliding with another obelisk, blood spraying across its smooth surface. Sorken's eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. He forced himself to look at her body, suspended grotesquely on the stone. Her eyes were wide, just as his were. She too hadn't understood what went wrong—why she had fallen. Why any of them could fall at any moment.
Sorken's chest tightened, dread clawing its way up from his stomach. 'There's no rhyme or reason... no logic to this.' His thoughts spiraled. 'Anyone could fall. I could fall.' He clenched his fists, every muscle in his body stiff with the gnawing realization that death was looming—silent, unpredictable, and merciless. There was no escape.
'Tamara…' Her name burst into his mind like a beacon in the storm. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm the panic rising in his throat. 'She has to be okay…'
"Please... let her be safe," he whispered, a prayer to any god that might listen in this forsaken land.
The sounds of bodies falling, followed by the sickening impact of flesh against stone, grew more frequent. His fellow captives were dropping one by one. Screams were cut short, and the once pristine white floor below was now streaked with blood. Sorken dared not open his eyes. 'If I don't look, maybe I can make it. Maybe I'll survive this…' Another irrational thought crept up in hismind as he tried to look for anything that can soothe him for a bit.
He could no longer remember how many people had started this ordeal with him, nor could he count how many remained. Time had lost meaning in this nightmare. But he was sure that by the time they reached the arch, fewer than a dozen would still be floating beside him.
Summoning every bit of courage he had left, Sorken cracked open his eyes. His heart leapt when he saw Tamara's silhouette still drifting among the remaining survivors. Relief washed over him like a cold wave. *She's alive. She's still alive.*
There were only about twenty of them left now, and the arch was drawing closer. A spark of hope flickered in his chest. 'Maybe we'll make it. Maybe there's a way out of this after all.'
But as his gaze swept across the field of obelisks, the grisly sight beneath him almost broke his fragile resolve. The once splendid stone monuments were now dripping with the blood of the fallen, their bodies skewered upon the sharp tips. Blood ran down the white marble, staining the ground below. The scene was both horrifying and eerily serene, as if the bodies had become part of the ritual itself, as though their deaths had meaning beyond mere sacrifice.
'If i was still in that zealot state…' Sorken thought bitterly, 'I would have thought this to be a perfect tribute. A sacrifice in their name. I would have rejoiced in their death as they get to die in this divine kingdom where traces of gods existence is as numerous as the stars in the sky'
He suddenly hated this situation more. He felt like a doll whose owner didnt know what to do with them and hence was doing anything that would help to feed their curiosity. But, unlike those dolls, every single person present here was as alive as they can get. They have been forced to become dolls. Their hands will move when they want, their expressions would be what they want it to be. It was not just toying with them but thinking of them as less than mechanical dolls. A rage started to build up in his heart but he quickly suppressed it, for all he knew, they will kill him in another new and unnerving way if he was hostile. Innocents have been killed in a manner that would send even the most barbaric person into deep shock and disgust.
Suddenly, he felt the air around him shift. His body lurched forward, and they began to float faster, much faster than before. He recognized the sensation. It was the same as in the hall earlier. 'So the fewer we are, the more power this strange force gains... using our deaths to fuel its progress.' The thought made Sorken sick, but he couldn't deny its grim efficiency.
As he was contemplating on this, he realized that less than ten people were alive now, rest were resting on hundreds of obelisks surrounding them. Their nightmare was over, but for others, it will go on. A chuckle escaped his lips that never made a sound as he thought of events until now. He didnt know why he wanted to laugh, but it was not a laugh of joy, but of extreme insanity of their situation.
They still kept flying as somehow even the distance that was quite less when they walked to the arc never seemed to lessen at all. As a weary sensation dawned on him, He gritted his teeth on the premonition of what was to happen, willing himself to stay conscious. 'Not again.' But he knew what was coming. Just like before, his vision blurred, and a sickening pull gripped his stomach.
"We're being teleported again," he muttered, feeling the oppressive weight of inevitability sink in. 'This ordeal is over, but another nightmare awaits.'