The moment the candles died, the darkness swallowed her whole. It wasn't the kind of darkness she'd known before—this was alive, pulsing, pressing against her skin like unseen hands. She couldn't see, couldn't move, couldn't breathe.
A sharp, whispering voice cut through the void. "She hesitates. That is dangerous."
"Patience," came another voice, deep and guttural. "Fear is part of the process."
Celeste gasped, her body seizing as the weight of the darkness pushed her to her knees. The humming returned, louder now, and in the pitch black, it sounded like it was coming from inside her skull.
"Get up." Riot's voice rang out, clear and defiant. "Celeste, fight it."
She clawed at the floor, desperate to ground herself. "What's happening to me?" she cried.
The man's voice—smooth, commanding—echoed from everywhere at once. "You're being shown the truth, Celeste. This is what lies beyond the veil. The chaos. The raw power waiting to be harnessed. You can own this—if you stop resisting."
Light erupted in front of her, blinding and sudden. She shielded her eyes, squinting as the darkness retreated in jagged, writhing tendrils. The pedestal was still there, glowing now with an eerie, otherworldly light.
And behind it, the man stood, his face impossibly calm. But his eyes… his eyes were wrong. They shimmered like liquid silver, swirling with shadows that didn't belong in any human gaze.
"This is what you fear?" he asked, stepping closer. "The unknown?"
Behind him, the robed figures began to move, their shapes twisting unnaturally as if their bodies were breaking apart and reforming. They dropped their hoods, revealing faces that weren't human—elongated, with sharp angles and eyes that burned like embers.
Celeste's stomach turned, her mind reeling. "What are you?"
"We are the architects," the man said. "The creators of legends. The unseen force behind every great name, every timeless legacy."
The auburn-haired woman stepped into the light, her golden dress now flickering like fire. Her face had changed too—her smile stretched too wide, her teeth sharp and glinting. "We don't give fame, Celeste. We make it. We take the raw, flawed clay of humanity and sculpt it into something divine."
"Divine?" Riot's voice cut through, his silhouette emerging from the shadows. "You mean enslaved."
The man turned to Riot, his expression darkening. "You've overstayed your welcome, boy."
"Funny," Riot said, stepping fully into the light now. "I was just thinking the same about you."
For the first time, Celeste noticed the faint shimmer around Riot, like he was wrapped in his own invisible armor. His cocky grin was gone, replaced by a sharp intensity that made him seem older than he looked.
"What is this?" Celeste whispered, her voice trembling. "What's happening?"
"You're at a crossroads," Riot said, his eyes locking onto hers. "You can walk away now. It won't be easy, but you'll still be you. Or you can sign that contract and become their puppet."
"We don't make puppets," the woman hissed, her voice like nails scraping glass.
"No?" Riot shot back. "Tell that to the hundreds you've burned out and discarded."
The man's smile returned, cold and sharp. "We only discard the weak. Those who fail to rise to the challenge."
Celeste's head spun as the air grew heavier, the humming growing louder again. Her gaze darted to the contract, the ink shimmering like blood in the firelight.
"You're lying," she said, her voice shaky but resolute. "There's more to this."
"Of course there is," the man said smoothly. "There's always more. But you're not ready to see it yet."
The robed figures began to move again, their bodies swaying in unison. The air rippled around them, and suddenly, Celeste was no longer in the room.
She stood on a stage, massive and dazzling, with lights blinding her from all directions. The roar of a crowd filled her ears, deafening and exhilarating. Thousands of faces screamed her name, their hands reaching for her, their devotion palpable.
She turned, and behind her stood her sister, Rollie, older now, her face radiant with pride. Her mother was there too, no longer weary and bent, but glowing with joy, her hands pressed together in silent thanks.
"This is your future," the man's voice whispered in her ear.
She spun around, but he wasn't there. Instead, she saw herself on a massive screen above the stage, her face flawless, her smile captivating.
"This is what we offer," the auburn-haired woman's voice purred.
The scene shifted. The crowd faded, replaced by darkness. She was alone now, standing in front of a mirror. Her reflection stared back at her, but something was wrong. Her eyes were empty, her movements delayed, like a puppet on invisible strings.
"This is the cost," Riot's voice said.
She turned, and there he was, standing in the shadows. His face was grim, his eyes full of something that looked like regret.
"Choose, Celeste," he said. "Before it's too late."
The stage vanished, and she was back in the room, gasping for air. The contract still sat on the pedestal, waiting.
The man stepped closer, holding out the pen. "You've seen the possibilities," he said. "The glory. The sacrifice. It's your choice."
Celeste's hands shook as she stared at the contract. Riot stood off to the side, his expression pleading.
"Don't do it," he said.
"Do it," the man said. "Claim your destiny."
The room seemed to pulse with expectation, every eye—human and otherwise—fixed on her. Her chest heaved, her mind a storm of fear, doubt, and longing.
And then, slowly, she reached out.
Her fingers brushed the pen.
And the candles exploded.