I was wrong.
The chamber swims into focus, my head throbbing with each pulse of my heart. Every muscle screams in protest as I push myself to my hands and knees, the stone floor cold and unforgiving beneath me. The wound on my arm burns, a sharp reminder of the sentinel's blade.
Panic claws at my throat.
The walls feel too close, too familiar. But something is different. This is not the same chamber. This one is larger, the ceiling higher. Cracks spider across the walls like frozen lightning, seeping pale blue light instead of the sickly green from before.
The silence here is wrong. Not the dead quiet of the previous chamber, but something alive. Waiting. I feel it pressing against my skin, watching my every move.
My arm throbs, sending a sharp jolt of pain up to my shoulder. The sentinel's blade cut deep—a clean slice that weeps crimson. The edges are already turning an angry red, and the skin around it feels hot to the touch. If left untreated…
A faint movement catches my eye.
I turn my head slowly, cautiously. Across the chamber, Binah moves, her pale form drifting like a ghost. No—she's not just drifting. Her arms sweep in deliberate arcs, her hands slicing through the air with a strange rhythm. Her feet shift, pivoting and stepping in patterns that stir something deep in my memory.
Her movements are sloppy at first, awkward and disjointed. But as I watch, the rhythm smooths. Each step flows into the next, her arms sweeping gracefully, her entire body moving as if carried by an unseen tide.
I know this. I know exactly what this is.
"Ath'rihn," I whisper, the word slipping from my lips unbidden.
The sound of it unlocks a flood of memories. My mother's voice echoes in my mind: "Breathe with the horizon, Janus. Inhale the world; exhale yourself. Every movement is a wave, and every wave is a world."
The memory is so vivid it feels like I am standing there again, barefoot on the smooth stone of the courtyard. I can see her, Kaelenya Samithra, my mother, her midnight-colored skin catching the faint red light of the glowglobe. She moves like water, each step and gesture as natural as breath. The movements are the same as Binah's, yet entirely different. My mother's form was perfect, effortless.
"You're rushing," she says in the memory, her voice patient but firm. "You cannot force Ath'rihn. The horizon waits for no one, but it also leaves no one behind."
I am small, no more than four, trying to mimic her. My arms swing too fast, my feet tangle over themselves. I stumble, frustration bubbling to the surface. "It's too slow! It doesn't make sense!"
Kaelenya kneels beside me, her hands warm and steady as they guide mine. "Feel it, Janus," she murmurs. "The rhythm is already inside you. You must only remember how to listen."
Her voice fades, and the memory dissolves. I blink, my focus returning to Binah. Her movements now are graceful, flawless. With each sweep of her arms and turn of her body, she embodies the very essence of the Ath'rihn my mother taught me. It does not make sense. How does she know this? Who taught her?
"Where did you learn that?" I ask aloud, my voice sharp and raw. My anger surprises even me, but the sight of her practicing something so tied to my family, my heritage, leaves my chest tight with unspoken questions.
She does not answer. Of course, she does not.
Binah finishes the sequence and stands still, her violet eyes locking with mine for a fleeting moment. There is something unreadable in her gaze, something that almost feels like recognition. She gestures toward the pale blue liquid seeping from the crack in the wall, then steps back, her face as calm and infuriatingly blank as ever.
I hesitate, my breath uneven. The wound on my arm pulses with heat, and the edges blur in my vision. I glance at the pool of liquid, its glow brightening as if to catch my attention. The memory of the green liquid burns fresh in my mind—the way it tore through me, twisted my senses, filled my head with impossible melodies.
But this is different. The light is softer, cooler. The air around the crack feels less oppressive, more like a gentle breeze brushing against my skin. Still, I cannot ignore the voice in the back of my mind, warning me that this could be another trap.
My thoughts flicker unexpectedly to Penelope. The memory of her voice—soft but resolute—when she said, "I'm glad you survived," cuts through the noise in my head. It was so brief, so strange, and yet… why now? Why her? Of all things, why does my mind conjure her face in this moment?
I shake my head, forcing the thought away. There is no room for that here. Not when the line between survival and death is so thin. The liquid shimmers, rippling as if responding to my thoughts.
Uncle Titus's words surface in my mind, unbidden: "Trust your instincts, but question everything. The line between survival and death is often drawn by a single choice."
The liquid gleams brighter, catching the faint blue light like a whispered promise. I exhale slowly and lower myself to the floor, cupping my hands beneath the crack. The liquid is cool against my skin, almost electric. It feels heavier than water but flows just as easily.
"If this kills me," I mutter, bringing my hands to my lips, "at least I'll have company."
The taste is sharp, metallic, like drinking from a frozen stream. It slides down my throat, leaving a trail of numbing cold in its wake. For a moment, nothing happens. Then the burning in my veins begins to subside, replaced by a spreading coolness that reminds me of diving into deep water.
I watch, equal parts horrified and amazed, as the wound on my arm begins to close. The edges knit together, the angry red fading to pink, then to the pale hue of new skin. The pain fades entirely, leaving only a faint tingle behind.
But the liquid does more than heal. It sharpens my mind, peeling away the fog left by the green liquid. The chamber snaps into focus, every crack and line etched with startling clarity. The patterns in the stone seem to pulse with a rhythm I had not noticed before, guiding my gaze toward a section of the wall where the cracks form a faint outline.
A doorway.
The air grows heavier, the silence shifting into something more oppressive. I stand, steadier now, and step toward the wall. The patterns ripple as I approach, and the outline of the doorway glows faintly red. The stone grinds against itself, folding inward to reveal a narrow passage bathed in heat.
The air shimmers like the surface of a lake in summer, distorting whatever lies beyond. But I can see it—a massive weight suspended from the ceiling, chains creaking as it shifts slightly in the thick air.
Binah moves past me, her steps deliberate, her gaze fixed on the weight. I hesitate at the threshold, the heat pressing against me like a living thing. The doorway seals itself behind us with a final, grinding thud.