Boots crunched against the frost-laced gravel.
Crimson light bled from the Sunspire insignias sewn into black coats—scouts , six of them, sweeping through the misty corridor of dead trees and broken stone.
"Scry sweep, northeast," one muttered, holding a glowing orb that pulsed with arcane light. "Check for fugitive trails, mana discharges, residual signs."
They moved slowly.
Too slowly.
One of them stumbled.
"Ha! Got any more of that Glimmerbrew?" the tallest asked, swaying as he walked. His voice slurred like wet cloth on steel.
Laughter followed—low, hushed, like children sneaking past curfew.
They didn't see the boy.
Alex lay slumped between two collapsed root-pillars, a stone's throw from the trail. Mud caked his hair. Dried blood clung to his lip. His breath was shallow, lips pale from cold and something worse.
One scout stepped close. Too close.
He paused.
Looked around.
The scry orb in his hand buzzed faintly. A blue glimmer flickered across its surface.
A warning.
A trace.
He stared.
Then shrugged.
The orb slipped from his fingers. It hit the ground with a soft thunk, rolled once, and settled near Alex's outstretched arm.
Another scout barked, "Hey, genius! You drop your eye?"
The man snorted, waved him off. "Place's full of false echoes. Waste of breath."
They kept walking.
The mist swallowed them one by one.
Minutes passed.
The orb blinked once.
Twice.
Then dimmed.
No one reported it.
No one marked the time.
No one saw the boy on the ground.
And no one would ever know they'd walked right past him.
The wind shifted, curling around Alex like a whisper.
Something deeper than cold lingered in the silence.
Something watching.
Waiting.
The mist thickened after the scouts left, curling like pale fingers around the slumped body of the boy.
A breeze whispered through the slums, scattering soot and ash—but something darker moved against it.
From between two cracked brick walls, a figure stepped forward.
A mask hid his face. Half ivory, half pitch-black. No eyes showed. No breath fogged the air.
He stood in silence, watching the patrol vanish into the distance.
Not a word spoken.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he moved.
Boots silent against the gravel, he approached Alex.
The boy didn't stir. Unconscious, barely breathing—but alive.
One gloved hand reached down and touched Alex's forehead, fingers pausing as if to read something invisible.
Then, without strain, the masked man lifted the limp body into his arms.
The shadows around the alley rippled.
From them, two others emerged.
Both wore cloaks as black as obsidian oil, and on their bare arms glowed violet sigils, pulsing gently like heartbeats.
Their faces were veiled.
One had long braids that shimmered like strands of night.
The other moved like a whisper—no steps, no sound.
The masked man didn't look at them when he spoke.
"Mission complete. The boy's back. Go."
The cloaked figures exchanged a brief glance.
Then in a shimmer of dark light, they vanished—folding into the air like smoke.
No trace remained.
The masked man stood there for a moment longer.
Holding Alex in his arms, the boy's head leaning against his shoulder like a child in sleep.
His mask turned upward, toward the moon obscured by clouds.
A breath escaped him.
The only sound he made.
Then he stepped into the alley's darkest corner—
—and disappeared.
No flash.
No sound.
Just gone.
The city's outskirts remained silent.
A rat scurried past where Alex had lain.
A bottle rolled in the wind.
The spot was empty now.
As if the boy had never been there.
As if the near-rescue, the pain, the hope, had been swallowed whole.
Darkness reclaimed the alley.
And within it, secrets passed hand to hand—unseen, unspoken, and irreversible.
Alex's limp body drifted through tunnels that didn't exist on any map.
Carried by shadows.
Guarded by silence.
Somewhere far below the city, where even memories dared not dwell—
A door opened without a sound.
A prison welcomed him back.
The circle never broke.
Only widened.
Cold…That was the first thing Alex felt.
His back pressed against the stone floor, damp with condensation.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
The ceiling above him came into focus—cracked, faded, lined with old rust streaks.
The familiar hum of the suppression glyph buzzed faintly from the far wall.
He sat up with a start.
His heart raced.
He grabbed his arm—no bruises. No cuts.
But he remembered.
The burning pain in his ribs.
The cold breath of dawn as he crawled through alleyways.
The flicker of freedom.
The inspectors.
The masked figure.
His hands trembled.
He pulled up the sleeve of his ragged shirt.
The Hollow's Bargain Mark glowed faintly, pulsing like a quiet heartbeat.
Still there.
Still his.
He stumbled to the wall and pressed his forehead against the glyph.
Its light flickered the same way it always had.
Same dull cycle. Same rhythm.
Like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
He closed his eyes, trying to center himself.
The escape wasn't a dream.
His muscles ached in places no dream could reach.
His memories were too sharp. Too raw.
The scent of smoke.
The taste of blood in his mouth.
The moment he slipped under the loose panel in the outer yard.
It was all real.
So why was he back?
Alex turned slowly, surveying the cell.
No damage. No signs of struggle.
The food tray was still untouched in the corner, crusted with dried slop.
Time hadn't moved.
Or maybe... it had been moved for him.
He reached for his neck, searching for bruises.
Nothing.
Whoever returned him had erased every mark.
Except the memory.
His breath hitched.
It felt like drowning.
Being dragged under the surface just when you thought you'd broken free.
Why bring me back?
He crouched in the corner, back to the wall, arms wrapped around his knees.
It was the only place in the cell where the glyph's light didn't quite reach.
The only spot where shadows still lived.
His voice cracked when he whispered,
"…Why?"
The cell offered no answer.
No sound but the flicker of the glyph.
No proof that anything had ever happened at all.
But Alex knew.
He remembered.
And that made it worse.
Someone had power. Enough to retrieve him.
Enough to hide the escape.
Enough to rewrite the outcome.
His hand clenched into a fist.
The Chainbind Mark didn't flicker.
It pulsed steadily—like a heartbeat inside a cage.
He had broken the circle.
But it had closed again.
Tighter than before.
Alex didn't move.
The silence of the cell pressed down on him, thicker than ever.
He stared at the floor—cracked stone, stained by years of hopelessness.
All his planning.
Every stolen moment.
Every whispered map drawn in his mind.
All for nothing.
He had escaped.
He had run.
He had felt the air on his face.
And now—he was back.
His breathing grew shallow.
Something inside him twisted.
A deep, rotting ache.
Not fear.
Not pain.
But something worse.
Hopelessness.
He raised his left arm.
The Chainbind Mark shimmered with clean, steady light.
No flicker.
No weakness.
It was whole again—untouched.
Like the escape had never happened.
He whispered,"Did it all… reset?"
The question bounced off the stone walls, unheard.
He touched the mark, hoping for even the faintest reaction.
A tremble. A burn. A flicker of rebellion.
Nothing.
He pulled his knees to his chest.
His fingernails dug into his skin.
Just enough to hurt.
Just enough to feel.
"I was out," he murmured."I was out…"
He wanted to scream for his freedom,
To break something.
But the cell gave him nothing.
Only the cold.
Only the glyph's quiet, pulsing buzz.
What was the point?
Who had brought him back?
Why erase the signs but not the memory?
A cruel trick.
A message.
A warning.
Don't try again.
Don't even think about it.
He buried his face in his arms.
But sleep wouldn't come.
Only the thought of the alley.
The scouts.
The masked figure.
That soft, whispering mist.
He clenched his fists again.
So tight his knuckles turned white.
Someone wanted him here.
Someone had watched.
And someone had power.
Enough power to snatch him from the edge of freedom.
Enough to hide it from everyone else.
He shuddered.
Was there even a way out?
Or was this whole thing—this prison, this arena, the quarries—
Just a cage within a cage?
He breathed out, voice cracking,
"…Why me?"
There was no answer.
Only that buzzing glyph.
And the certainty, buried deep in his chest:
They weren't afraid of him escaping.
They were afraid of what would happen if he did.
And that terrified him more than the chains ever had.
The cell went still again.
But something in the air had shifted.
Like the walls were breathing. Watching.
Alex's head throbbed.
Then—
A whisper.
Thin as thread, sharp as broken glass.
"You were taken. Not rescued. Returned."
The voice slithered from within.
Not from the room.
Not from the hallway.
From himself.
Deep within the Hollow's Mark.
He flinched, grabbing his chest.
But it pulsed—warm, alive, undeniable.
The second voice of the Eclipse Paradox.
"But that's not the worst part."
Alex sat up, breath frozen in his lungs.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
The voice already knew.
It always knew.
"No one knows you escaped."
The words hit harder than chains.
His eyes widened.
The guards hadn't reacted.
The warden hadn't stormed in.
No one had spoken a word.
Like it never happened.
The voice sharpened.
"Ask yourself: why would they hide about your escape... even after you were captured again?"
Alex trembled.
"No punishment... no threats... no reports..."
"Exactly."
"They didn't miss you."
"They knew where you were."
"They let you go."
"They wanted to see where you'd run."
Each sentence drove deeper.
Each pause, a blade twist.
"You are not just a prisoner, Alex."
"You are a variable."
A silence, heavy and humming.
Then, colder than before—
"Be cautious. This place is worse than your worst nightmares."
Alex curled tighter.
The cell seemed smaller now.
The chains heavier.
The glyph brighter.
The voice spoke again—
but this time, softer. Almost amused.
"Someone powerful wants you here. Quietly."
A thousand questions surged inside him.
But no answers came.
Only that fading whisper.
Only that dark certainty.
They hadn't brought him back to punish him.
They had brought him back to watch.
To test him.
He looked to the glyph one more time.
It flickered now—just once.
Like it was listening too.
Then, stillness.
Complete.
Unnerving.
Wrong.
Alex's whisper cracked from dry lips.
"…Who are you?"
No reply.
Just silence.
Just the sound of boots approaching down the hall.
Too heavy.
Too many.
And too late.
The voice didn't answer.
But the mark on his arm burned—just once.
A warning.
The heavy door to the cells screeched open.
The noise rattled through Alex's skull, pulling him from the spiraling thoughts that had held him captive since waking.
His breath, shallow and cold, hitched as the sound of booted footsteps rang louder in the hallway.
Another grunt.
This one was different, though.
Louder.
Heavier.
The shrill whistle of air from a boot striking the ground sent a chill down Alex's spine.
He didn't dare move.
He couldn't.
He didn't even trust his limbs to obey.
For a moment, the whole world felt too tight. Too small.
Until the grunt's voice thundered across the silence of the cellblock.
"Wakey wakey, little beasts!"
The words hit like a slap, echoing through the dark halls.
Alex squeezed his eyes shut, though he knew the grunt couldn't see him.
He didn't want to see what came next.
He didn't want to hear it.
He didn't want to be here anymore.
But that wasn't a choice.
Not anymore.
"Guess what day it is?" the grunt continued. His voice had an odd excitement to it. An eagerness that felt out of place in this grim prison.
Alex's stomach twisted, but he remained motionless.
He had heard enough to know that whatever was coming... it would be worse.
And the grunt wasn't wrong.
Something had changed.
The cellblock felt different.
It had always been a place of despair, but now, it was darker, colder, as if something else had infiltrated.
It had always been a cage, but now... it was a trap.
The grunt's laughter echoed, maddening in its uneven rhythm.
"The Bleeding Quarries await!" he crowed.
A sickening thrill laced his words.
Alex's heart skipped a beat.
The name hit him like a punch to the gut.
The Bleeding Quarries?
He had heard whispers—fragments of rumors that slipped through the cracks of this forsaken place, but they were never real.
Not until now.
The grunt's grin widened, his bulging eyes gleaming in the dim light.
"You're all finally useful now," he said, his voice laced with a cruel glee.
The other cells went wild.
Screams rang out.
Shouts of panic.
The clanging of iron bars as prisoners pounded against their cages.
Some begged.
Some screamed for mercy.
Some simply wailed, knowing that nothing they did would matter.
The sound reverberated in Alex's chest.
The fear was contagious. It crawled under his skin.
But still, he stayed frozen.
Something inside him told him that this was coming.
That it was always coming.
The grunt's eyes flickered toward him.
Alex couldn't look away.
The man grinned like a predator locking eyes with prey.
"The Bleeding Quarries... You'll be singing a different tune when you get there."
The words were dark, final.
A death sentence in plain sight.
Alex felt the mark on his arm pulse faintly, as if sensing the shift in the air.
A warning.
And for the first time, Alex wondered if his escape had been nothing more than a cruel joke.
Had it even mattered?
Had it been real?
Everything he had planned, everything he had risked—all for nothing.
The Hollow's Bargain mark seemed to throb in time with his pulse, urging him to act.
The cell felt even colder. The walls seemed to close in.
But Alex forced himself to take a breath.
He had to move. He had to think.
But the task before him felt insurmountable.
He was trapped.
The grunt stepped closer to the bars.
"Guess what else?" he added, the grin still in place.
Alex's stomach churned.
"What else?"
But the grunt's face twisted into something more sinister.
"The beginning."
A low, cruel laugh escaped the grunt.
Alex felt the weight of it crush him.
It wasn't a laugh of amusement.
It was a laugh of power.
And in that moment, Alex understood.
The Bleeding Quarries weren't just a place.
They were a stage.
A twisted test of survival, of worth.
And he was the newest contestant.
"The words tasted like blood."
The grunt's mocking tone echoed in Alex's mind as he gripped the edge of his bunk.
And in that instant, Alex knew—this was only the beginning.
The beginning of a new nightmare.