Chapter 31

A Place of Entrapment

> In twisted stone, the way is blind,

> Each turn a mirror of the last,

> Steps forgotten, echoes cast,

> The labyrinth does not unwind.

>

> Fate is woven in every wall,

> Truth is whispered, then erased,

> No choice can ever be retraced,

> In the maze, all paths will fall.

>

> — The Maze of Aletheia

>

> Kallistratos of Thalirae

Godfrey awoke on the cold, damp stone, his body half sprawled out of the door he had been so desperately trying to reach. His lungs felt heavy, wrong, and as consciousness fully returned, he was seized by a violent coughing fit. Several mouthfuls of water spluttered out, dribbling onto the stone beneath him as he gasped for air. The burning in his chest began to subside, but he lay there for some time, panting, too exhausted to move.

Finally, with shaky arms, he pushed himself up to his knees. He looked into the room beyond—the door still ajar, the air heavy with the dampness of the flood he had narrowly escaped. The space around him was different now. No longer trapped in water, he found himself in a narrow stone corridor, the oppressive walls close but solid.

His mind raced, still tinged with panic, as he examined the walls around him. No vent holes. He exhaled in relief. At least there was no immediate threat of drowning again.

He shifted his gaze down the pathway ahead, noticing it branched left and right at sharp right angles. His instincts screamed caution. He had no idea what lay beyond those turns, but he knew the Institute’s trials weren’t over.

As he glanced upward, his breath caught. The walls of the corridor rose high above him, some dozen feet at least, before opening into a massive, cavernous space. The dome-like ceiling stretched far above, too vast to comprehend, its sheer size staggering. He had been so focused on survival that the enormity of the place felt almost unreal.

Godfrey stood, knees still shaking, and steeled himself. He noticed, then, that the manacles which had been fastened to his ankles, and the pair hanging from his right wrist, were no longer there. This sent a jolt of alarm through him, as he was now unaware of how long he had been unconscious, or if he had somehow failed the test?

There was nothing to do but move forward.

Godfrey wandered through the twisting paths of the maze, his eyes flicking up now and then to catch glimpses of the cavernous ceiling with his Focused vision. The maze was elaborate, with every fork splitting into more identical forks, each path mirroring the last. It felt like a children's puzzle, something designed to confuse, but scaled to a level that would trap even the most seasoned mind. He knew better than to think it was random. There was a pattern here, hidden beneath the confusion, and if he could orient himself, he might just be able to find the center—if that was even the goal.

The minutes, or hours—he wasn’t sure—dragged on. As he shuffled down yet another twisting corridor, he caught the sound of flowing water, soft and steady, cutting through the oppressive silence of the maze. His pulse quickened as he rounded a corner and stepped into an unexpected sight.

An idyllic, manicured lawn stretched out before him. The stone floor of the maze gave way to soft, well-kept grass, and in the center, a fountain bubbled peacefully. Several wooden tables and chairs were arranged around the fountain, as if inviting someone to sit and enjoy the serenity of the scene. Godfrey paused, scanning the room with suspicion. It seemed too perfect. Too artificial.

The water in the fountain sparkled, clean and clear, but he had no reason to trust it. His mouth felt dry after the ordeal with the flooding hallway, but the memory of near-drowning kept his thirst at bay. He moved cautiously through the lawn, searching for anything of use. A weapon, a clue—anything. But the room offered nothing but its deceptive calm.

His eyes fell on the chairs. He stepped over to one, testing its weight. Sturdy enough. After a moment’s consideration, he wedged his foot against one of the legs and gave it a sharp twist. With a groan, the wood gave way, snapping free. A crude weapon, but better than nothing.

With the makeshift club in hand, Godfrey moved back to the pathways, leaving the idyllic scene behind. The maze’s twisting corridors stretched on endlessly, the silence only broken by his own footsteps. Time blurred again as he wandered, each turn leading to more choices, more indistinguishable hallways.

Just when it seemed as though he’d been walking for hours, he stumbled upon another room.

Godfrey stepped cautiously into the next room, his hand gripping the crude club tightly. At first glance, the chamber seemed empty, its stone walls bare and unadorned. The air was cold, still. His boots scuffed softly against the stone floor as he took another step inside, but then, without warning, the sound of his footsteps echoed unnaturally, bouncing off the walls and growing louder, lingering far longer than it should.

And then the whispers began.

Faint at first, barely perceptible, like a distant breeze. Godfrey froze, his body tensing as the whispers rose and fell, as if carried on the air itself. He glanced around the room, but saw nothing. No hidden vents, no obvious source. Just stone and shadow. His breath caught in his throat as the sound crept in, filling the space around him.

Keep moving.

He took another step, this time more carefully. But even the smallest shuffle of his boots seemed to disturb the air, amplifying the whispers. They grew louder, swirling around him, insistent.

Turn back.

You’re not ready.

They never come out.

The maze has no end.

Godfrey’s heart quickened, the oppressive presence of the voices pressing in on him. He realized what the room demanded—silence. The slightest sound would make the whispers stronger, angrier. With every movement, the voices rose, as if awakened by the disruption of the air itself.

He steeled himself, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves. He had to get through the room without stirring the voices any further. Slowly, deliberately, he shifted his weight, sliding his foot forward as gently as he could. The stone was smooth beneath his boots, but the softest scrape still sent a ripple through the air, igniting another flurry of whispers.

They see you.

You can’t escape.

He failed. Just like you will.

It’s hopeless.

Godfrey’s pulse pounded in his ears, but he forced himself to focus, moving inch by inch. The more distance he covered, the louder the whispers became. The further into the room he ventured, the more coherent the voices sounded—no longer mere echoes, but words spoken by unseen lips.

She cried for help... no one came.

You’ll join them soon.

The labyrinth claims all.

What makes you think you’re different?

The words scraped at his mind, pulling at his resolve. His foot slipped on the stone, and a sharp click echoed through the chamber. The whispers surged instantly, a rising cacophony.

Fool! It’s too late!

Run, while you still can!

They’re watching!

Godfrey clenched his jaw, steadying himself. His knuckles whitened around the chair leg in his hand, though he doubted it would do him any good in a place like this.

He forced himself forward, moving inch by inch, willing his body to stay steady. Every shift of weight, every slight motion threatened to stir the ghostly chorus around him.

They’re waiting for you.

You’ll die here.

Another failure.

You’re weak.

Turn back.

The voices felt more real now, almost tangible, as if they were at his back, breathing down his neck. The further he ventured into the room, the clearer they became, their words laced with bitterness, anger, and scorn.

It’s hopeless.

You’re a fool.

You won’t make it.

No one does.

His muscles burned from the effort of moving so slowly, so carefully, and his mind struggled to block out the relentless assault of the voices. But they were growing stronger, louder, filling his skull like a swarm of angry wasps.

You don’t belong here.

They’ll tear you apart.

He begged for mercy—no one came.

No one is coming for you either.

Godfrey’s hands trembled, his heart pounding in his chest. The pressure of the whispers was suffocating now, a weight bearing down on his mind. The exit was so close, just a few more steps, but his vision swam with exhaustion, his focus slipping as the voices clawed at his sanity.

Then, his foot caught on something—he wasn’t even sure what—and he stumbled. His body lurched forward, and before he could catch himself, he hit the stone floor with a harsh thud. The impact rang out through the chamber, a resounding crack that tore through the silence.

The whispers exploded into a cacophony, a cavalry charge of sound that battered his senses. They screamed now, not in whispers but in full-throated cries of terror, fear, hatred, and denigration.

Idiot!

You’ll never leave!

You’re nothing!

They’ll watch you suffer!

This is where you die!

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

You’re one of us now!

Godfrey gasped, his body heavy with exhaustion, his head swimming as the voices bore down on him from every side. He dragged himself forward, inch by inch, his fingernails scraping against the stone. Each movement, each scrape, sent the voices into a frenzy.

You’re finished.

You’ll rot here, forgotten.

There’s no escape.

Just give up.

His lungs burned, his arms trembled with fatigue, but he refused to stop. The exit was just ahead, only a few feet away. He clawed his way toward it, dragging his body across the stone floor, every motion creating a storm of whispers around him.

They all die alone.

So will you.

No one will remember your name.

No one cares.

The terror and hatred in the voices were deafening now, but he pushed through, forcing himself forward despite the madness clawing at his mind. His hands finally found the edge of the pathway.

With one final, desperate effort, Godfrey pulled himself onto the pathway, collapsing onto the floor, gasping for breath.

The whispers ceased.

Godfrey let out a shuddering breath, his chest rising and falling unevenly. The silence that filled the room now was almost deafening in its absence of the whispers that had nearly driven him to madness. He closed his eyes for a moment, the cold stone beneath him a grounding force. His mind still reeled from the assault, the lingering echoes of those voices clawing at the edges of his thoughts.

He stood slowly, his legs trembling beneath him. His muscles were weak, his body on the verge of collapse, but he forced himself upright, exhaling a fragile breath. His hands still shook as he wiped the sweat from his brow, the sheer relief of being free from the relentless whispers palpable. For a moment, he simply stood there, collecting himself, willing his heart to slow its wild beating.

He took one tentative step forward, then another, his movements sluggish at first. But as the oppressive weight of the room behind him faded, a new resolve began to stir in his chest. He couldn’t stay here—he couldn’t afford to stop. The longer he waited, the more the dread would settle in.

His pace quickened, each step surer than the last. He moved forward, away from the horrors of the whispering chamber, the drive to find an end to this hell pushing him onward. His body protested with every step, but his mind—now sharper, clearer—propelled him forward, desperate for an escape, for a way out of this torturous maze.

XXX

As Godfrey’s Focused vision strained to see the ceiling far above him, he knew he was close—nearing the center of the maze. The corridors had twisted and turned endlessly, but now, before him, the space opened into a vast, circular chamber. In the center stood a short dome made of gray metal, the surface smooth yet covered in intricate, flowing script.

Godfrey’s heart froze as he approached. The markings on the dome were unmistakable—ancient Thaliric script. His breath caught in his throat. His mind raced, but he forced himself to remain calm, aware that he was likely being watched. He had to act casual, like the sight meant nothing to him.

He wandered the room, faking a thorough examination of its perimeter, all while his thoughts kept circling back to the dome. He hummed softly, and as the sound left his lips, something changed. The dome began to vibrate—subtle, almost imperceptible, but there—a low whine that seemed to resist his tone. He paused, his heart pounding.

Godfrey continued to hum, adjusting his tone with each pass around the room, moving closer to the dome without drawing too much attention. Trial and error. He was honing in on the correct frequency, feeling the vibrations shift with each note. But just as he felt he was getting close, footsteps echoed behind him.

He turned sharply, his body tensing. From the opposite pathway, a figure emerged—another young man, dressed in the same Institute uniform, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. The man’s imposing frame and sharp features made him stand out immediately—he was clearly Sculpted. Tall, with an imperious presence and wavy black hair tumbling to his shoulders, he stood in the open entryway, breathing deeply as his eyes locked onto Godfrey.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The man plastered an easy smile over his face, the tension of his earlier entry melting away as he sauntered into the room with a casual, almost careless grace. His sharp eyes flicked over Godfrey, sizing him up, but his demeanor remained light and disarming.

"The name’s Marian Tullius," he said, his voice smooth and confident. He gave a slight nod, as if they were meeting under far more pleasant circumstances. "Pleasure to meet you...?"

Godfrey stood firm, keeping his expression neutral as he replied, "Godfrey Marcellus."

Marian’s smile widened just a fraction, his eyes flicking briefly toward the dome in the center of the room before returning to Godfrey. "I see you arrived before me," he said, his tone light but probing. "Tell me, what do you know of our objective here?"

Godfrey kept his expression neutral, refusing to give away any hint of what he had learned—or suspected. "I have no idea," he replied evenly. "I arrived mere moments before you did."

Marian nodded thoughtfully, though his eyes lingered on Godfrey for just a moment longer, searching for something beneath the surface. Then, without hesitation, he took a step closer to the dome, his interest piqued.

"That’s close enough," Godfrey warned, his voice calm but firm. His hand tightened ever so slightly around the makeshift weapon in his grip. He wasn’t sure what Marian wanted, but he knew better than to trust anyone in the Institute's trials.

Marian paused mid-step, raising an eyebrow. "Ah," he said with an amused lilt. "No need for hostility, friend. We're both in the same trial, after all."

Godfrey’s eyes remained locked on Marian, his stance firm. "I know that I am in the trial, yes," he said, his voice steady. "But I don’t remember your face, so I don’t know who you are. You could be an Inductee, or you could be part of my own test here." His grip tightened on the club. "Either way, you will come no closer."

For the briefest moment, a dark rage flashed across Marian’s features, his easy smile vanishing as his expression twisted with barely contained fury. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing into sharp slits before he forced control over his face again, smoothing it into a veneer of calm.

"I see," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "And you think you could stop me from reaching the center of the room?" He took a deliberate step forward, his eyes locking onto Godfrey’s with a cold intensity. "You? A mere child, standing in my way?"

The words dripped with contempt, a palpable threat hanging in the air as Marian’s gaze bore into him, daring Godfrey to act.

Godfrey’s grip tightened on the makeshift club, his eyes never leaving Marian’s. "Take one more step toward me," he said, his voice steady but filled with quiet intensity, "and we’ll see."

The air between them crackled with tension, both men poised for a potential confrontation, the dome humming faintly in the background.

With a crack of movement, Marian flashed forward, arms raised. Godfrey stepped back instinctively, snapping the tendons in his arm as he whipped the makeshift club into a sharp arc. He didn’t aim for Marian’s head, which was guarded behind a raised elbow—no, he swung for the wrist.

The club splintered on impact, but the bones in Marian’s hand and wrist shattered just as violently. Marian stumbled against the dome, his eyes wide with shock, but not a sound escaped his lips. His ruined right hand hung limply at his side as he turned, rage burning in his eyes.

"Back away," Godfrey warned, his voice steady but tense.

Marian ignored him, advancing slowly, his gaze dark and unyielding. Without hesitation, Godfrey sprang forward, ready to end the fight. But in a sudden, unexpected move, Marian dropped backward, letting Godfrey land atop him. With his good left hand, Marian seized Godfrey’s legs and yanked him into a vague leglock, trapping him in an iron grip.

Godfrey struggled, twisting against Marian’s hold, but the man’s fingers were like iron, digging into his skin. Desperate, Godfrey tucked his chin and slammed his forehead down—once, twice, three times—into Marian’s face. Each impact sent a shockwave of pain through Godfrey’s skull, but Marian groaned and loosened his grip, his good hand flying up to shield his face.

Godfrey staggered to his feet, breathing hard, when something strange happened. A low hum escaped his lips, a reflex, and suddenly his mind twisted. He felt it—the tone. The right frequency.

In an instant, his world exploded with knowledge. Letters and symbols danced in his mind, morphing into sentences, the lines of Thaliric script unfolding like a book. No—many books. Thousands. But it wasn’t an absorption of new knowledge; it felt like a resurfacing, a flood of memories rising from some forgotten depth within him.

Godfrey swayed, reeling from the rush of information, when he saw Marian stand in the shadow of his blurred vision. The man’s face was bloodied, but his fury hadn’t dimmed. He advanced quickly, and Godfrey was unprepared. Marian swung hard, his good hand catching Godfrey across the chin, sending him spinning backward, stars exploding in his vision.

As Marian’s punch connected, Godfrey’s mind spun, the force of the blow sending him not just backward, but somewhere else entirely. The room around him shifted, warping through time. He was no longer himself.

He stood in the same chamber, though it was whole and alive with ancient purpose. Around him, thousands chanted as one, their voices blending into a hauntingly beautiful death song. The melody echoed through the cavernous space, filled with both sorrow and reverence. He looked down and saw his wife, her body laid gently before him, her spirit not yet gone. She would wander these lost hallways until she chose to carry on to the next life.

It was bittersweet, a moment suspended between worlds. His Chorus swelled, their voices rising, carrying her toward the threshold of eternity. His heart ached with loss, but also with a strange peace, as the song carried him—

The vision shattered.

Godfrey was himself again, blinking in the present, as Marian’s boot slammed down hard on his crossed arms, inches from his face. The impact sent pain shooting through his forearms, but it snapped him fully back into the moment. Marian loomed above, winding up to deliver a final, crushing blow.

Instinct took over. Godfrey spun on the ground, tucking his right foot behind Marian’s planted leg, while his left foot shot out, striking the inside of Marian’s rising thigh. The move disrupted Marian’s balance, sending him stumbling backward.

Without hesitation, Godfrey sprang to his feet, his body moving with newfound urgency. He snapped his leg forward in a vicious kick, catching Marian square in the chest. The blow landed with a solid thud, sending Marian reeling back, an "oof" escaping him as he staggered from the force.

Godfrey gave him no time to recover. With a surge of momentum, he charged forward, driving his knee straight into Marian’s nose. The sickening crunch of bone breaking filled the air as the blow crushed Marian’s nose, sending the shattered fragments deep into his brain.

Marian dropped onto his back, his body limp, dark, rattling snores escaping his ruined face as he took his final, shallow breaths. Godfrey stood over him, chest heaving, staring at what he had done. The air felt heavy, thick with the weight of the moment.

He knew without doubt that Marian had been a dangerous man, one driven by arrogance and cruelty. But no matter how he tried to reason it away, Godfrey couldn't lie to himself. He had murdered Marian. In hot blood, yes, but it was murder nonetheless. The man had been defenseless in those last moments, unable to strike back.

Godfrey could have walked away. He could have let Marian sit there, broken and beaten. But he chose differently. He remembered John's old wisdom—enemies become memories when they lie in the ground—and he had chosen to make Marian a memory.

What was he becoming?

The thought struck Godfrey harder than any blow he’d taken. He stared down at Marian’s lifeless body, the dark snores fading into silence, and a hollow pit opened in his chest. Was this truly what he wanted? To be someone who took life so easily, so quickly? Why had he not asked himself these questions before stepping foot into this cursed city?

He had come seeking something—strength, purpose, perhaps a sense of belonging. But standing there, blood still pumping through his veins from the fight, the weight of his actions crashed down on him. Was this path turning him into something darker than he could have imagined?

He couldn’t lie to himself. The city, the Institute, all of it had been designed to strip away what he had been and mold him into something new. But as he looked at Marian’s broken body, Godfrey wondered if he could still control who he was becoming—or if that choice had already been taken from him.

Did he even want this? Why had he not questioned his path before this moment?

Godfrey’s mind drifted back to the dome, to the flood of ancient knowledge that had surged through him moments before. He didn’t need to search long to understand it now. As his gaze returned to the smooth, gray metal, the once-indecipherable script seemed clear, as though it had always been within him.

The words spiraled around and down the dome, elegant and flowing, and he could finally read them. It was a single phrase, repeated endlessly, etched in a language as old as the stones themselves:

Only those who leave themselves behind may find the path forward.

As Godfrey’s eyes traced the words on the dome, it suddenly rumbled beneath him. With a deep, grinding sound, the dome shifted, its smooth surface rolling open as if triggered by some unseen mechanism. The spiraling script unraveled as the dome split apart, revealing a dark, winding staircase that descended deep into the earth.

Godfrey stared down into the blackness, a bitter taste in his mouth. A spiral staircase. Of course. It felt like something ripped from a twisted fairy tale—a dungeon designed to push men to their limits, both physically and mentally. He shook his head, unable to suppress a scoff at the morbidity of it all.

The words seemed apt, now.

Godfrey descended.