The Door's melodious voice filled the chamber, its words etching themselves into the minds of all present:
"We are but we are not. Good or bad, does that really matter? Alive or dead, I think it does. We work for that, a head for ten, the job gets done such that you don't get burned. Who am I?"
The enigma hung in the air, almost tangible in its weight. Cyrus felt his mind begin to race, imaginary gears grinding into action as he struggled to make sense of the cryptic words. 'We are but we are not?' What could that possibly mean?
Lork's voice, weak but urgent, cut through Cyrus' concentration. "Sounds like a magical rhythm. Be careful, the price for these usually involves something related to blood." The warning sent a chill down Cyrus' spine as he glanced at his friend.
The sight that greeted him made his heart clench. Lork was a shadow of his former self, his face drained of all color, his remaining arm trembling with the effort of keeping himself upright. Time was running out. Cyrus' thoughts instinctively turned to Neno, the librarian who had patched him up so many times before. If only they could reach him, maybe he could work his magic on Lork too.
Tirag's impatient growl broke through Cyrus' desperate planning. "We don't have time for this." The frustration in his voice was palpable, and Cyrus couldn't blame him. Tirag's own condition was dire, his chest a mess of blood and torn flesh from the nightmare Vogel's attack. That was without even considering the numerous other wounds inflicted by the bureau agents. It was a miracle he was still standing.
Before anyone could react, the one-eyed man stepped forward, his remaining eye blazing with determination and fear. "Lork can't die here. Without him, we'll all crumble. It's just a fucking door. We don't have time to play." With that, he grabbed the handle and yanked it open.
The group collectively held their breath, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a gust of frigid wind swept through the chamber, carrying with it the chill of the grave. Cyrus shivered involuntarily, feeling as if icy fingers were caressing his spine.
The door began to shake violently, and before anyone could move, inky black tentacles shot forth from its depths. They writhed in the air for a split second before latching onto the one-eyed man with terrifying speed and strength. His cry of shock quickly turned to one of agony as he was lifted off the ground, his body engulfed by the shadowy appendages.
The sound that followed would haunt Cyrus for years to come. It was the sickening crunch of bones being pulverized, flesh being rendered. It was as if the man had been thrown into some hellish meat grinder. Blood began to trickle down from the writhing mass of tentacles, each drop hitting the floor with a rhythmic, maddening 'plink' that seemed to echo through the now-silent chamber.
The woman's face on the door frame twisted into a grotesque smile of satisfaction. "Wrong answer," she purred, her voice dripping with malicious glee. It was clear she had just enjoyed a meal, though the thought made Cyrus' stomach turn.
For five agonizing seconds, silence reigned. Then, without warning, another scream pierced the air as another of their number was snatched up and devoured by the insatiable door.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
The woman's voice rang out once more, her tone casual as if discussing the weather. "Every five seconds, one will pay the price until you find the answer." The door frame was now slick with scarlet, rivulets of blood running down its surface like macabre tears.
Panic set in. The remaining members of the group unleashed a barrage of attacks against the door, magical blasts raining down in a desperate attempt to destroy it. But their efforts were in vain. The door stood immovable, as unyielding as the towering skyscrapers of City Zero. With each passing second, their numbers dwindled, the horror of their situation becoming unbearable.
Many fell to their knees, scrambling towards the other end of the chamber in a futile attempt to escape. But Nemesis had sealed their only other exit. There was no way out.
The realization hit Cyrus like a physical blow. Nemesis' retreat hadn't been an act of cowardice at all. It had been part of a carefully crafted plan by the bureau to eliminate them all without risking their own agents, leaving no trace behind.
"No, Lork!" Cyrus' anguished cry tore from his throat as his friend was ripped from his grasp. Lork's body left a crimson trail as he was dragged across the floor, yet somehow, impossibly, he managed to smile.
"It's no big deal, everyone has to die, you know," Lork said, his voice surprisingly steady. "Before I go... how was it with the arrogant lion? Did you go in for smooth or chicken out at the last second?"
Cyrus felt his heart constrict at his friend's words, a lump forming in his throat. Even now, facing certain death, Lork was trying to lighten the mood. The door's riddle echoed in Cyrus' mind, each word pounding against his consciousness like a hammer. "We are but we are not. Good or bad, does that really matter? Alive or dead, I think it does. We work for that, a head for ten, the job gets done such that you don't get burned. Who am I?"
As Lork was lifted off the ground, dark tentacles beginning to envelop his body, his bloody smile never wavered. Their eyes met one last time, a lifetime of friendship and shared struggles passing between them in that single moment. The door flickered, preparing to claim its next victim.
And then, like a bolt of lightning, clarity struck. "The bureau!" Cyrus shouted, his voice ringing through the chamber.
The door froze, the tentacles halting their advance mere inches from Lork's face. The woman's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in what could only be described as grudging respect. "Correct answer," she said, her voice tinged with disappointment as the tentacles vanished into thin air.
With a flash of light, the door swung open to reveal a familiar sight – the villa of the Bites. There was no mistaking it; the door truly did possess the power to transport them anywhere they desired. Without hesitation, Cyrus lunged forward, grabbing both Lork and Tirag and dragging them towards the portal.
The weight of their loss settled heavily on Cyrus' shoulders as they stumbled through the doorway. Of the thirty non-humans who had embarked on this ill-fated mission, only Lork had survived. Just the three of them remained to step through the portal, a pitiful remnant of what had once been a force of rebellion.
As their bodies began to fade into the shimmering gateway, a final question drifted into Cyrus' mind, carried on the ethereal voice of the door. "How did you get the answer?"
Cyrus' response came unbidden, his thoughts laid bare in this moment of transition. "We are but we are not – the bureau is not alive, it's not one person, it's not many persons. Alive or dead, the bureau doesn't care. They work for that, slaying all non-humans, a head for ten. The job gets done so we don't get burned, they believe they are right. I gambled that only the bureau fits those criteria."
A blinding light enveloped them, and in an instant, they were gone. The chamber fell silent once more, the blood-soaked door the only evidence of the tragedy that had unfolded within its walls. As the light of the portal faded, the woman's face on the door frame twisted into a final, enigmatic smile – a reminder that in the world of Arkania, even victory came at a terrible price.