All Skye could feel was hate. Hate for the Teranians and what they had done to his friends and comrades. Hate for the Hessians and their cold, calculated savagery. Hate for Jaylon, the liar who had tossed him and his friends into this nightmare. And above all, hate for this cursed, blood-soaked planet.

The air was suffocating, the gas was pouring out of the prison’s vents in large quantities. Skye could hear muffled screams and shouting, but they felt distant, like echoes in a vast void. The world was fading. Darkness began to swell and stretch, devouring everything in its path. It was happening again—the outlines, the shadows, just like what had happened outside The Structure.

Shapes appeared, stark white against the black, their movements slow and deliberate. The small suns drifted into view again, glowing and pulsing in their erratic orbits. Skye’s chest tightened as he recognized what they were—the very essence of the people around him.

Souls.

He didn’t need to see to know who the two fleeing shapes were. The Creature and Elissia. They were bolting down the corridor, their outlines frantic. But the cell around him was gone. It melted away as if it had never existed, the stone walls dissolving into swirling grains of sand. The darkness started to lift, replaced by a vision the enveloped his five senses.

The sands shifted, moved by unseen winds. They coalesced into dunes, then flattened as rains poured from an invisible sky. The air grew colder, and the ground froze solid. Ice spread, glacial and unrelenting, covering the land in a thick sheet. Skye felt himself moving through time—not walking, but being pulled by an unstoppable current.

The ice thawed. The land transformed. Grass sprouted in lush waves, mountains rose in jagged majesty, rivers carved deep veins into the earth, and forests bloomed with life. He wasn’t in the prison anymore.

What is this place…

Skye stood in a small village, the air fresh and untouched. Simple wooden huts clustered around a central square, smoke curling lazily from stone chimneys. His pulse quickened as he stepped forward. Laughter and chatter floated through the air, strange yet comforting.

A little girl darted out from the shadows and grabbed his hand. Her touch was cool, almost too light to be real. She didn’t speak but tugged him urgently through the village, weaving between the huts until they reached a clearing. A campfire crackled in the center, casting flickering shadows over the trees.

An elderly woman sat by the fire, her face lined with the weight of countless years. The girl released Skye’s hand and disappeared into the night without a word. When Skye glanced up again, the sun had vanished. It was night now.

When did it become night?

“Sit, boy-a. Sit,” the woman rasped, gesturing to a log near the fire. Her voice was sharp, like the snapping of brittle twigs. Skye hesitated, glancing around the clearing, but the warmth of the fire drew him forward. He lowered himself onto the log, his body tense.

“How did I get here?” Skye asked, his voice low, uncertain.

The woman sucked her teeth and winced as if the question caused her physical pain.

“Tsss-th. You should-a not be here. You should-a be dead.” She pointed a gnarled finger at him, her eyes narrowing to slits. “You are a maracaa. A monster.”

The word hit him like a blow. Skye recoiled. “I haven’t done anything to you.”

The old woman ignored his protest. She pulled a glowing stick from the fire, embers dancing as she raised it to the sky. The stars above seemed to shift, brighter and closer than they should have been.

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“The Gods made a-a mistake,” she said, her voice cracking. The firelight danced across her face, illuminating fear in her sunken eyes.

In the darkness beyond the fire, Skye caught the glint of metal—blades reflecting the moonlight. A dozen figures emerged from the shadows, silent as death.

Assassins.

Skye froze, his body taut with instinctive fear. The blades weren’t pointed at him, though. His breath caught as he realized someone else was sitting in his place.

A cloaked man.

This is a vision. I’m not actually here.

The assassins moved precisely, their blades poised to strike, but the cloaked man raised a single hand. The movement was slow and deliberate, and the assassins froze.

“You’d kill your own grandson?” the man said, his voice low and steady. It carried no fear—only anger.

The elderly woman sucked in a sharp breath.

“You have-a cursed us all,” she whispered, her hands trembling as she dropped the fire stick.

“I have brought us safety and stability. You are the one who has forsaken us,” the man said, his voice sharp and resolute. He raised his hand, and clenched his fist, and the assassins dropped dead in unison, their lifeless bodies collapsing to the ground.

“Safety?” The elderly woman coughed bitterly, gesturing at the dead men who now littered the ground.

“You know what I must do,” the cloaked man said, rising to his full height, his tone devoid of warmth or hesitation.

“Please… you must-a. No more death. No more—” The woman’s plea was cut short as her voice faltered. She gasped once, her body keeling over to the side. Her lifeless form slumped against the ground.

The cloaked man whirled around, his gaze locking onto Skye. Yet, despite the closeness, Skye couldn’t make out his features—just the shadowed contours of his hooded face.

“How have you journeyed thus far?” the cloaked man demanded, his voice low and weighted with suspicion. Skye froze, hesitating.

Who is he talking to?

Skye glanced around the clearing, but they were alone.

Suddenly, the cloaked man surged forward, gripping Skye by the collar with unyielding strength. He hoisted him off the ground as if he weighed nothing.

“How did you get so weak?” the cloaked man spat, his voice seething with frustration. “You do not deserve The Brilliance.”

In one swift motion, the cloaked man drew a gleaming knife from beneath his cloak. The blade hovered inches from Skye’s abdomen, poised to strike.

But before the blade could find its mark, a powerful force tore Skye away. The world blurred, the village dissolving into a maelstrom of colors and shadows. Skye felt himself hurtling backward, spinning through space and time.

With a jarring thud, he landed back in the cold, suffocating darkness of the cell. The vision faded, but the cloaked man’s words lingered, haunting and unshakable.

“You do not deserve The Brilliance.”

Skye rolled over in his cell, the smoke now billowing so thick he could barely see. Yet, for the first time since entering this nightmare, he didn’t feel sedated or groggy. No, he was wide awake.

Was any of it real?

Gingerly, Skye touched his now empty and bloodied eye socket, a sharp pang of pain shooting through him. He ripped the sleeve of his shirt and tied it around his forehead, covering the gruesome wound. The makeshift bandage soaked through quickly, but he didn’t flinch. He didn’t have time to.

He stumbled into the corridor, the oppressive smoke curling around him like a living thing. The air no longer dulled his senses. Dozens of prisoners lay scattered across the ground, their bodies slumped and unmoving. Some twitched faintly, but most were utterly still, overcome by the gas.

Eventually, Skye reached Elissia and the hulking form of The Creature. They were alive—he could tell by the shallow rise and fall of their chests—but both were unconscious.

Without hesitation, Skye grabbed Elissia by her hair, lifting her head. His blade trembled as he drew it close to her neck. He paused, the memory of the cloaked man’s words echoed in his mind.

You do not deserve The Brilliance.

The man was right. Since leaving The Structure, he had been weak. A liability. He’d allowed himself to be a pawn in someone else’s game, a victim of his own doubt. He couldn’t afford to be that person anymore.

Skye let go of Elissia, her head dropping limply to the stone floor with a dull thud. He turned and walked to the far wall of the corridor, the smoke swirling around him. Sliding down to the ground, he sat cross-legged with his back against the cold stone, the blade resting across his lap.

No one here deserved to live. This prison wasn’t just a cage—it was a crucible, and he would forge himself anew or die trying.

So Skye waited, his single eye burning with resolve as the unconscious inhabitants began to stir, the groans of the waking breaking the oppressive silence.

The carnage would begin soon. And this time, Skye would not falter.