Thorn stepped through the doorway, his boots landing softly on the polished stone floor of the antechamber. A chill seeped into him, coiling around his bones, and he felt the weight of the hall’s vastness pressing down, even though he had only glimpsed the edge of its grand dome.

Ahead, on a small platform just inside the entrance, sat a simple wooden desk, with the hall’s attendant seated behind it. Thorn observed the man for a moment, his eyes narrowed as the attendant looked up, taking in Thorn’s unfamiliar form with a thinly veiled mix of suspicion and disdain.

“You must be the outsider,” the attendant said, his lips curling into a faint, smug smile. He let his gaze linger, as though inspecting something distasteful. “Yes… yes, you’ve come far, I’d wager. A wanderer by the looks of you, and one unaccustomed to such… sacred spaces, I’d imagine.”

Thorn remained silent, meeting the man’s gaze with a steady, unreadable expression.

“But understand this,” the attendant went on, savouring each word as though it were a grand revelation, “the Great Hall is a place of reverence. A place where we honour powers beyond any of us. It is expected—no, required—that all who enter abide by the customs of this town. Respect is not simply requested here; it is demanded.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “I trust that is clear?”

Thorn gave a brief, measured nod. “Understood.”

The attendant’s expression flickered, as if dissatisfied with the simple answer, but he pressed on with an air of importance. “Good. Very good. Respect, then, as I’ve said, is expected here. And so are rules.” His gaze dropped to Thorn’s side, taking in the dagger, the pouches, and the dark tome secured against his hip. He cleared his throat, attempting a grander tone. “All items—yes, all weapons, pouches, and, ah, artifacts—are to be left here before entering. You may… retrieve them later, once you’ve fulfilled your purpose within.”

Thorn kept his expression neutral, nodding once. “Understood.”

“Good,” the attendant replied, satisfied by the answer but unwilling to soften. “Respect is expected here. And there are rules.” His gaze lowered, eyes skimming over Thorn’s belongings. “You may not carry any weapons or items inside. Leave them here.”

Thorn raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. He unclipped his dagger with deliberate slowness, setting it on the edge of the desk. The attendant’s eyes narrowed further as Thorn placed a heavy pouch beside it.

“Anything else?” the attendant asked, his voice probing. His gaze flickered to the worn, dark tome strapped securely at Thorn’s side. “That book. It too must be left behind.”

Thorn’s expression cooled; his tone sharpened to a blade’s edge. “This here will never leave my side.”

The attendant fidgeted, his hands shifting in small, uneasy movements as he looked between the tome and Thorn’s unyielding gaze. He mumbled something under his breath, then relented with a slight, reluctant nod.

Thorn leaned forward, arranging his items deliberately, then straightened, resting a hand lightly on the tome at his side. “I wouldn’t touch these if I were you,” he said, his voice low and calm, yet unmistakably sharp.

The attendant’s face flickered between irritation and caution, but he finally conceded with a grudging nod. “That’s… fair enough,” he replied, a hint of defiance in his tone, though his hand hovered just briefly before pulling back.

Satisfied, Thorn let his gaze drift momentarily to the grand entrance that awaited him, catching the faint murmurs echoing from the hall beyond. With a final nod to the attendant, he turned and moved forward, slipping into the shadows beyond.

Thorn stepped forward, his boots making the faintest echo in the hushed grandeur of the hall. The cold, polished stone beneath him seemed to hum with an almost imperceptible energy. Every seat was filled—men, women, elders, even a few children, all gathered under the Great Hall’s solemn roof. The townsfolk murmured to each other in low tones, a steady, restless hum that flickered through the chamber like a faint current, charged with anticipation.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself as he scanned the room. His eyes fell upon the massive pillars—North, East, West, and South—looming like ancient guardians around the hall. Their surfaces were densely carved, covered in swirling, intricate patterns that, to most, would seem nothing more than decorations, echoes of a long-forgotten artistry. But Thorn’s gaze lingered, his breath catching. Beneath the surface designs lay symbols—twisted, ancient runes that seemed almost to vibrate with hidden power, faint yet unmistakable. These markings… he knew them, or rather, he recognized their intent.

Old Magic. The thought whispered through him, his pulse quickening. The carvings were wards, symbols of protection and control, drawn from some old, esoteric language, like those he’d seen in the oldest ruins far beyond this town. They were potent, powerful, and unmistakably… alive. Thorn’s fingers itched to trace the lines, to decode their purpose, but he remained still, a quiet awe settling over him. What else have they hidden here?

He took another step, slowing, gaze drifting… the ancient scenes etched into murals along the sides. Vivid images of Halrest’s storied past met his eyes—a farmer casting his net into a brimming lake, a house standing against floodwaters, a swimmer diving into darkness and emerging with treasure in hand. The scenes, so alive and rich, seemed to move in the flickering light, a testament to resilience, survival… and sacrifice.

But then his gaze travelled upward. And there, he stopped. The breath caught in his chest, and for a moment, the world around him seemed to vanish.

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The ceiling above was a masterpiece—a dark, vast dome painted in rich, swirling hues of deep blue and black, colours that mimicked the endless depths of water. It was as if he were standing beneath the surface of the lake itself, staring up into a realm both beautiful and terrible. And there, looming over him, were the figures.

They were more than images. They were beings, each one painted with such exquisite detail, such disturbing realism, that they seemed to watch him, each eye, each line alive with ancient power.

The first figure, the goddess. She rose from the dark waters like a terrible queen, her form winding and coiling with tendrils and scales that shimmered faintly in the dim light. Her face was obscured by a crown of reeds and roots, her hair spilling down her shoulders like flowing ink. But her mouth… a twisted smile curled at its edges, crimson lips painted wet and glistening. She was both mother and monster, her slender arms ending in tendrils that reached out, curling around the painted waves with a hunger that made his skin crawl.

Thorn’s chest tightened, his gaze shifting to the next figure. A creature hunched and watchful, its entire body covered in unblinking eyes. The Watcher. Its form seemed to shimmer as he looked, each eye reflecting the faintest glimmer, like moonlight on dark water. Thorn swallowed, his mind skittering at the thought of its gaze, cold and eternal, seeing all. The Watcher’s face was no face at all—a shifting blur of lines and shadows. But he could feel it, even from below: the weight of its gaze, probing, testing, knowing.

And there, across the dome, the Beast. Its twisted form was a grotesque hybrid, caught between man and creature, each limb ending in slick, webbed fins. Its face—a nightmare of human features, twisted and wrong, hollow eyes dark as death, a mouth filled with jagged, grinning teeth. The Beast’s body, covered in patches of scales and matted fur, was hunched, caught mid-transformation. Thorn’s pulse thundered in his ears as he stared, the thing’s hollow eyes seeming to bore into him, as if waiting… hungry for the change.

At the very apex of the dome a skylight, and a figure that defied definition. The Chaos Shape. It was a smear, a ripple of shadow and light, a suggestion of something vast and unknowable lying just beneath the surface. It dripped with an energy that made Thorn’s vision swim, the shapes coalescing and breaking apart, like waves upon waves crashing in endless turmoil. His mind strained against it, a dark, primordial fear clawing at his chest, a sensation older than memory itself. It was as if the very chaos of the lake had taken form, a power beyond gods and men.

A tremor ran through him, and Thorn tore his gaze away, his heart racing, his breath shallow. He glanced down, feeling a shiver crawl up his spine, his senses on high alert, as though he were standing at the edge of a cliff. He tightened his jaw, his mind spinning as he tried to steady himself, to grasp the impossible weight of what he’d just seen.

They can’t be real, he thought, the words barely forming in the shock of his mind. These gods… they’re not just symbols, are they? What if these gods weren’t dead myths? What if they were real? A sense of dread, sharper than anything he’d felt before, settled over him, cold and unrelenting. Thorn felt himself tense, like a cat startled, every instinct warning him, Danger. Danger beyond anything you know.

And for the first time in years, Thorn felt small, as if he were just another creature under the lake’s gaze.

He took a step back, retreating not into the shadows, but to the edge of the gathering, his shoulders stiff and his gaze wary. Whatever was about to unfold tonight was more dangerous than he had thought. The eyes of the gods—whether real or painted—seemed to watch, piercing through the shadows with an intensity that sank deep into his bones. Thorn focused, steadying his breath, forcing himself to push past the tremor of fear winding through him.

He glanced around the room again, letting his gaze drift over the townsfolk seated in neat, anxious rows. Every corner of Halrest was represented here: elders, artisans, farmers, fishermen—all gathered under the ominous eyes of the mural. And for the first time, Thorn truly saw what bound them to this place, what held them tethered to the Great Hall’s power. It was not just tradition or superstition—it was belief. Belief in the gods, belief in the old ways, belief in the town’s resilience against all odds.

The weight of that belief thrummed in the air, palpable and thick, pressing around him like a shroud. Thorn’s skin prickled. These people would bow their heads to these figures; they would sacrifice for them, spill blood for them. And here he was, under that same gaze, feeling a flicker of something he hadn’t in years: doubt.

For a fleeting moment, he questioned everything he thought he knew. The lessons of his tribe, the wisdom forged in his wanderings, the steely logic that had kept him alive. Was he wrong? Could there truly be something greater here, something beyond his understanding?

But the moment passed, cold and cutting as winter’s wind. Thorn shook his head, clearing the thought. This was simply another challenge, another trial to weather. Like a tree against a storm, he would resist, he would bend—but he would not break. He wasn’t like those who’d given in to despair. He wasn’t like the people here, clinging to gods and monsters to explain their misfortunes.

No, he would act. He would fight. He only had to find the right leverage, the right angle to strike.

His gaze hardened, sharpening as it scanned the rows, seeking out any sign, any flicker that might reveal the path forward. But then, a ripple of awareness tugged at him—something small, a flutter at the edge of his senses. Pure, unguarded, something innocent hiding within the dense, oppressive air of the hall.

It startled him, and he snapped from his trance, his head turning sharply toward the farthest, darkest corner of the room. Tucked behind a towering pillar, barely visible in the shadows, were two slight figures.

Children.

His eyes narrowed as he took them in. They were crouched low, pressed against the cold stone, their shapes small, tentative, their hands gripping the pillar’s edge. They huddled close, desperate to remain unseen. He recognized the posture immediately: the young and wary, those who didn’t belong but had come anyway.

He didn’t need to look closer to know who they were.

His chest tightened, though his expression remained neutral, careful. What were they doing here? Why had they risked sneaking into the Great Hall when they could be safe at home? It was foolish, dangerous. But at the same time, he understood. They wanted answers. They wanted to see, to know.

And perhaps, Thorn thought, there was someone he could still protect.

The weight of his purpose settled over him again, solid and unbreakable. His resolve hardened, his focus sharpening. He didn’t know what the night held, what shadows would emerge from the dark, but if those two were involved… then he would be ready.

Taking a steady breath, he allowed himself to relax, keeping his eyes trained on the centre of the room. He could feel the invisible threads of the hall winding around him, the tension of influence and control swirling through the gathering. But now, amidst it all, another knot had formed—one that no one else seemed to notice.

“Stay safe, children,” he thought, his gaze fierce and calm. “And keep quiet.”

The doors to the Great Hall thudded shut behind him, sealing them all in with a deep, echoing finality. Thorn’s gaze flicked back to the mural overhead, his pulse steady, his jaw set.

Something is coming.

And he would be ready.