Thorn stood near the edge of the Great Hall, half-veiled in shadow, a silent observer in a world that wasn’t his. Every instinct screamed at him to turn away, to put distance between himself and whatever ancient force had been stirred within the hall, but he stayed, rooted by a pull he could neither name nor dismiss. This was more than a ceremony; it was a summoning, a communion with something vast, old, and hungering. He had heard whispers of rituals like this, rumours carried by travellers who spoke of distant tribes and their dark practices. But nothing had prepared him to witness it firsthand.

First, Selis had dipped his own hands into the water, cupping the dark liquid to his lips, his head thrown back as though in ecstasy, eyes closed, murmuring words that only the lake could understand. Then Roric had stepped forward, face impassive, his gaze distant as he drank, a brief tremor passing through him before he moved back.

Selis’s voice echoed through the hall, “You drink in remembrance, in reverence, in surrender. May the lake’s depths claim you, hold you, carry you. May it know your soul as you know its dark waters.”

The other council members followed, each placing their lips to the water with a silent, almost fearful reverence. They drank slowly, as though the act itself were sacred beyond measure, each of them marked by Selis’s dark blessing before moving away, leaving a trail of dread in their wake.

The townspeople rose from their seats, eyes wide and glassy, faces slack and unseeing, as though spellbound by the lake’s call. Thorn’s stomach clenched as he watched.

Then, one by one, the people approached, each bending over the pool with shaking hands, eyes wide as they stared into the depths. They dipped their hands into the water, lifting cupped palms to their mouths, faces tightening as the liquid touched their lips. Selis whispered words over each one as they approached. His hand would rise, two fingers outstretched, marking each forehead in blessing as they drank.

For a fleeting moment, Thorn saw an array of emotions—dread, awe, resistance—flash across their faces before they drank, each expression vanishing, replaced by a strange, distant blankness, as though they had tasted something forbidden yet irresistible.

And then he realized—his turn was coming.

Thorn could feel a steady, building pressure, a presence that seemed to rise from the pool’s depths, reaching out with unseen fingers, brushing against the edges of his mind, beckoning him forward. The chanting, the murmuring, the slow procession of townsfolk, each one lost in their own trance-like obedience—it was suffocating, like being trapped in a nightmare where no one could wake.

But he was not like them. He was an outsider, untouched by the lake’s lore, its unspoken rules, and its silent promises. It whispered to them, a silent voice woven into the stillness, and in response, they moved like supplicants, giving themselves over to the ritual without hesitation.

Thorn’s jaw tightened. The water from the pool was no ordinary drink; it was a binding, a mark pressed deep into their spirits. He could almost taste its darkness from where he stood, a bitterness that seemed to linger in the air, sharp and metallic.

For a moment, the audience blinked, glancing around as though emerging from a shared dream. They exchanged uneasy glances, as if questioning what had just transpired, what ancient pact they had entered. Their gazes turned toward the council, searching for guidance, for understanding, but the council members, too, were bound in the ritual’s silent weight, each of them casting furtive glances across the hall.

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Then, one by one, they looked to Thorn.

First Daithi, his gaze tinged with something Thorn couldn’t quite name—regret, or perhaps a hint of reluctance. His eyes held a plea, almost as if he were asking Thorn to take this last step, to complete the ritual, to join them fully.

Orla was next, her eyes sharp, assessing, carrying a silent command that left no room for refusal. Her gaze bore into him, as if trying to carve him into something that would fit within the town’s hidden design.

Then Finnian, his face inscrutable, his eyes cold and unwavering, watching Thorn with an intensity that sent a chill down his spine. There was an edge of anticipation in Finnian’s gaze, a hint of satisfaction, as though Thorn’s hesitation had been anticipated, calculated, and folded neatly into the council’s plans.

Leora’s gaze lingered last, her usual mischief absent, her eyes quiet but insistent, holding a curiosity almost tinged with sympathy. She seemed to silently urge him forward, her expression softened, as though she alone understood the weight of the choice that lay before him.

Finally, every eye in the hall turned toward him, one by one, a slow, unyielding shift until he stood at the centre of their attention. The silence was heavier than it had been before, charged with an expectation that hung in the air, pulling him toward the pool, binding him to the weight of their collective gaze.

He was the outsider, the last to approach, the one who did not belong yet stood here, a witness to their most sacred rite. And as he stepped forward, his heart pounded against his ribs, the dread building, each step carrying him closer to the unknown depths that awaited him.

Thorn’s pulse pounded in his ears, his thoughts churning. He knew what this meant—knew that to refuse was to mark himself forever as apart from them, as something foreign, something to be rejected or even cast out. But if he drank…

He looked down at the pool, its surface dark, like the eyes of a beast waiting to consume him whole. If he drank, he would bind himself to this place, to this lake and whatever shadows lurked beneath it. He could feel the weight of that choice pressing down on him, a cold, heavy thing that coiled around his chest.

The hall seemed to hold its breath as Thorn drank.

The water was cold, colder than any he’d felt, seeping into his skin and sliding over his tongue like liquid iron. It tasted sharp, metallic, with an earthy bitterness that sank into his throat, coating his mouth in a way that felt both ancient and wrong. There was a thickness to it, a weight that pressed down on him as he swallowed, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was consuming more than water—that he was swallowing a piece of something much darker, something old and undisturbed.

A numbness spread through him, radiating from his mouth to his core, and he felt his pulse slow, matching the rhythm of the water’s chill.

The taste lingered, bitter and unyielding, curling at the back of his throat like a warning, each breath amplifying the sense that something within him had shifted, that he was no longer entirely the man who had stepped into the hall.

Lowering his hands, he let the remaining water drip from his fingers back into the pool, the ripples spreading outwards in silent mockery of his choice. Thorn stepped back, feeling the gazes upon him ease.

He turned away from the pool, his steps sluggish and heavy as he moved back toward the edge of the hall.

And as he stood there, a single thought cut through Thorn’s mind, stark and unyielding.

Had he just sealed his fate?

The hall, filled with murmurs of the townsfolk resuming their places, seemed to close in around him, shadows gathering at the edges as if drawn by some unseen hand. Thorn felt a cold finality settling in his chest, a realization that left him hollow.

And yet, somewhere within, a voice whispered again, faint and urgent.

Survive.