As Mercer’s feet touched the cracked, ancient stone streets, the air seemed to grow heavier, thick with the weight of history and something far darker—oppression, conquest. Each breath he took felt strained, carrying the metallic tang of decay and blood, as if the city itself was whispering its violent past. Above him, the swirling hues of purple and green pulsed ominously through the sky, casting the ruined streets in an eerie, unnatural glow, like the heavens had turned their back on this forsaken place. The buildings, once grand and towering monuments of power, now stood as hollow ruins, their facades scarred by time and war. Banners bearing the Roman eagle hung from the crumbling structures, flapping lazily in the wind—a constant reminder of the iron grip that now ruled over this world.

Every step deeper into the city felt like a descent into a nightmare. The silence was oppressive, thick and suffocating, as if the city itself held its breath, waiting. Mercer’s heart raced—not just from fear, but from the overwhelming sensation that this place defied everything he knew. This wasn’t just another mission; this world made Earth feel distant, like a fading memory. He had entered something far worse, a realm where even the sky seemed hostile, where death was etched into the stone beneath his feet.

As they marched him down the street, his wrists bound in chains, Mercer couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between the crumbling grandeur of the buildings and the Roman military precision that dominated the landscape. The legionnaires moved with a chilling efficiency, their armor gleaming in the strange light. Their eyes scanned the streets with a mechanical focus, every twitch of their hands ready to grip their weapons. The air around them felt colder, as if their presence alone drew the warmth from the city. Mercer could feel their eyes on him, not just watching but evaluating, as though measuring whether he was a threat—or prey.

Banners bearing the Roman eagle hung from nearly every structure, their blood-red fabric flapping in the strange wind. The legionnaires patrolled the streets in tight formation, their presence ominous amid the chaos of recent battles.

Slaves hurried along the roads, dragging away alien corpses. Mercer recognized some of the twisted bodies—creatures he had encountered on Earth, their grotesque forms etched into his memory, here they do not appear to be rotting to a puddle of slime. Yet, among them were others, far more terrifying, with features that defied logic. His stomach churned. These monsters were what the Romans had defeated. What else did they have in store?

His eyes followed the trail of bodies being cleared from the streets. Whatever these creatures were, the battle had been recent. He couldn’t shake the sense of dread as he passed through the desolate landscape, trying to piece together what had happened, but his thoughts were interrupted by a harsh shove from one of the guards.

“Keep moving,” the guard barked, his Latin commands lost on Mercer.

Mercer kept his head down, ears straining to pick up anything useful, though the language barrier was thick and impenetrable. The soldiers around him spoke in clipped Latin, barking orders and chatting amongst themselves, but it was all gibberish to him. The weight of ignorance pressed down on him—he didn’t know where he was, who these Romans were, or why they had dragged him to this strange city. All he knew was that it was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

The procession led him to the heart of the city—a massive temple that loomed over the broken skyline. Its columns rose like ancient monoliths, dwarfing everything around them. Strange symbols were etched into its surface, clearly predating the Roman conquest. Yet now, Roman banners hung from the entrance, and guards stood watch with grim faces.

As they entered the temple, the temperature dropped sharply, and the cold air bit at Mercer’s skin. The dimly lit interior was lined with flickering torches, casting long shadows on the stone walls. Two guards stood at attention by the entrance, their faces obscured by their helmets but their rigid posture exuded control. The slight clinking of their weapons against the stone floor echoed ominously in the quiet chamber. One of them shifted slightly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, a subtle reminder of the violence that could be unleashed at a moment’s notice. The chamber they were led into was enormous, with a long stone table at its center. Arrayed on the table were various devices—strange pieces of Earth technology that felt out of place in such a setting. How did they get here? Mercer wondered. The roman soldiers lined the walls of the chamber, their expressions hidden behind polished helmets, but the tension in their posture was unmistakable. These were men accustomed to war, their very presence suffocating. Their hands never strayed far from the hilts of their blades or staffs, as though expecting Mercer or Lena to make a wrong move.

Mercer’s throat tightened as he watched one roman officer handle the weapons with an almost reverent touch. These weren’t just firearms—they were something else entirely. He had faced high-tech weapons before, but these... these felt wrong. Unease twisted in his gut as his eyes tracked the sleek, almost futuristic designs. The weapons surface was smooth and flawless, yet there was a weight to them that went beyond their physical form. Magazines etched with symbols—fire, lightning, ice, air—glowed faintly, drawing Mercer’s attention. He didn’t need to understand their meaning to know these elements weren’t just for show; they hinted at something far more dangerous. What were the Romans truly after? And what would happen if they unlocked the secrets of these weapons? A cold dread settled over Mercer as he realized that the technology in front of him held a power far beyond any firearm he’d ever known—and the Romans were getting closer to possibly wielding it.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps—steady and deliberate. A figure stepped into the room, commanding immediate attention. A cold sweat prickled at the back of Mercer’s neck as the officer approached. Each step echoed like a countdown, a reminder of the tightening noose around him. He forced himself to keep his head high, to stand his ground, but deep down, his mind was a storm of fear and anger. He didn’t know what they wanted from him, but the oppressive weight of the officer’s presence made him realize just how small and powerless he was here. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but the chains around his wrists reminded him that running wasn’t an option.

The man stood before them, his figure radiating authority and power. His armor gleamed in the dim torchlight, every piece adorned with intricate engravings that shimmered with a faint, magical glow. The gold plating on his chest and shoulders reflected the ethereal light, casting an almost divine aura around him. His helmet, forged in the likeness of an ancient Roman officer, had sharp, elegant lines, with a plume of silver cascading down the back. Though designed in the style of the Roman legion, it was clear this was no ordinary armor—runes carved into the metal pulsed subtly with purple energy instead of the blue runes he saw first time back on earth in the roman camp. the purple runes adding an unsettling, otherworldly presence to the already imposing figure.

Mercer couldn’t tear his eyes away from him. His skin was pale, flawless, untouched by time or battle, giving the impression that this man had never known the ravages of war despite the weight of his command. His features were sharp and almost too perfect, as though sculpted from marble. The contrast between his youthful appearance and the ancient power he radiated was unnerving. Everything about him exuded control, as if the room itself bent to his will. Mercer felt a deep chill settle in his chest—a primal instinct telling him that this man was a threat, something far more dangerous than anyone he had ever faced.

Next to him stood a woman, her posture stiff and wary. She wore a lab coat—clearly from Earth. Mercer hadn’t seen her before. Was she from GRRA? She glanced at Mercer with an unreadable expression before looking back at the Roman, preparing to translate his words.

“Decimus Julius Verus,” she said quietly, her voice tense as she translated the Roman’s introduction into English. “He’s... the leader here.”

Decimus’ eyes scanned the devices on the table, his expression sharp and calculating. He spoke again, his tone cold as ice, though Mercer caught none of the words. The soldiers shifted slightly at his voice, as if his very words commanded not just authority, but fear. The tension in the room spiked, and one of the guards by the door adjusted his grip on his spear, his knuckles white under the torchlight. Even the air seemed to tremble under the weight of Decimus’ command, his soldiers hanging on his every word.Still, the weight of Decimus' attention fell on him like a physical force. His flawless features gave nothing away, but his presence was oppressive, as if time itself bent around him.

“He’s asking what these things are,” Lena said, her voice taut with unease. “He wants us to explain their purpose.”

Mercer’s mind raced, but he struggled to connect the pieces. He wasn’t a scientist, and most of the equipment laid out before them was alien to him. Decimus’ gaze lingered on the weapons lying on the table, his fingers tracing the lines of a rifle-like weapon. Mercer could see the fascination in his eyes as he examined it.

“I don’t know what they think I am,” Mercer muttered, his voice low but sharp. His eyes narrowed at Lena, suspicion flickering beneath the surface. “I’m not one of your tech people, so why are they looking at me like I’m supposed to know? What exactly is your role in all this?”

Lena cast a wary glance at Decimus before leaning closer to Mercer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s never about what you know,” she murmured, her tone laced with fear and calculation. “It’s about what they think you know. They’re searching for something—something dangerous—and they think we have the answers.” Her eyes flickered with unease as she glanced toward the Roman soldiers. “But they don’t realize how close they are to tearing everything apart. My research, everything I’ve built—it’s all at risk. If they figure out how to use it, we’re finished. Just follow my lead. If we’re smart, we might survive long enough to fix this... or at least understand what we’re dealing with.”

With a deep breath, Lena stepped forward, clearing her throat as she addressed Decimus in hesitant and broken Latin, her voice wavering just enough to give the impression of uncertainty. She gestured to the table, her fingers lingering over some of the objects, her brow furrowed as though she were carefully considering each one.

“These… sunt prototypa,” Lena said in a voice just loud enough for Decimus and Mercer to hear. “Nonnulla imperfecta sunt... periculosa,” Lena began, her voice trembling slightly. She cast a furtive glance at Decimus, weighing every word before continuing. “Experimentis clausis destinata erant, non hic... in loco caeco et hostili.” She hesitated again, the weight of her lie pulling at her, but she pressed on. “Nisi recte usus est, potest... vim suam contra nos vertere.”

Mercer could see the tension in Decimus’ jaw as he listened, his gaze flicking between Lena and the devices with an unsettling intensity. Lena’s improvisation continued, her voice trembling just enough to sound believable.

“Illud telum,” she said, pointing to the rifle-like object Decimus had been so fascinated by, “est hybridum inter technologiam ballisticam Terrae et propulsionem mana-cristallo fundatam. Vis eius instabilis est. Si conatus fueris id sine calibratione idonea iaculare, forte… bene, in faciem tuam displodere poterit.”

Mercer’s stomach clenched. He struggled to understand what lena was saying but Decimus' expression remained cold and unreadable.

“He’s asking if it’s operational,” Lena whispered, turning to Mercer. There was a flicker of something in her eyes—desperation. “What should I say?”

Mercer gritted his teeth I dont know what you just said, feeling the weight of Decimus' scrutiny bearing down on him. "just tell him this stuff needs... recalibration or something. That it's too dangerous right now."

Lena nodded quickly, then turned back to Decimus, her voice steady but her hands trembling slightly as she gestured to the device. "Nondum paratum est. Systema nucleare valde volatile est et fortasse male iaculat. Si conatus fueris id uti in hoc statu, reactionem concatenatam efficere posset quae totam cameram destabilizaret."

There was a pause as Decimus regarded her with those cold, calculating eyes. His fingers drummed against the stone table, and Mercer could sense the growing impatience in the room. The other guards exchanged uneasy glances, clearly unsure whether to trust Lena’s explanation.

Then Decimus spoke again, his tone like ice. His words were clipped, each one sharp and final. Lena paled as she listened, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the table.

“He’s giving us one final opportunity,” Lena whispered, her voice thin with fear. “But he’s not interested in excuses, Mercer. He wants results, or there will be... consequences.”

Mercer’s heart pounded in his chest. The tension was thick, every second feeling like it stretched longer than the last. He could see the thin thread they were walking, one wrong move and Decimus would have no patience left.

Lena, her voice cracking just slightly, continued. “I told him mostly the truth, half truth, Mercer. Some of this equipment—it’s incomplete. If he tries to use it without understanding, it might blow up in his face. He doesn’t seem to believe me, but... I think he’s wary.”

Mercer clenched his fists, his mind racing for any way out. But before he could respond, Decimus stepped forward, his expression darkening. His eyes gleamed with something cold and dangerous, his perfect face betraying nothing, but his presence oppressive.

Lena, standing stiff beside Mercer, translated his words as Decimus spoke again, his tone cold and calculated.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“He says you’ll be forced to undergo the Ritus Ascensio,” Lena whispered, her voice trembling with barely concealed dread. “The Potion Animus—it’s meant to prepare you for something they call the Advent. I’ve seen what this ritual does to people, Mercer. It’s dangerous, unstable. For them, it’s about power—unlocking something within you to serve their needs. But for us... it’s about survival.” Her gaze flicked nervously to Decimus before she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a near-inaudible murmur. “If it goes wrong, there’s no coming back. And he’s not giving you a choice.”

Mercer’s heart pounded. He had no idea what this Advent was, but the way Decimus spoke of it sent a chill down his spine. Lena cast a nervous glance at Decimus, then lowered her voice even further as she explained, her eyes darting toward the door as though someone might be listening. She leaned in, her voice barely a whisper. “They’re searching for something… no, someone. Psions—powerful ones. But it’s not just power they’re after. It’s control.” She swallowed, her voice faltering as she continued. “The process they’ve devised to create them—it’s dangerous, Mercer. Unstable. Most who go through it… don’t come back.” She paused, biting her lip as if wrestling with the rest of what she had to say. “And those that do… they’re not the same.”

Mercer clenched his fists. "Why? Why are they doing this?"

“I don’t know,” Lena admitted, her voice faltering. "Whatever this Advent is, they believe it’s the key to their future. And they’ll stop at nothing to create psions to face it. They believe psions are the only ones who can control what's coming."

Mercer tried to keep his expression neutral, but the fear gnawed at him. He didn’t know if he had the strength to endure whatever this ritual was, but he had no choice. The chains around his wrists reminded him of his helplessness. Still, he wouldn’t give Decimus or his legion the satisfaction of seeing him break.

Decimus’ eyes flicked between Mercer and Lena, his patience clearly wearing thin. He spoke again, his words clipped and final. Lena paled as she listened to his orders, her voice shaking when she translated.

“He’s done with questions. We’re to be taken to a cell… until the ritual tomorrow.”

Without waiting for a response, Decimus gave a curt nod, and the guards stepped forward, roughly pulling Mercer and Lena away from the chamber. The soldiers’ grip was unyielding, their hands like iron shackles around Mercer’s arms as they dragged him through the stone corridors. Their silence was unnerving—no words, no expressions—just the cold, unfeeling efficiency of men who had done this many times before. One of them glanced at Mercer with a barely concealed smirk, as if relishing the power they held over him. As Mercer was led down the stone corridors, his mind raced. The more he learned about this world—the less sense it all made. Romans, magic, strange looking firearms, and now this... Ritus Ascensio.

They were thrown into a cold, dark cell, the door slamming shut behind them. The damp stone walls pressed in around them, and the only light came from a small window far above their heads. Lena sat down heavily against the wall, her face drawn and pale.

The hours in the cold, damp cell dragged on, stretching into what felt like eternity. The only sound was the occasional drip of water from the stone ceiling, echoing through the dark space. Mercer sat, his back against the wall, staring at the faint light filtering in through the high window. His thoughts swirled in a fog of exhaustion and dread, but one thing gnawed at him—the gnawing feeling that Lena knew more than she let on. He watched her from the corner of his eye, her posture rigid, her gaze fixed on some invisible point across the room. She hadn’t said a word since they’d been thrown in here, but there was a tension in her that told him she was thinking, calculating.

Finally, Mercer couldn’t stand the silence anymore. “You’re holding back,” Mercer said, his voice low but biting. “You know more about this world, these Romans, and whatever they’re planning. If I’m going to survive this—if I’m going to fight back—I need to know what I’m really up against.” His jaw clenched, the weight of his resolve settling in his chest. “Start talking.”

Lena, sitting cross-legged against the wall, looked exhausted, but she met Mercer’s gaze with a flicker of determination behind her weariness. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ve been here almost a week, long enough to know we’re running out of time. The Romans... they’re obsessed with controlling this world, Valestra Prime—they call this city Valestra. It’s the heart of an ancient civilization, one the Wardens once ruled. The Romans revere them because the Wardens were apparently the first to harness psionic power. Now the Romans are desperate to reclaim that knowledge... at any cost.” She paused, rubbing her temples, her frustration and fear breaking through her calm exterior. “I’ve seen people go through the Ritus Ascensio. Not all of them come back. And the ones who do... they’re not the same.” Her voice softened further, cautious yet calculating. “My people... they’re coming for me. But I’m not just sitting around waiting for a rescue. I’ve been watching, listening. If we play this right, we might survive. But we need to keep a low profile—until I know you’re someone I can trust.”

Mercer’s eyes narrowed. “What about the Wardens? How are the Romans involved in this?”

Lena sighed, running her fingers through her unkempt hair. “The Wardens came from this world centuries ago, long before the Romans ever arrived. They were gods to the Romans, and when the Romans found this place through the rifts, they believed it was their destiny to follow the Wardens’ path. The Wardens’ knowledge, their rituals... that’s what the Romans are trying to recreate. They believe that by unlocking the psionic potential in people, they can regain the power of the Wardens and prepare for something they call the Advent.”

“The weapons on the table… what were they? They looked... different from anything I’ve seen.”

Lena sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Like I mentioned before, those are from my lab. Before the Romans took it, my team and I were experimenting with mana crystals, trying to combine their properties with Earth technology. The Romans found us after opening a rift—they stormed the lab and took everything that wasn’t bolted down. They’ve been trying to figure it out ever since."

Mercer’s eyes narrowed. “Who are your people, GRRA?”

Lena hesitated, her gaze hardening as she struggled with her words. “I can’t... I can’t tell you everything. Not yet.” She ran a hand through her hair, her frustration evident. “But there’s something you should know. I’m a psion, Mercer. Not like what they’re looking for. I can’t let them get a hold of a powerful psion. That’s why my people need me, and that’s why we need to be smart about this. They will come for earth, I’ll take you with me. But you have to survive the ritual first.”

The door suddenly creaked open, the Orthodox priest stepped inside, his familiar presence a stark contrast to the grim cell. His black robes rustled softly as he moved, and his cross glinted faintly in the dim light. Behind him, another figure followed—unfamiliar, yet equally striking in appearance. This man wore Roman armor, but there was something off about him. His demeanor was different, more subdued, as though he didn’t quite belong with the legionnaires who had thrown Mercer and Lena into this cell.

The priest was the first to speak, his voice low and deliberate. “Mercer.” The priest’s voice was soft but edged with urgency. “There is much you need to understand, but time is short, and the danger is great. What I tell you could mean the difference between life and death. Listen carefully.”

Lena blinked, her expression a mixture of confusion and suspicion. "An Orthodox priest? What are you doing here?"

The priest gave a slow nod, his expression unreadable. "I understand your surprise. Few expect to see someone like me in a place like this." He glanced at the Roman officer beside him. "But I am not the only one with secrets."

The officer, Cassius, spoke then, his words sharp and rhythmic, in a language Mercer didn’t understand—Latin. The priest listened, then turned back to Mercer and Lena. “This is Cassius,” he said, translating. “He serves the Roman legion on the surface, but his true allegiance lies elsewhere. He is part of a group called the Unseen Circle.”

Mercer tensed, his mind reeling. "The Unseen Circle?" He exchanged a quick glance with Lena. "What do they want with us?"

Cassius spoke again, his tone calm but insistent. The priest translated each phrase, his voice even. “Cassius says the Romans have grand plans, ones that involve the Ritus Ascensio and the Advent. They’re using you—testing you—to see if you can survive the ritual and become what they need: powerful psion. But he doesn’t believe the Romans understand everything. The Unseen Circle resists them from within.”

Mercer clenched his fists. "What do you expect me to do?"

Cassius answered in Latin, his words firm, as if trying to assure Mercer of something. The priest nodded and turned to translate again.“Cassius believes the Ritus Ascensio is perilous, yes,” the priest translated, his voice steady. “But he knows it could be your only path to survival—and to power. The Romans think they control this ritual, but Cassius and his allies understand more than they let on. This is your chance to turn their own methods against them. If you survive, you will have powers the Romans can only dream of. The Unseen Circle believes this could help turn the tide.”

The priest's gaze softened as he spoke the last part, emphasizing the urgency of their message. "We have arranged for a distraction during the next night shift. Cassius will help you escape, but only after the ritual. If you survive, that is."

"After the ritual?" Mercer’s voice was sharp with disbelief. "You’re saying I have to go through with it?"

Cassius spoke again, more quickly this time, gesturing with his hands as he spoke in Latin. The priest sighed before translating. “Cassius says if you refuse, Decimus will most likely kill you, and the Romans will continue with their plans. But if you survive the ritual, you will have a chance to escape. You could help the resistance—help us fight back.”

Lena, sitting against the wall, looked at Mercer with a mix of fear and resignation. "It’s true," she whispered. "I’ve seen what happens to those who go through the ritual. It changes them. If we’re going to get out of here, you’ll need whatever edge you can get."

The priest nodded in agreement, his eyes solemn. "You’re not alone in this, Mercer. I will pray for your strength. The path ahead is dark, but there is light at its end. Trust us."

Cassius spoke one final time, his voice low and cautious. The priest translated his words. “Cassius says that time is running short. He will return tomorrow night after the ritual. Be ready.”

Without another word, Cassius and the priest slipped out of the cell, leaving Mercer and Lena in the dim, oppressive silence.

Mercer sat back against the cold stone wall, his thoughts churning. Tomorrow, everything would change. The Ritus Ascensio awaited, and with it, a future he couldn’t yet comprehend.

The next morning arrived with a suffocating sense of dread. Mercer had barely slept, his mind haunted by the priest's words, the looming ritual, and the unnerving calm with which Cassius had laid out his fate. The cold, dim light from the high window was no comfort; it merely signaled that the time had come.

The door to the cell swung open, and a group of Roman guards filed in, their armor clinking as they moved. One of them barked an order in Latin, motioning for Mercer and Lena to stand. With a resigned sigh, Lena rose first, her face pale but determined. Mercer followed, his body tense, the weight of the chains around his wrists a constant reminder of his helplessness.

"Move," one of the guards growled in latin, shoving Mercer forward out of the cell leaving Lena behind.

The procession down the stone corridors felt interminable. The air was colder than before, as if the temple itself was preparing for what lay ahead. Mercer’s heart pounded as he neared the ritual chamber along with other prisoners, the very place where his fate would be sealed.

The moment Mercer stepped into the ritual chamber, a wave of dread settled deep in his bones. The dim torchlight flickered off the smooth stone walls, casting long shadows across the faces of the prisoners gathered around the glowing basin. His eyes fell on the Russian civilians, their faces ashen with fear. Some murmured prayers under their breath, while others stood in stunned silence. Mixed among them were the hardened figures of Crimson Dawn members—bandits, former soldiers, men who had faced death on the battlefield, now staring into the unknown with the same haunted fear.

The atmosphere in the room was thick with despair, and Mercer felt its weight as the guards pushed him closer to the front of the line. His heart raced, his mind running wild with thoughts of home, of Earth, of his family. Would he ever see them again? Would they ever know what had happened to him?

One by one, the prisoners were forced to drink. Each one staggered forward, the Potion Animus handed to them in a small stone goblet. The first prisoner to drink—a young man with hollow eyes—took the potion slowly. His body convulsed almost immediately, his eyes rolling back as his skin took on an eerie pallor. The guards dragged him away, still twitching, his fate unknown.

Mercer’s breath came in ragged, shallow bursts as the line moved. His eyes darted to a Crimson Dawn soldier next in line. The man clenched his jaw and swallowed the potion in one gulp, his hands shaking as he handed the empty goblet back. His eyes turned a faint purple, a low groan escaping his lips as he collapsed, trembling. The guards were quick to pull him aside into a corner.

And then it was Mercer’s turn.

The guards shoved him forward, each step a forced march toward the inevitable. As Mercer neared the altar, the air thickened around him, suffocating his thoughts, his senses. The faint murmur of the gathered prisoners, the shuffle of feet, all faded until only the rhythmic pounding of his heart remained. A stone goblet, identical to those before, was pushed into his trembling hands. He stared down at the swirling liquid inside, the faint luminescence of purple and silver shifting like a storm barely contained. Its scent, sharp and metallic, hit him with the force of a blade—coppery, cold, and unnerving. Every instinct screamed at him to drop the goblet, to refuse, but his chains were as heavy as the weight of the eyes that watched him. Time stretched out. Each breath was labored, each moment a torment as he hesitated, trapped in the anticipation of what would happen when he drank.

He lifted the goblet, his hand trembling as he brought it to his lips. The liquid was thick, almost gelatinous, sliding down his throat like molten lead. It burned, an icy fire spreading through his chest and into his limbs. His muscles seized almost immediately, every part of him crying out in pain. His vision blurred, the edges of the room warping, turning into a swirling haze of colors and shadows. His eyes felt heavy, his limbs weak as a wave of overwhelming fatigue crashed over him.

Mercer gasped, his vision dimming as a sharp, relentless migraine tore through his skull. His legs gave out, and he fell to his knees. The world around him began to spin. His vision was tinted with purple, everything taking on a surreal, ghostly hue.

His heart pounded harder, and then the seizures began.

His body jerked violently, his eyes rolling back, and for a brief moment, he saw his reflection in the distant stone basin—the whites of his eyes had turned a sickly, glowing purple. The pain was excruciating, radiating through his head in waves. Each breath felt like a struggle, and all he could hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears.

The guards hauled him up, though his legs barely responded. They dragged him back through the corridors, his body limp, his mind floating in and out of consciousness. He could still feel the burning in his veins, the unbearable fatigue that had taken hold of him. His head pounded with such intensity that he couldn’t think straight.

The last thing he remembered was being tossed back into the dark, cold cell with Lena, her voice faint and distant as she called his name.

As the darkness consumed him, a single thought flickered in the back of his mind, faint but insistent: I can’t break. I can’t let them win. But the fight was slipping away. His body was no longer his own, and the pain, the searing heat that had burned through him, left him hollow and weak. The world around him dissolved into nothingness, and for the first time in his life, Mercer feared that this might be the end—an end where no one would ever know what had happened to him.