My mind was jumbled.

I stared, chest pounding, veins thrumming, at the gaping maw in the stone. Fear and an overwhelming sense of urgency lived there. This was it—before I was ready for it—the next phase of the Trial—the actual Trial. And by the looks of it, I was going to be diving into the deep end without a life jacket. The elements making up the former altar were still radiating the color of blue sky and lightning, swirling around the pit like electric buzzards.

“Alright…alright…but what's down there?” I asked, gripping my makeshift club, hoping for some reassurance. “What’s this…Armament Quarter?” Myri, though, just hovered silently, its light dimming as if to nudge me towards my inevitable leap of faith.

“I have told you all I can, Leo,” Myri said softly. “This next part is yours to pursue. Erm, alone.”

I hesitated, watching the yawning void cautiously, the pieces unyielding in their speed as they moved like a twister ‘round a rabbit hole. I swallowed the lump in my throat, the panic threatening to wreck me.

Just jump in, Leo, I thought to myself. Go ahead—right into the bandsaw hell mouth.

This was crazy. What in the hell was I doing? The absolutely bonkers situation seemed suddenly so absurd that I nearly considered I was losing my mind. None of this was real, was it? It struck me right then how similar this seemed to the terrifying nature of the MRI machine—the rotating lights around a circular void—that I felt as though I was still in it, and my mind had just concocted this whole adventure purely out of spite. But, I could feel the ground beneath my feet, the subtle wind kicking off the thing against my flesh, ruffling my hair and my borrowed death shroud. I could smell the damp, musk of the swamp. I don’t know that I could have imagined all that so fully realized.

The voiceless voice returned, and though it was quiet, I still reacted tensely.

The Boglands note your trepidation.

“Aw, hell…” I groaned. The last thing I needed was some…some swamp bullying me. There was nothing for it. I unclenched my jaw, took a breath, and leaped into the spinning, dark vortex.

—

I used to have dreams about falling.

I’d never been on a plane in my life—compliments of a financially-humble upbringing—but I used to dream about being on them. No matter what, whenever I would, regardless of how well things seemed to be going during it, it would always turn into a nightmare. The aircraft would lose altitude, or have its engines burn out, or suddenly be hit by something mid-flight and it would plummet. Then I'd wake up with a start, punching at the air or screaming my damn head off, looking like a whole fool. That was sort of what it felt like now: something descending out of my control, plunging into the unknown, my body’s insides suspended in a lurch.

Though, before I even had time to consider how terrifying it was, I’d landed, striking water in the dark. I slipped through the water, excavating its depth at top speed. But unlike the healing pool, the temperature of this was cool, startling, enough to instantly knock me out of my panic. It cleared my mind, and I was thankful I’d been able to hold on to my bore club. I’d likely need it. Clutching it in my fist, in water I couldn’t actually see, made the swim to the surface more complicated, but I did it. I broke through, filling my lungs with air.

“Uegh!” I exclaimed, the harsh note ripping from my throat. As I emerged, my eyes locked on to light. I mean, ‘course it would—I was in the dark. But I could see a hint of blue illumination ahead of me. So, as I tread water, I fixated on my glowing beacon, assuming that was the way to go.

“Sheesh, this is miserable,” I whined to no one, receiving no response but my soft paddling splashes. I did not like the unknown variable of how deep this water actually was, or not being able to see what might be in here with me. Set my teeth on edge. So, I made quick work of getting closer to the light until I felt something like a shore, and climbed up onto it. It felt more like a hard ramp of stone than anything…natural—which made a sort of sense. The ruins had been made of shaped rock, and I was below it, somewhere, I imagine, behind the staircase that led to the altar. As I shuffled forward, I caught reflections of the blue light on the wet stone, which had the effect of highlighting my path a bit.

There were walls, too. Which I discovered once I bonked my elbow against one—I was a bit more careful with my steps after that. Seemed like there was possibly a corridor, or a tunnel? The clear intention with which it was structured made me lean more toward the former, but I will freely admit I still knew next to nothing about this supposed birthplace of mine.

I continued, moving slowly toward the light until, minutes later, I finally got close enough to see what it was. It was likely not the brightest, but considering my dark surroundings it was like staring at the sun. The illumination came from the end of a rod of wood about two feet long, curling around the tip like glowing tendrils of mist. A torch…of some variety, then? It didn’t seem safe, but, hey, I needed a method to aid my sight, so, ignoring the gnaw of anxiety in my gut, I lifted it from the sconce on the wall and carried on. As I gripped it tight in my fist, I found the wood was pretty sturdy, and, despite the climate in this dank underground passage, surprisingly dry. Huh, guess it must be magical…Or Galdurical or whatever the term was.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

The torch was heavy in my hand, its blue glow a small rebellion against the suffocating dark. With it, I felt a flicker of control return, like I had reclaimed a piece of myself that the darkness had snatched away. I pressed on, the light casting long shadows across the walls of the corridor, my own figure among them, elongated and distorted.

Every step was a damn question, though, and only the echoes of my footsteps were a possible answer. Still, I tried my best to keep my bearings straight. This damn corridor, though, boys… it seemed to go on for-fucking-ever, a monotonous continuation of stone and silence, save for the occasional plink of water droplets that seemed almost rhythmic in their own right.

Then, there it was—a T-intersection. Bold move, Boglands, bold move.

Well… there was a choice to be made. But, hell if I knew which choice was the right one. To the left, to the right, both paths were cloaked in the same impenetrable darkness, the torchlight too weak to unveil their secrets. I stood frozen for a spell, the decision anchoring me to the spot.

The dripping water was like a damn metronome to my indecision, ticking down the moments as I strained my ears for any sign of direction.

Panic was a living thing in my chest, a mean ol’ snake coiling tighter with every passing second. My hackles were up, and seemed like they’d be raised for as long as I was existing in this place. I’d lived with a dog like that once—always on edge. His name was Brutus. He belonged to Julie and Mona, my first fosters after Marius and Selena. They were a nice lesbian couple that looked after me pretty well—but they had a blind spot where old Brutus was concerned. He never seemed to like me much, even though I was just a kid—took affront to something about my general…me-ness. I walked on a knife’s edge around that mutt, and that’s the way he seemed to prefer it. Seemed a miserable way to live, though—always on guard… Well, hell. I think I just had what some people right refer to as ‘an epiphany.’ But, I couldn’t worry much over that right now, cause I was still trapped down here in this dark nightmare until I sorted myself out of it.

My flesh itched with anticipation, like I could almost feel the breath of something unseen on the back of my neck, the sensation of eyes watching from the shadows. It was ridiculous, I told myself, there was nothing there—but the lizard brain wasn’t convinced.

That’s when the voiceless voice filled my mind.

Which path do you afford yourself?

The words were cryptic, but their intention clear: it was a challenge, a test of my will. So, the Boglands wanted to know which path Leo was fixin’ to choose, huh? Well, the joke was on the swamp, because I did not rightly know, and I doubted I had the perspective to make an informed decision.

Left or right? The question lingered, suspended in the damp air, waiting for my answer. Then, the voice—that I was starting to think of as some kind of overseer of this Trial—returned, and I realized I’d maybe been a might hasty with my initial conclusions. ‘Cause this here was a two-parter.

If the son of the bog values strength of body, he might choose the path to the right. If, however, the son would worship at the altar of fortified will, he might make his home in the leftmost path.

Strength of body or fortified will? Hell, was this some ‘roided out version of one of those online personality tests? Well, the joke was on this particular overseer, because I’d already taken damn near every quiz the internet had to offer. I was an ISFJ on the Myers-Briggs, my spirit animal was a walrus, my snack food persona was a jellybean, and I’d been sorted into Ravenclaw. But, because I have a habit of completing what I start, I gave the two dark passages another once over before turning down the path on my left.

Being strong was easy—eat your meat and veggies, pump some iron, maybe smack a punching bag around a time or two. Simple. But I’d always been fascinated with the idea of an iron will. I’m the type that was often overtaken by the worries of the world—especially where my health was involved. I’d always wished I could sort of turn that portion of my mind off. I may have been dying of illnesses, but at least if I had the tenacity of an old bull under an ornery sun, I wouldn’t be too bothered by it.

I traveled down this path for a bit longer before reaching another branching corridor, only this time, there were three routes to choose from. Once again, as I reached the crossroads, the voice happened to make an appearance.

The left path smells of salt, as tears or seas might bear. The middle path hints of honey carried on a warm breeze. The right path carries the scent of smoke, inviting and consuming. Which might the son of the bog select?

I was thrown by the question. The first pathways had had a more direct design—pick between these two values. Easy enough. This, though…seemed a touch existential. Undefined. I didn’t like it.

It seemed to be based around smell? Though why that would be a qualifying factor in a trial was beyond my reckoning. Still, I tried to puzzle it out.

Does honey have a scent? I wondered to myself. The others, yeah, I could definitely envision them pretty well—but…dang, I don’t think I could ever recall getting a whiff of honey in my life.

I wasn’t sure what to make of it, and after waiting to see if there’d be another follow up—which there was none—I decided that it was a foolish selection. I supposed the question had to be ‘what speaks to you most?’ and on that…well, none of them really. Smoke? Hell, as ‘inviting’ as it claimed to be…I had allergies. The ocean and tears? That sounded like it would lead to a bunch of sad pirates. No thank you. Though, considering what I had about not knowing the scent of honey—a warm breeze might not be too bad neither.

So, without another thought spent on it, I simply moved down the middle path. I’d taken only a few steps before I sensed that something was off. Mainly because it was at that point the opening behind me sealed closed with a finality that had my teeth rattling.

BOOM!

It was like the crash of the door of a prison cell, my immediate retreat cut to a swift and abrupt end.

“Uh-oh,” I said. However, I didn’t even have time to consider the level to which I was supremely and wholly fucked, because the voiceless voice floated into my mind.

You have selected the middle path. May your fortitude of will guide you truly.

Suddenly, a buzzing filled the air. A lot of buzzing.

A noisy cloud so incessant and pervasive it caused dread to bloom within me once more. Sweat was instant, my breath caught. This ain’t just honey…oh, no.

I was acutely aware of my vulnerability, of how ill-prepared I was to face whatever was creating that sound. The buzzing grew louder, angrier, as if incensed by my intrusion. I clutched my bore club tighter, knowing it was a meager defense at best against an unseen swarm.

I had made a huge mistake.