My stomach twisted.
He turned to face me fully now, his eyes bright in the fading light, green catching gold as the sun dipped lower.
“When you are ready,” he said, “You may step forward.”
I looked at the circle, at the stone beneath my feet layered with dust, and at the faces frozen forever around us.
And I knew, with a certainty that sent a shiver through me, that once I crossed that threshold, there would be no turning back. The dust layering the stone now made me wonder… was this the remains of those who had failed?
The one’s who hadn’t…
Survived the Gods judgement.
The pale powder scattered at the base of the stones, the fine dust that at first glance looked like soot, revealed itself slowly, horribly, for what it truly was.
Ash.
All that remained of those who had not survived the judgment.
And there was so much of it.
It clung to the cracks in the stone and gathered in the shallow grooves of the earth, disturbed only by the faintest whisper of wind. I couldn’t stop myself from staring, from imagining the lives that had ended here. The promises spoken and broken, the truths found wanting. The knowledge settled heavily in my chest, a reminder that this place was not symbolic, not ceremonial in any gentle sense.
It was final.
The stones themselves rose around me in a rough circle, their surfaces worn with time yet marked by something deeper, something that felt aware of what was going on. They reminded me of a scene from a television show I had watched once, where standing stones acted as a gateway, a portal to another time. If only these were the same. If only stepping between them could take me somewhere else entirely.
To Atlas.
I would have given Theron anything he desired if it meant stepping through those stones and reaching Atlas. Anything at all. But these were not a passage. They were not merciful.
They were judgment.
“You will step inside… alone,” Theron said, his voice calm though his gaze cut briefly to Aster, where he stood tense and watchful. “And you will answer what is asked. It is that simple.”
Aster’s hand brushed mine, the contact brief but loaded with meaning, a plea. I didn’t look at him. I feared my resolve would fracture entirely if I did.
“And if I refuse?” I asked, though even as the words left my mouth, I knew how hollow they sounded. Theron’s eyes flicked toward the path we had come from, toward the fortress rising behind us.
“Then you leave,” he said evenly. “Without the torch. And as for the trouble Atlas is in, nothing changes for me.” He shrugged, an infuriatingly casual gesture.
There it was.
The illusion of choice.
Who was I kidding? There was no choice at all. I would have promised him anything if it meant preventing what I knew was going to happen. Part of me even wanted to get it over with, to step into the stones, face whatever judgment awaited me, and walk back out unburned, alive, and victorious. To watch dismay cross the terrifyingly beautiful face of the Gorgon King as he handed over the Weaver’s Torch.
What stopped me was the smallest, most dangerous thing… doubt.
What if, somewhere buried deep within me, there was a line I would not cross? What if he demanded something so catastrophic, so world-altering, that in trying to prevent one disaster, I unleashed another? Worse still, what if the stones sensed that hesitation, that fear, and judged me for it?
If I entered the circle, would I walk back out alive, or would Aster be left carrying my remains in an urn?
Either way, I had to do it.
I stepped forward, then stopped and turned back to Aster.
“Don’t worry, I…” The words faltered, useless and incomplete.
