Adrian had grown used to the silence in the temple, though he never quite stopped feeling its weight. Days passed in soft ritual—watching the witches move like shadows through the stone halls, their lips sealed against his questions. He had been invited here, permitted to stay as a guest, but it often felt more like a tolerated intrusion than hospitality. Only one woman, the mother of the order’s young leader, ever spoke to him. She answered carefully, measured words that hinted at centuries of wisdom but never strayed too close to secrets.

The rest of them, ancient women with eyes like dull glass, ignored him as though he were air. Only the leader herself, the youngest among them, seemed aware of his presence. He was not allowed to approach her, let alone speak. Still, whenever she crossed his path—drifting through corridors like a wraith in black silk—her violet gaze lingered. Not hostile, not cold. Apologetic. As though she regretted something that had yet to happen.

On the eve of one of his last nights, he was pulled from sleep by hands like iron. Fingers gripped his arms, his legs, his shoulders. He gasped, struggling, but the moment he opened his mouth a voice hissed for silence. The old witches had come for him. They dragged him barefoot through halls that grew darker, the air heavy with damp and the copper tang of blood. Adrian’s protests echoed uselessly. His glasses tilted, nearly falling, his heart racing too fast for words.

Down they went, beneath the known chambers into stone that had never seen sunlight. He was hauled into a cavern vast and black, where the air was thick and stale. At the center lay a massive symbol etched into the floor, carved deep and filled with something dark that gleamed in candlelight. He barely had time to register the smell before he was thrown down, wrists bound in iron and chained tight to the stone. His breath came shallow.

The witches gathered, their circle closing in. Dozens of them, faces marked by centuries of devotion, their eyes glittering in the gloom. They began to chant—low, rasping words that scraped the air raw. The blood-stench grew stronger. Adrian’s chest clenched with panic; he pulled at the chains, but they cut into his skin.

Above them all, elevated on a stone dais, stood the leader. She was young, achingly young compared to the others, and yet she held their reverence like a crown. Her long black hair spilled over her shoulders, the dark garment draping her slender frame like a shroud. Upon her forehead glowed a headband with a single, pulsing amethyst. Her eyes, violet and unearthly, fixed on him.

The chanting rose. Adrian swallowed, heart hammering, staring back at her. She didn’t look triumphant. She didn’t even look cruel. She looked… broken. Her lips parted slightly, as though she wanted to speak, but no words came. The apology in her gaze was unmistakable now, and it terrified him more than the circle of witches. Because if she pitied him, then she already knew what was about to happen.

The symbol beneath him grew warm. At first it was faint, a prickling on his back where his shirt met stone. Then it burned, as if fire crawled through the grooves beneath his body. He cried out, thrashing, his voice drowned beneath the droning chant. The witches swayed, their arms raised, their shadows enormous against the walls.

Adrian’s mind reeled. Was this it? He had come for stories, for knowledge, and instead he had walked into his own ending. Every childish adventure, every dream of proving that the unseen world had meaning—was it all leading here? His chest tightened, the smell of blood and smoke filling his lungs.

And still she watched. The leader, the girl with the violet eyes, standing apart from the others. Her lips pressed together now, trembling. Adrian thought, absurdly, that she wanted to tell him she was sorry. That none of this was her choice. The amethyst on her crown pulsed brighter, a heartbeat of violet fire.