Cel's eyes opened to gray dawn filtering through gaps in the ancient stonework. His body felt like it had been pulled apart and reassembled incorrectly - joints stiff, muscles screaming protests with each shallow breath. The stone floor beneath him had leached away what little warmth he'd managed to hold through the night.

He remained motionless, staring at the fractured ceiling above. Sleep had been a battlefield where his father's fists fell like rain, where cultist blades carved fresh channels in his flesh, where his family's turned their backs on him. Each time he jolted awake, the brief mercy of consciousness lasted only moments before exhaustion dragged him back into the same endless loop.

‘So much for destroying the reflections.’

The thought made his jaw clench. He'd shattered every accusing face in that mirror realm, felt their crystalline forms explode beneath his fists with savage joy. Yet here, in the crushing silence of dawn, the nightmares had returned with renewed venom. As if his violence had only fed them.

A sharp throb in his foot cut through the spiral of thoughts. Then another in his arm. Every injury announced itself, demanding the attention he'd been refusing to give.

His entire body was a canvas of damage. Burns from the unimaginable heat covered his hands, arms and torso in angry red patches, tight and weeping. His feet were worse - gashes between his toes, soles shredded from running across razor edges. Dark stains marked the makeshift bandages torn from his already tattered clothing.

But it was his ears that haunted him most. The crystal's shriek had carved away his hearing, leaving only crushing silence. Now he had to track everything with his eyes - every shadow, every flicker of movement, every shift in the light. The relentless vigilance exhausted him more than the injuries themselves.

The leather bags slumped against the wall like deflated corpses. One hung completely flat, empty of water. The other sagged with only two strips of dried meat - all that remained between him and starvation.

He scrambled over the rubble that blocked the entrance, gripping larger stones for purchase as smaller fragments shifted and clattered beneath him. The morning air hit him like a physical blow - not cold, but carrying an oppressive weight that seemed to press against his chest.

Below him stretched the void.

It had consumed everything. Where violet crystals had once jutted from the ground in chaotic formations, where the maze had twisted through impossible angles, was now overlapped by perfect nothingness. The liquid darkness pressed silently against the base of the hill, its surface so flawlessly smooth it seemed to swallow light itself.

Cel's jaw tightened as he stared down at the featureless expanse. The sight stirred something cold in his stomach. A part of him - the part that whispered treacherous thoughts in moments of despair - had hoped to wake and find the liquid gone. Vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared, leaving him free to continue his search for the moon.

But hope, he'd learned, was a luxury he couldn't afford.

The void stretched to the horizon in every direction, an ocean of nothingness that had swallowed his path forward.

His fingers tightened around the stone threshold until his knuckles went white. The thought of being trapped here, of slowly starving, made his chest constrict. The irony was too bitter - he'd choked down the cultists' festering scraps, murdered his own sense of taste to stay alive, only to face starvation here.

Cel's throat contracted in another painful swallow. The dried meat might last him another day if he was careful. Two if he was willing to let hunger claw at his insides. But water - water was already gone.

His gaze drifted back to the liquid's flawless surface.

‘You could drink it.’

The thought slithered through his mind before he could stop it, bringing with it a wave of revulsion so intense he nearly retched. The imagined sensation of that absolute nothingness sliding down his throat, pooling in his stomach, seeping into his blood until it erased everything that made him real—

He shuddered, backing away from the threshold.

Whatever that substance was, it wasn't water. It wasn't anything meant for the living. It was the absence of existence given form, and the idea of consuming it felt like contemplating suicide by inches.

Cel sank back against the ancient wall, its rough surface familiar against his spine. The carved stones had witnessed whatever civilization built this place rise and fall to dust. Now they watched him face his own slow demise.

The silence pressed against his damaged eardrums like cotton soaked in lead. In that crushing quiet, even his own heartbeat seemed too loud.

He let his body sink deeper into the stone embrace, shoulders pressing against the unyielding surface. The wall's chill seeped through his rags, but he welcomed it. Cold was honest. Cold didn't pretend to offer comfort it couldn't deliver.

His thoughts drifted to the Chosen Ones - the warriors blessed by gods who commanded respect and fear in equal measure. Each received three gifts at their first blessing: an artifact of divine make, a trait woven into their very being, and an authority to bend reality to their will. Even the weakest Chosen could survive this maze with ease.

But the Moon Goddess demanded he earn his blessing first. Find the moon with nothing but his broken body and stubborn will. And he didn't even know what domains she held power over - her Chosen were rare, their abilities so underwhelming that they were not worth speaking of. Navigation beneath her light, perhaps. Or the ability to see clearly in darkness. Modest gifts compared to the mountain-blessed who could crush stone with bare hands or the sun-blessed who could command flames by will. Cold comfort when his real body was bleeding out in the Hollow Realms, gambling everything on a goddess whose blessing might amount to little more than parlor tricks.

But the Moon Goddess demanded he earn his blessing first. Find the moon with nothing but his broken body and stubborn will.

His fingers traced the scabbed cuts on his palms. Perhaps that was the point - to prove he could survive without divine favor before granting it. To ensure her Chosen could endure even if her gifts proved worthless.

Hours crawled past like wounded animals. His body refused commands beyond the most basic - breathe, swallow, shift position when numbness crept too deep. His mind drifted through gray territories between sleep and waking, never quite finding rest but never fully alert.

The four suns carved their arc across the sky, their light changing from harsh white to softer amber. Shadows stretched and retreated across the ruins in their eternal dance. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, Cel's thoughts shifted.

His gaze drifted back to the liquid's perfect surface. The anger that had sustained him through the morning had cooled to something quieter. Despite everything - the terror, the exhaustion, the creeping desperation - a part of him felt grateful for its presence. The liquid trapped him here, yes, but it also held the maze at bay. No crystal-crowned horrors could reach him. No impossible heat could burn him. No shifting passages could lead him in maddening circles. For now, he could rest within the ruin's protective embrace rather than face whatever fresh torments waited in those twisting passages.

Strange, how imprisonment could feel like mercy when the alternative was death.

Cel closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the stone.

More hours crawled past like wounded animals. His body refused commands beyond the most basic - breathe, swallow, shift position when numbness crept too deep. His mind drifted through gray territories between sleep and waking, never quite finding rest but never fully alert.

He'd always been one to watch and wait, to observe before acting. Even as a child, he'd found comfort in stillness, in studying the world around him. But this enforced waiting felt like a mockery of his nature - not thoughtful observation, but desperate inaction.

The liquid darkness never stirred. Time passed, and still its surface remained flawless as black glass, offering no ripple or disturbance to suggest life beneath. Yet Cel found his gaze drawn to it repeatedly, as if his eyes could force movement through sheer will.

His stomach clenched with familiar hunger pangs. The dried meat called to him from the leather pouch, but his fingers hesitated at the opening. Two strips remained. After that - nothing.

Cel drew out the final pieces, their texture leathery and unforgiving between his fingers. He placed them one by one on his tongue and chewed methodically, forcing each bite to last. The tough fibers required work to break down, giving his jaw something to focus on besides the relentless throb of his injuries.

When the last morsel disappeared, he tossed the empty pouch aside. It landed with a soft thud that he felt through the stone rather than heard. The act felt final - another tether to survival cut.

The four suns carved their arc across the crystal-painted sky while Cel drifted between wakefulness and uneasy rest.

He jerked awake repeatedly, heart hammering against his ribs, fresh waves of pain shooting through his burns and cuts with each sudden movement. The same unchanging vista greeted him each time: void below, ruins around him, silence pressing against his damaged ears like a physical weight.

During one of these wakeful periods, his hand found the ancient parchment. The brittle pages crackled faintly as they shifted as he unfolded them, their texture like dried leaves that might crumble at the slightest pressure. The incomprehensible script mocked him with its elaborate curves and angular slashes, each symbol as mysterious as the absence of the moon.

At the document's end, the illustration waited. Most of the creature with the fairy-like wings above and the crystal growth below had been violently defaced with thick black ink, while robed figures knelt in poses of absolute submission. Their heads bowed low, hands raised in offerings he couldn't identify.

The scene stirred something cold in his chest. He'd witnessed devotion like this before - purple-robed cultists arranged around silver basins, their faces hidden in shadow while his blood dripped into their sacred vessels. The same posture of worship. The same ritualistic precision.

Cel's jaw tightened until his teeth ground together. He folded the parchment with sharp, decisive movements and set it aside. Whatever knowledge these pages contained, they offered no comfort. Only fresh reminders of his torment.

Evening approached with glacial slowness. The four suns descended toward the jagged horizon, their light shifting from harsh white to amber to deep crimson. Shadows stretched across the ruins like dark fingers reaching for him, and still the void remained motionless below.

Something about its patience unsettled him more than motion would have. If it had writhed or bubbled or shown any sign of activity, at least he could understand its nature. But this perfect stillness felt like the silence before thunder - as if the darkness were waiting for some signal he couldn't perceive.

Cel traced the burns on his forearms, fingertips finding the raised edges where blisters had formed and burst. The pain was distant now, overwhelmed by deeper exhaustions, but the texture remained as proof of what he'd endured. His legs bore their own catalog of wounds - cuts from crystal edges, bruises from desperate falls, blistered patches where the maze's heat had scorched his skin.

A breeze stirred through the ruins, lifting dust motes in lazy spirals. He couldn't hear the wind's passage, but he felt it against his skin, cool and oddly gentle. The sensation made him close his eyes and lean back against the carved stone, letting the ancient wall support his weight.

His breathing had found its own rhythm - slow, measured, the stubborn insistence of a body determined to survive. Each inhalation brought dusty air into his lungs. Each exhalation released a little more tension from his shoulders.

The suns vanished behind the crystalline peaks, leaving only the faint glow of lit formations to light the world. Night settled over the maze like a familiar shroud, and for the first time since entering this trial, Cel's mind went quiet.

Tomorrow would bring fresh challenges. Tomorrow he would need to find a way past the void, a path toward whatever answers this trial concealed. Tomorrow he would continue hunting the vanished moon.

But tonight, exhaustion finally claimed him completely. His eyes drifted shut, breathing slowed and consciousness faded.

When dawn's gray light filtered through the gaps in the stonework, Cel woke. Only to find the familiar ruin - his sancturary - transformed.