"Khh—Hrrroaugh—Kaaah—T'ch!"
A grotesque concatenation of syllables clawed its way from No. 6's throat. After a monumental effort of swallowing and contorting, she finally managed to expel the viscous sound. Tiny beads of sweat slicked her forehead; the tip of her tongue, jammed against her palate, throbbed with numbness. For half an agonizing day, she'd been immured in this mildew-stinking dormitory, endlessly rehearsing these profoundly revolting pronunciations.
No. 5 and No. 8, perched nearby, were visibly struggling to contain their mirth. No. 5 had buried his face in the crook of his arm, his shoulders quaking with suppressed laughter. Their original, noble intention had been to shadow No. 6 for protection, but No. 1, seemingly omniscient, had unearthed their plan and summarily dragooned them into the 'Resonance' lessons as well.
No. 6 shot a venomous glare at these two millstones. Bad enough they weren't applying themselves, but to sit there cackling like a pair of demented hyenas was beyond the pale.
No. 1's dormitory was a stark anomaly. Within the cramped single room, every inch of wall space was devoured by towering bookshelves, their serried ranks of ancient tomes meticulously ordered, even the spines aligned by a precise color gradient. The sole concession to life was a pathetic, half-dead white flower drooping on the windowsill.
"Again. Focus on the resonant airflow of each syllable," No. 1 intoned, his gaze never leaving the open book in his lap.
No. 6 battled down a rising tide of exasperation, her eyes fixed on the offending poetry collection splayed open on the table. *This* was the instrument of her torture. No. 1 had produced it with a flourish that morning for their practice. The sight of it had nearly caused No. 6 to betray herself; the distorted, alien runes were an exact match for their cliff-face rubbings. Such a staggering coincidence, served up on a platter.
"It grows late. You should return now," No. 1 finally decreed, glancing at the window. A clear dismissal. "Take the book. Continue practicing the foundational syllables."
No. 5 and No. 8 scrambled to their feet, their day of torment mercifully concluded. In that moment, the stark tranquility of the purification room held an almost nostalgic appeal.
No. 6 offered a curt bow of gratitude, the smile plastered on her lips considerably more brittle than it had been that morning.
.....
The instant the dormitory door creaked open, No. 7 was on his feet. After his return, he'd staked out No. 1's doorway, his suspicions confirmed by the bizarre, guttural sounds emanating from within—No. 6's tortured attempts at Resonance. The clue was theirs.
"So, how did your… studies progress?"
No. 6 slammed the poetry collection onto the bed board with a resounding thud, massaging her aching throat. "Whoever invented this godforsaken language must have been a pervert with a terminal case of phlegm. I've spent the entire day learning to bleat like a goat on its deathbed."
A reluctant smile tugged at No. 7's lips as he listened to her tirade. For all her usual quiet composure, irritation could certainly sharpen her tongue. He quickly riffled through the book. As his eyes fell upon the page of runes, his pupils constricted. No. 4, leaning in, blanched. "That's… that's from the cliff…"
"And then some," No. 7 murmured, his finger hovering over the symbols. "Look at this marking." He indicated the faint, triangular fissure. "The 'Secret Records of Sanctuary Architecture' mentions this type of runic array requires dual activation—an infusion of Tidal Force into the nodes, *and* a specific Resonance. However," his expression sobered, "there's something else I need to tell you all."
"Cyrus paid me a visit today. He knows we're suspicious about No. 3. I'm not entirely certain if he's alerted anyone else." He paused, a sigh escaping him as the image of Cyrus's drunken despair resurfaced, a knot of unease tightening in his own chest.
"My gut tells me he kept it to himself."
No. 4, hitherto a silent shadow, visibly wrestled with himself before finally lowering his head. "I'm sorry. Tonight's… operation… I… I don't think I can go."
No. 8 exploded, grabbing No. 4 by the collar. "You yellow-bellied coward! No. 3 could be fighting for his life in there, and *now* you decide to bail?"
No. 4 wrenched himself free, his voice thick with a tearful, nasal whine. "It's just… my grades, they're already decent. I don't have any family I need to contact, I don't even remember…"
"And you're so certain you'll make it to your precious Most Holy Sanctuary?" No. 6 cut in, her voice sharp. "No. 3 thought the same. Look how that turned out."
An oppressive silence descended. All eyes were on No. 4.
"...I can provide a diversion," he finally mumbled, his resolve unshaken. He moved to his wardrobe, pulling out clothes. "I'll arrange your bedclothes, make it look like you're all here. It should buy you past the first patrol, at least."
No. 7 nodded. "Fine. We do need someone on lookout, especially with all the instructors on site. We move after the final patrol. Any sign of trouble, and we pull back. Immediately."
When the last echo of the instructors' footsteps faded down the corridor, No. 4 had meticulously crafted four prone, blanket-shrouded figures. Moonlight, lancing through the high, grimy window, edged the dummies in silver, transforming them into four macabre corpses awaiting interment.
"Bad omen," No. 7 muttered under his breath, adjusting a fold to make them appear more lifelike.
Under the cloak of deepest night, they set forth once more. But No. 7's stride suddenly faltered. A searing stab of premonition, sharp as a shard of ice, lanced through his chest—the same sickening dread he'd felt watching No. 3 walk away. He instinctively clutched his heart, his vision blurring as his pulse hammered.
"Your chest? What is it?" No. 6, sensing his distress, leaned in, her ear close to his heart.
He shook his head. This was no good sign. He glanced back at his companions; the same desperate, do-or-die fire blazed in their eyes.
There was no turning back. This step, once taken, was irrevocable.
The night wind whispered through the skeletal trees, carrying the damp, metallic tang of something rank. For a disorienting moment, No. 7 saw Cyrus's ravaged, drunken face superimposed on the darkness—those bloodshot eyes, haunted by a maelstrom of regret, bitterness, and a spirit worn smooth by the relentless grind of years. *"You will regret this."* The voice, a insidious parasite, echoed in the recesses of his mind.
No. 5 shifted restlessly, dislodging a cascade of small stones that shattered the heavy silence. No. 7 drew a deep, steadying breath, the frigid air a shock to his lungs.
*No.* He would not become another Cyrus. Not that broken man, pickled in alcohol and compromise, that craven figure who watched tragedy play out on an endless loop, powerless to intervene.
"Let's go." He plunged into the darkness, leading the way.
The moon, as if on cue, blazed with an unnatural brilliance, silver light cascading down, illuminating the treacherous mountain path with stark, unnerving clarity. A prickle of unease ran down No. 7's spine. He glanced back. No sound, nothing tangible, just a gut feeling that something was… off.
"What now?" No. 6, close on his heels, was already on edge from his earlier jitters.
No. 7's nostrils twitched. A faint, almost imperceptible whiff of alcohol on the wind. Then, a sudden realization. He patted his pocket. Cyrus's flask. The cap was loose; a little must have spilled. He tightened it.
"Nothing."
No. 6 quickened her pace, falling in step beside him. Her touch on his arm was light, a silent offering of solidarity.
As they crested the final ridge, the stark edifice of the cliff loomed before them. No. 7 retrieved the developer solution. If one rune was indeed a keyhole, years of Tidal Force immersion would have left its mark.
Meticulously, he applied the potion, rune by agonizing rune. After what felt like an eternity, but was merely a quarter of an hour, he found it: a stone bearing the faint imprint of a distorted triangle, a ghostly blue shadow shimmering on its surface. No. 7 pressed his palm flat against the cold rock, slowly, steadily infusing his Tidal Force.
He felt it—a subtle thrum, a pathway opening, a resonance forming between him and the ancient symbols. He met No. 6's eyes and nodded.
The instant the first syllable tore from No. 6's throat, the entire rock face shuddered. A surge of heat coursed from No. 7's palm as, one by one, the runes blazed to life, coalescing into a vast, luminous, triangular fissure.
As the final, guttural syllable died on the night wind, a low, grinding rumble echoed from the cliff. A crack appeared, widening slowly, inexorably, bleeding a darkness more profound than night, deeper than any abyss.
......
No. 4 lay coiled on his cot, eyes riveted on the dummy across the room. His senses were preternaturally sharp, attuned to every whisper of sound in the corridor: the soft tread of an instructor's shoe, the groan of an iron door, the mournful sigh of the wind through a chink in the stone.
His task was deceptively simple: feign sleep. Yet, paradoxically, he, the one in least apparent danger, was trembling like a leaf. He fought to quell the riot of terrifying images in his mind, only to be confronted by a new, heart-stopping reality:
The sliver of light beneath the door vanished for a heartbeat. Someone was out there, eclipsing the corridor's candlelight.
He stared, transfixed, at the unmoving shadow. Listening. Waiting. A cold sweat slicked his temples, stinging as it dripped into his eyes. He *should* remain still, but an overwhelming compulsion to identify the lurker seized him.
With a Herculean effort, he levered himself up, peering towards the door, his throat sandpaper-dry. Relief, potent and immediate, washed over him as he saw the figure clearly.
White robes. The uniform of a test subject. One of them.
"Honestly," he began, forcing a lightness into his voice, "I warned you it was too risky tonight. But as long as you're all safe…"
The figure remained silent.
*What was wrong? Why no response?* No. 4 narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the details: the drape of the white robe, the standard-issue boots. Definitely not a patrol. Then, his blood turned to ice.
The figure shifted, ever so slightly. Moonlight, cold and unforgiving, slanted across the face.
No. 1.
That eternally placid countenance, now a ghastly, chalk-white mask in the shadows. He stood there, a silent, judging presence, his gaze fixed on No. 4, an unreadable assessment in its depths.
A strangled whimper escaped No. 4's lips. His mind a maelstrom of white noise, one chilling certainty crystallized:
"No. 1. He's going to tell."
No. 1, too, seemed taken aback by the encounter. He hesitated, then, with a fluid, silent turn, his white robe billowing like a phantom's shroud, he melted into the corridor's darkness.
No. 4 remained frozen, a slideshow of horrific possibilities flickering behind his eyes.
"No…" The word was a hoarse, unfamiliar croak. He had to do something. Anything.
He flung off the blankets, his bare feet hitting the glacial stone floor. The cold shot up his spine, but he barely registered it. Soundlessly, he eased open the door and peered out. The corridor was deserted, save for a few guttering candles casting long, skeletal shadows. He would find No. 1, plead with him, offer to clean his room for a month—whatever it took.
He hesitated for a breath, then plunged in the direction No. 1 had taken, his footfalls cat-light, his heart a frantic war drum against his ribs. Rounding a corner, he collided with a solid form—
No. 1. Returning from the direction of the kitchens, something long and slender clutched in his hand.