Ryneth stood in the middle of his shabby room, his breath shallow, legs trembling beneath him. His eyes twitched, struggling to stay open as his head spun in dizzy circles. The air around him felt heavy, almost pressing down against his chest.
"I… I survived," he whispered, voice rasping, uncertain whether he was speaking to himself or to the shadows still lingering in the corners. "I think… I can control it."
For a moment, silence. Even the whispers had gone still, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Then his knees buckled. His vision blurred, walls bending and melting like glass under heat.
His body hit the cold, dusty floor with a dull thud. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was his reflection in the broken mirror — still standing, still staring — long after he'd fallen.
Deep beneath the Directorate's headquarters lay a place few dared to speak of — a corner of stone and silence that seemed to exist outside the world itself. It wasn't marked on any official chart, and even the senior scribes lowered their voices when it was mentioned.
They called it The Confinement Zone.
It was where the Directorate sent those whose afflictions defied classification — people broken by their own perception, minds twisting around truths no one could name. Some called them Echoed beyond recall. Others simply called them lost.
A young guard walked the corridor that night, a single lantern trembling in his hand. The flame cast long, shaking shadows that crawled across the damp walls and rusted bars. His boots clicked softly against the stone, echoing in uneven rhythm.
He was only here because he had no other choice.
His family's debts had piled too high, and the pay — doubled for those willing to take the night shift — was the only reason he'd accepted. The other guards avoided this section, and now he knew why.
"I really don't want to be here," he muttered under his breath. "This place gives me the creeps…"
They said the last guard left after two nights, pale as chalk and trembling. The Directorate called it "fatigue." Everyone else called it The Zone's toll.
He swallowed hard as he passed another cell — heavy door sealed shut, a small window covered in iron mesh. From behind it came a faint scrape, like fingernails dragging along stone. He stopped. The air seemed to hold its breath.
Then came the whisper.
Faint, indistinct — like words half-remembered from a dream.
He tightened his grip on the lantern handle. "Probably just… rats," he said, though his voice faltered.
There were no rats here. Nothing lived long in the Zone.
The corridor stretched ahead, darker with every step. The scent of oil and metal filled his lungs, heavy and sour. He tried to keep count of his steps, but the sound began to echo strangely — first behind him, then ahead. As though something else had joined his pace.
He reached the end of the corridor and stopped, forcing his trembling hand to steady as he signed his patrol sheet on the clipboard hooked to the wall. His handwriting looked jagged, uneven.
All clear. No irregular activity detected.
He paused. Looked back.
The corridor was empty. Silent. The air was still.
Then, as he turned away, a whisper brushed his ear — low, hoarse, and too close to be imagined.
> "You shouldn't be here."
The lantern flickered violently. He didn't dare look back.
His legs felt like they'd forgotten how to move.
The lantern in his hand trembled so much that the flame danced erratically, casting sickly light against the stone walls. He wanted to turn back — to run, to quit, to throw away the few Lents he earned — but fear held him still. Fear of what he might see if he ran, and fear of what might follow.
The whispers… if they could be called that… were still there. They weren't coming from behind him anymore. They were around him — layered murmurs that shifted with every heartbeat. Words he couldn't make out, yet somehow understood on a level too deep to name.
He squeezed his eyes shut, praying they'd fade.
And they did — slowly, like the last echoes of a dream.
Silence.
He dared to open his eyes. And that was when he noticed it.
One of the doors — the thick iron ones that were never to be opened without direct orders — was slightly ajar. A sliver of darkness peeked through, faint light leaking out from within. The sight froze him more than the whispers ever could.
That shouldn't be possible. Every door in the Confinement Zone was triple-locked, sealed by both rune and key.
He swallowed, each step forward heavier than the last. His lantern's flame dimmed as though it, too, wanted to die out.
The metal plate bolted beside the door was dull with age, half obscured by grime. But the name engraved there was still visible, carved in neat Directorate lettering:
> Leslie Rhyne
Symptoms: The Glassmind
He blinked, unsure if what he was seeing was real.
He'd heard the name before — whispered by other guards, spoken only in cautionary tales. A scholar from the Arcanum, they said. A mind too curious for her own good.
He stared at the door, his breath shallow.
From the gap, a faint shimmer of movement flickered. Not a person. Not a shadow either — something in between, swaying softly, as though the air itself had begun to breathe.
The young guard stepped back, heart hammering so loud he thought it would wake the entire hall.
And then — faintly — a whisper slipped through the crack in the door, clearer than before, brushing against his ear like silk dragged across skin:
"It hurts… when you look away."
The lantern flame sputtered and went out.
The sun crested the horizon, spilling golden light over the capital city of Ovrun. Its rays slid across the spires and streets, brushing the rooftops with a quiet shimmer. Yet even in this gentle morning, an uneasy tension lingered in the air, as though the city itself held its breath.
By mid-morning, the three investigators arrived at the Directorate's headquarters. Each carried the weight of expectation, though their expressions were carefully composed.
They were led directly to a senior officer, one of the highest-ranking officials in the department overseeing the case. His face was grave, eyes sharp yet somber. "Investigators," he said, voice steady, "you have the right to know—Leslie Rhyne has been found deceased in the Confinement Zone."
The words struck like a sudden chill.
Arven Thane, the seniormost of the three, paused, absorbing the information. His hand twitched slightly at his side before he masked it, maintaining the professional composure he was known for.
Morwen Hale, normally reserved, blinked once, then twice. Her eyes flicked to Callen Dray, the youngest, whose jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Each processed the gravity differently, but none could ignore the cold weight that settled on their shoulders.
Arven's gaze lingered on the doorway leading to the Confinement Zone, a place he had once described as holding horrors beyond human perception. Even now, the thought of what lay behind that door made him swallow hard.
Callen finally spoke, voice low but measured. "Do we know the circumstances?"
The senior officer shook his head. "Only that she was discovered early this morning. The room was secured, all protocols were followed. That is all the verified information at this time."
Arven exhaled slowly, a weight pressing down on him. "Then we proceed carefully," he said. "Document everything meticulously. This… incident cannot be repeated."
Morwen and Callen nodded in silence. No one mentioned Ryneth; he was still unknown to anyone outside their trio. The investigation had just become far more dangerous, far more delicate, and far more personal.