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He trails off, a dangerous light in his gaze. My stomach flips. “Illusions?”

A sharp nod. “Part of my defenses. They test intruders, twist their senses, exploit every fear. I can moderate their lethality—” he breaks off, letting a twisted grin emerge “—or let them devour you.”

My mouth goes dry. “Why would I want to face illusions that could kill me?”

“Because otherwise,” he says, stepping closer so we stand nearly chest to chest, “you remain a cowering burden. Prove yourself, and I might trust you enough to let you roam freely.”

I realize with a jolt that this is a twisted version of a challenge, maybe even a dark kind of game to him. My blood spikes with adrenaline. I should refuse, but a spark of defiance ignites in my chest. If I can pass his trial, I’ll earn more autonomy. No more skulking in corners.I survived the dark elves. How bad can illusions be?

“Deal,” I say, though my voice quavers. “Show me.”

He studies me, perhaps expecting me to back down. When I don’t, he motions for me to follow. “Stay at my side unless I instruct otherwise. The illusions sense weakness. Try not to feed them.”

I swallow, adjusting my grip on the dagger. My entire body is taut as a drawn bow. But a grim determination sets in. I can’t cower if I ever hope to escape this labyrinth—and the contract over Malphas’s soul might hinge on me learning every advantage possible.

Malphas leads me down another twisting hall, deeper into the fortress. The path slopes downward, the air growing cooler. Arcane runes shimmer on the walls in a sickly green. I see flickers in my vision—shadows that slither away whenever I try to look directly. The hush intensifies, as if the fortress itself holds its breath.

We reach a large chamber sealed by an iron gate. Intricate symbols cover the metal bars, swirling into a central motif of fanged serpents. Malphas rests a clawed hand on the gate, and a pulse of black flame ignites around his palm. The gate groans open.

Beyond it lies a cavernous space lit only by swirling motes of violet light. The floor appears uneven, partly natural stone, partly shaped by demonic architecture. Pillars, jagged and dripping with black icor, stretch toward a ceiling wreathed in gloom. My eyes dart around, trying to make sense of the shifting shapes.

“The Gauntlet,” Malphas says, voice echoing. “I constructed it to deter trespassers who might’ve discovered my fortress. Only a few of my lesser demons dare enter. None of them can pass the illusions’ final barrier unless I will it. You, however…will face them at reduced intensity.”

He gestures, and a swirl of chaos magic surges through the chamber. My skin prickles. The motes of violet light spiral downward, clustering at the far end to form a nebulous gateway.

“How does this work?” I murmur, forcing myself to speak despite my churning gut.

“You walk. The illusions reshape reality to test your mind and reflexes. If you falter or succumb to fear, they’ll trap you in nightmares or conjure illusions that could shred your sanity.” His gaze drifts over me. “I’ll intervene before you’re permanently damaged—assuming you don’t give up.”

I exhale shakily. “What’s the point?”

His lips curl in a sardonic grin. “Consider it training. Or an initiation into my world.” He steps back, crossing his massive arms. “Begin. Show me you can endure.”

A warning prickle crawls up my spine. Then, with a final swallow, I step forward. The moment I move, the violet motes swirl around me like a swarm of glowing fireflies. The darkness beyond the pillars ripples, and faint whispers tickle my ears.

Each step feels heavier. My boots scrape on stone that seems to shift underfoot. A swirl of shapes coalesces to my left—a flicker of robed elves, brandishing whips, sneering. I catch a glimpse of the Northern Estate’s corridors, the sting of a lash across my back. My breath stutters.Illusions, illusions,I remind myself.

I refuse to shrink away. Instead, I bare my teeth at the phantom elves. “You don’t scare me,” I snarl. My voice echoes off the pillars. The robed figures laugh, dissolving into black mist.

A hiss from my right makes me pivot. A Trolvor leaps from behind a stalagmite, jaws snapping for my throat. I bring up the dagger—only to realize at the last second that its body flickers like a mirage. Its claws pass through me without contact, yet my heart still lurches. The Trolvor fades, leaving me trembling.

Behind me, Malphas watches, arms still folded. His silhouette looms in the gloom, horns like twin daggers slicing up from his skull. I sense his scrutiny, but not his interference.He wants to see how far I’ll go alone.

Gritting my teeth, I continue forward. The illusions intensify, warping the chamber into a kaleidoscope of horrors. Sometimes I see swirling black tentacles slithering across the floor, reaching for my ankles. They vanish the moment I slash at them. Other times, I see a warped reflection of myself, battered and caged. That image is more disturbing than the monsters.

Each vision attempts to sap my courage, but I push on, sweat beading my brow.I won’t be undone by illusions. I survived real torture. This is smoke and mirrors.Yet the illusions feel distressingly real, the air thick with malevolence.

Suddenly, the floor cracks beneath me. My stomach flips as I plummet into a chasm. My scream ricochets off unseen walls. Wind whips past, the darkness yawning infinite.Not real, not real…

I slam onto solid ground that wasn’t there a second ago. My knees jar from the impact, but there’s no bone-snapping pain. I scramble to my feet, pulse pounding. The chasm is gone, replaced by flickering shapes that circle me—helpless humans. Children from Lowtown. They cry out, faces contorted in terror, arms outstretched.

“Help us,” they plead, voices echoing. “Help us—” Their forms twist into shapeless lumps, half-human, half something monstrous, melting into sludge.

I gag, horror clenching my throat. The illusions feed on my guilt and memories. My mind spins, trying to cling to logic. I backpedal, stepping into something warm and sticky. Looking down, I see a swirl of crimson liquid.Blood.A wave of revulsion hits me. The illusions want me to freeze, to succumb.

“Enough,” I hiss, staggering forward. Each step feels like trudging through viscous fluid. I blink rapidly, focusing on the faint glow of the real floor beneath this nightmarish overlay. “You’re not real,” I bark, voice shaking. “I won’t let you control me.”

Somehow, the illusions recede. The sticky blood dissipates into a swirl of black smoke, and the dissolving forms vanish. My chest heaves. For a moment, I don’t move, needing to steady my breathing. Then I glimpse movement ahead—a swirling vortex of violet motes, probably the final barrier Malphas mentioned.