When we are one

“You are hereby sentenced to the surface to live eternity among the Walkers,” declares the Underworld Caretaker, slamming his druidic scepter into the obsidian floor—not once, not twice, but three times. The sharp, echoing cracks out like a death knell across the chamber.

The care taker floats above us—an unnerving figure cloaked in a shroud of darkness. His face is bone-white, painted like a skull, and his voice carries the hollow weight of final judgment. Silence falls over the crowd, thick and tense. Onlookers watch with a mixture of awe and horror, craning for a better view of the condemned.

They’ve come to see me.

Today, I—Anika Rhodes—am exiled.

Every eye in the room is fixed on me. Usually, I’d shrink under such scrutiny, but not today. Today, I don’t care. Because exile isn’t a punishment. It’s freedom. It’s a life above ground, away from the dread of the Underworld. Away from the chains, the rituals, the watching shadows. It’s a chance, however slim, to be something more than a curse.

I didn’t choose this life. Once, I had a family. Warmth. Safety. But that was long ago. I was just a child when I was sold into the black market, trading my life for survival. I’ve been passed from one master to the next—bought, sold, beaten.

Every one of my enslavers are dead.

Did I kill them? Yes.

Was it intentional? No.

The truth is, I don’t fully understand the power inside me. But I know what it does. My touch brings death. Even the most vile and magical of beings fear it now. They call it a curse. I’ve come to believe it too.

No one in the Underworld dares claim me anymore.

The guards approach—faceless men cloaked in black iron and chainmail. Their boots strike the stone floor with purpose. I don’t bother resisting. There’s no point. My ankles are shackled, my neck trapped in a pillory. My body is a map of pain—bruised, burned, and broken. I’ve been whipped, branded, and spat on. I’ve rotted in a lightless cell for countless moons, kept alive just long enough for this final sentence.

The guards seize me and haul me forward, dragging me toward the Altar.

It waits at the center of the chamber—a pedestal of ancient stone, surrounded by runes glowing dimly in shades of blue and violet. Floating above it is the orb: radiant, suspended, humming with raw power. It pulses as if alive, syncing with my heartbeat, pulling me toward it like a moth to flame.

The Caretaker lifts his skeletal hands and begins to chant. His voice is melodic, rhythmic, ancient. The orb responds, glowing brighter with each word:

“Ea superficies erit ad vehicula…”

To the surface, she shall be delivered.

I’m forced to my knees, my body trembling. My head bows low, whether by force or fear, I don’t know. My heart slams inside my chest like it’s trying to escape.

Moon goddess, I whisper in my mind, if you exist, please—spare me the pain.

Then it begins.

A rush of heat floods my body. My blood boils. My bones feel like they’re shattering and reforming all at once. My stomach turns inside out. I can’t breathe. I can’t scream. My world spins violently.

Pain consumes me.

My eyes flutter. My vision dims. My limbs go numb.

Darkness creeps in, slow and thick like fog, muffling the screams in my mind. The chamber, the orb, the guards—all fade into a blur.

And finally—silence.