Seth drifted in and out of consciousness, barely able to hold onto a coherent thought before another wave of reconditioning surged through his mind.
Submit. Come back to the Fold. Be one with us. Your life is not your own. With us, you belong.
The words echoed endlessly, a horrific chant looping over and over. The relentless message drilled into him, a steady pressure against his sanity. Images flashed before his eyes—fragments of a life spent in the Fold, playing out like a cruel reminder of what they expected him to be.
The cycle repeated, faster and faster. He couldn't even blink. He had no choice but to watch.
How long had it been? Hours? Days? Time was meaningless now.
His throat burned as he screamed, raw and desperate.
"I yield! I yield! Let me down!"
Silence answered him. No footsteps, no voices of comfort. No rescue.
A chill ran down his spine as a new voice, deep and venomous, slithered into the room.
"You can't do anything but submit to our will. You brought this upon yourself, Seth. Always different. Always stubborn. Why couldn't you just be like the rest of us?"
The voice faded into the distance, but the pressure of its words remained, pressing into his skull.
Suddenly, his body lurched, spinning violently on an invisible axis. His limbs flailed as the room became a blur. Faster and faster he whirled, the recording hammering into his mind:
Submit. Come back to the Fold. Be one of us. Your life is not your own. You belong to us.
Somewhere in the room, two shimmering figures materialized, their hushed voices weaving through the chaos.
"This will surely break him. He can't last much longer."
The other hesitated.
"Two lunar cycles, and he still resists. No one has ever withstood this type of reconditioning. It's impossible."
The first figure clenched his fists.
"Break, damn you!"
"We have to break him," he pressed, frustration evident in his voice. "His kind is growing in numbers. If we don't bring them back to the Fold, war is inevitable. We must contain them before it's too late."
A sharp snap of fingers.
Seth's body convulsed as agony shot through him like lightning. He screamed, his mind cracking under the unbearable pain.
"Stop it! You monster!"
The second figure recoiled.
"What are you doing? That's forbidden! We haven't harmed our own in over a millennium! Our flesh is their flesh—we are one!"
Sweat beaded on the first figure's lip. A sinister gleam flickered in his eyes.
"Really? Look at him. He hasn't been one of us for a long time. He's a plague, and if we don't stop them, they'll replace us. Don't be deceived. They're like worms—easily crushed."
"You sound paranoid," the second figure said, stepping back. "I won't be part of this. The First would never approve of such cruelty."
The first scoffed.
"The First? The First hasn't been here in ages. He wouldn't care if I—"
His hand curled into a fist, as if tightening an invisible rope around Seth's throat.
Seth's body spasmed. His breath strangled in his throat.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
Still suspended in the air, he hung there—unconscious, drenched in sweat.
The second figure vanished, shimmering out of the room.
Idris had known Seth since childhood. More than friends, they were brothers in all but blood. And now, Idris felt like a traitor. He had stood by, watching his friend suffer, powerless to stop it. If he interfered, he would share the same fate.
But he couldn't ignore it any longer.
With a heavy heart, he materialized in the Grand Chamber of Elders.
Without greeting or formality, he spoke.
"This madness must stop!"
The Elders regarded him with unreadable expressions. No hatred. No concern. Only silent anticipation.
Idris clenched his fists.
"I was told he would be reconditioned—not tortured! This is barbaric! We are one! Fates have never treated another Fate this way!"
A sharp voice cut through his outrage.
"Watch your tongue before the Council, Idris. Are you becoming insolent as well?"
He recoiled.
"Do you plan to torture me too?"
A different Elder stood abruptly.
"Idris, this is not torture. It is a necessary means to an end. The sect must be controlled before it's too late."
"To what end? His death?"
Murmurs rippled through the chamber, growing louder and louder until—
"CEASE!"
Silence fell.
An Elder leaned forward.
"Idris, what do you propose?"
He exhaled slowly.
"Talk to them. One by one. Killing Seth will only make him a martyr. If we push too hard, we'll spark the very revolution we seek to prevent."
A skeptical voice rose from the Council.
"Is it really that bad? How large are their numbers? Should we be concerned?"
Panic flickered among the Elders.
Elder Blad narrowed his eyes.
"Fear, Blad?" Idris' voice dripped with condescension. "Careful, you might be next."
Blad stiffened.
"Don't be absurd," he snapped. "I'm merely stating the facts. Should we be concerned?"
Idris met his gaze and slowly lowered his hood.
"Why are we so afraid of change?" he asked. "They are us. We are one. We can work together. So what if they embrace their human qualities? So what if they advance? If we go to war, everything changes. There must be another way."
Another Elder scoffed.
"They interfere with the Journey—our very purpose. We must stop this before it's too late."
The chamber rumbled with agreement.
"Yes. We must do what is necessary."
They turned to one another, nodding in silent consensus.
"We are one."
The decision had been made.
Idris took a step back, his chest tight with frustration. He had tried. He had spoken. But in the end, it wasn't enough.
With a slow bow of his head, he turned and walked out of the chamber—defeated