The door groaned as Veyron pushed it open, stepping into a chamber that seemed to defy the laws of nature. It was vast, an endless expanse of shifting shapes and hazy light, the kind of space that felt like it was both everywhere and nowhere at once. The floor was a black marble, smooth and slick with an unnatural sheen. The air was heavy with the scent of old books and iron, and in the center of the room stood an altar—its surface covered in strange symbols that seemed to writhe and change the closer Veyron drew to them.
A figure emerged from the shadows before he could take another step forward. The figure was draped in dark robes, their face concealed beneath a hood, and in their hands, they held a scroll—ancient and worn. The silence in the room was thick enough to choke on, but Veyron felt a pull toward the figure, as if the air itself were pushing him to approach.
"You've come far, Ashwood," the figure said, their voice low, almost a whisper, but it filled the room with a sense of power that could not be ignored. "But the journey is only beginning. The price you must pay is yet to be revealed."
Veyron's jaw tightened. His eyes scanned the symbols on the altar, searching for any sign of what was to come. "I'm ready. I've already paid the price for power—what else is there?"
The figure chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to carry both pity and amusement. "You are naïve, boy. The price of power is not something that can be easily calculated. You've made a decision, yes, but you have yet to understand the consequences of that decision."
Veyron took a step closer, ignoring the cold shiver that ran up his spine. He had come this far, there was no turning back now. The flame of ambition burned too brightly within him. "I understand what I've lost. But I will not be chained by it."
The figure regarded him silently, as if weighing his words, before they slowly unfurled the scroll in their hands. The ancient paper crackled, the sound too loud in the oppressive silence. The scroll contained more than just words—it was etched with glyphs and symbols, and the ink seemed to pulse as if alive. The figure extended it toward Veyron.
"This is the Pact," the figure intoned, their voice now echoing in the chamber. "The agreement that binds you to the Guild. You will sign it, and in doing so, you will give yourself fully to the shadows you seek to control. You will be free of your past, but you will never again be the same."
Veyron stared at the scroll. The symbols seemed to shift beneath his gaze, twisting and turning like living things, feeding off his thoughts, his desires. The air around him grew thick, like a fog pressing in from all sides, and the weight of the decision he was about to make settled heavily on his chest.
"You must sign," the figure said, their voice no longer a suggestion, but an order. "To accept the power, to take the mantle of what you are becoming. But know this, Ashwood: the moment you do, you will never truly be free again."
Veyron's fingers hovered over the scroll. He could feel the pressure building, the choice pulling him in two directions. On one side, power—his salvation, his rise to dominance. On the other, the gnawing awareness that this choice would change him irrevocably. His mind flashed to the image of his family, torn apart by the ritual, the blood on his hands. He had already lost everything. There was no returning to what he had been.
And yet, he hesitated.
The figure sensed his inner turmoil. "The Guild does not offer mercy, Ashwood. We offer no second chances. The cost is absolute."
Veyron's thoughts raced. His mind flashed back to his conversation with the shadow version of himself—the warning about what he would lose. The echo of those words—the man who gave up everything—brought a chill to his bones. But still, the pull of ambition was undeniable. The promise of power whispered sweetly in his ear. It was a temptation he could not ignore.
With a steady hand, Veyron signed his name on the scroll.
The moment the ink touched the paper, the room seemed to warp. The air thickened, and the shadows in the corners of the room stirred, as if alive. The altar beneath his feet trembled, and the symbols on it began to glow with an eerie, otherworldly light.
"You have chosen," the figure said, their voice cold and distant. "Now you will be bound."
Veyron felt a sharp pain pierce through his chest, like a cold knife pressing against his heart. His body tensed as if something were tearing him apart from the inside. His breath caught, his pulse quickened, and for a brief moment, he thought he might collapse. But then, the pain receded, leaving behind a strange numbness—a hollow feeling, as though something essential had been ripped away.
He staggered back, steadying himself with a hand on the altar. The world around him seemed to shimmer, the shadows warping and bending with the weight of the pact he had just made.
"You have bound yourself to the Guild," the figure said again, their tone now colder, final. "And now, you will begin your true journey. The path will not be easy. You will face challenges, enemies, and allies whose true motives are never clear. But in the end, Ashwood, it will be your ambition that defines you."
Veyron stood tall, though the weight of what he had done pressed heavily on his shoulders. "I'm ready," he said, his voice quieter now but resolute.
The figure nodded, a shadow of approval crossing their face. "Then go, and embrace the darkness you've chosen. You are no longer just a man. You are something more."
With that, the figure turned and melted into the shadows, leaving Veyron alone in the eerie, flickering light of the room. The chamber had changed—transformed—its walls now adorned with symbols that seemed to pulse with life, the air thick with the promise of power.
Veyron took a deep breath, steeling himself. He had crossed the point of no return. The Guild had claimed him. And now, his real journey was about to begin