THE LAST DAWN
Chapter 17: The Heart of Bone
The chamber of bones was colder than before.
The walls pulsed with pale blue light. The skulls on the throne seemed to watch him, their empty eyes following his every movement. The man in white stood before him, his robe of bone clattering softly, his silver eyes fixed on Rowan’s face.
“You understand,” the man said.
“I understand that I am the seed. The seed of the hunger. The seed of the end.”
“And?”
“And I can choose.”
The man smiled.
It was not a kind smile.
“Choice is an illusion. The hunger does not choose. The hunger is. The hunger always is. The hunger always will be.”
“Then why am I here?”
The man stepped closer.
His bare feet left no prints on the skulls.
“Because you are the only one who can become the vessel. The only one who can hold the hunger. The only one who can become the end.”
Rowan looked at the throne.
At the bones.
At the darkness.
“The Council said the trials would prove I’m worthy.”
“The trials are not to prove worth. The trials are to show you the truth.”
“What truth?”
The man raised his hand.
The bones shifted.
The walls crumbled.
The floor opened.
A staircase appeared — narrow and winding, leading down into darkness.
“The truth that you are not the first. The truth that you are not the last. The truth that you are not alone.”
Rowan walked to the staircase.
The steps were bone.
Cold. Smooth. Ancient.
He descended.
The man followed.
The walls pressed close on either side, lined with skulls, their empty eyes watching, their silent mouths gaping.
“The first trial showed you the blood. The second trial showed you the bone. The third trial will show you the soul.”
“What is the third trial?”
The man was silent for a long moment.
“Yourself.”
The staircase ended.
A door stood before them.
Not a door of blood. Not a door of bone.
A door of shadow.
It was black — blacker than night, blacker than the void, blacker than anything Rowan had ever seen. It pulsed with every heartbeat, throbbed with every breath, bled with every step he took toward it.
“The Trial of Soul,” the man said.
“What do I have to do?”
The man looked at the door.
At the darkness.
At the hunger.
“Open it.”
Rowan reached for the door.
His hand was shaking.
The man grabbed his wrist.
“Once you open it, you cannot go back.”
“I know.”
“The door will show you things you do not want to see. Things you cannot unsee. Things that will break you.”
“I’m already broken.”
The man released his wrist.
“Then go.”
Rowan opened the door.
Beyond the door was light.
Not silver. Not red. Not blue.
Golden.
Warm.
Beautiful.
And in the center of the light, a figure.
A child.
Young — no more than five years old — with dark hair and dark eyes and a face that was achingly familiar.
It was him.
Rowan.
The child he had been.
The child he had lost.
The child he had forgotten.
“Hello,” the child said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”