Villain's Last Chance

Stepping through the door was like plunging into freezing water. The moment my foot crossed the threshold, the world shifted. My breath caught, my vision swam, and for a terrifying second, I wasn't sure if I was falling or floating.

Then the darkness spat me out.

I stumbled forward onto solid ground, my hands bracing against rough stone. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something metallic—blood, maybe.

Cairon and Marek landed beside me, both tense, both silent. But the moment the guide stepped through last, the door behind us sealed shut, the stone knitting itself back together as if it had never been there at all.

Marek groaned. "I hate magic doors."

I barely heard him. My pulse was still hammering from what I had just confessed.

I never wanted to survive that night.

The weight of it clung to me, heavier than the air around us. I could feel Cairon's gaze on me, his silence louder than any accusation.

But I wasn't ready to face that yet.

Instead, I took in our surroundings. We were in another chamber, this one circular, its walls covered in the same ancient carvings as before. Torches flickered with an unnatural blue light, casting eerie shadows that seemed to move on their own.

At the center of the room stood a pedestal. And on it, a dagger.

Long, curved, and made of some dark metal that absorbed the torchlight rather than reflecting it.

The guide smiled. "Ah. The Trial of Betrayal."

Marek let out a sharp laugh. "Of course. Because the creepy whispering door wasn't enough of a test."

Cairon's fingers twitched toward his sword. "What does it require?"

The guide stepped forward, running a hand along the edge of the pedestal. "A choice."

I clenched my jaw. "Be specific."

He sighed, as if mildly disappointed that I wasn't playing along. "One of you must take the dagger and use it against another. It does not need to be a killing blow—" He smirked. "—but it must be true."

Silence fell.

Marek let out a slow breath. "So, just to be clear, one of us has to actually stab someone?"

"Or cut," the guide said helpfully. "A wound is a wound. It need not be deep, only sincere."

Cairon's expression darkened. "And if we refuse?"

The guide gestured to the walls. "Then this chamber becomes your tomb."

Marek scoffed. "Naturally."

I stared at the dagger. It seemed to hum, almost like it was listening.

Cairon reached for it first. "I'll do it."

I stepped between him and the pedestal. "No."

His eyes narrowed. "Elara—"

"I'll do it," I said, voice firm.

Marek whistled. "Well. Didn't expect that."

Cairon's hand curled into a fist. "You don't have to."

I met his gaze. "Neither do you."

Something unspoken passed between us. The tension from before—the weight of my confession, the doubts in his eyes—hung between us like a blade.

I turned before I could second-guess myself and wrapped my fingers around the dagger.

A shock went through me, sharp and searing, like the blade had recognized me. A whisper slithered through my mind—too fast to catch, too soft to hold on to.

I exhaled slowly and turned back to the others.

Now came the hard part.

The guide watched, his smile widening. "And who will bear your betrayal, I wonder?"

Marek took an exaggerated step back. "Just gonna say, I don't think stabbing me would be productive to group morale."

I barely heard him. My gaze had locked onto Cairon's.

Of all the people in this room, of all the choices before me, he was the one I had to wound.

The realization settled over me like ice.

Cairon must have seen it in my eyes, because something in his expression shifted.

"If this is the way forward," he said quietly, "then do it."

Marek swore. "Okay, hold on—"

Cairon ignored him. He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel his warmth against the chill of the room. "Make it quick."

My fingers tightened on the hilt. "Are you sure?"

"Do it before I change my mind."

I swallowed hard, forcing my expression to stay neutral. Then, in one swift motion, I lifted the dagger—

—and slashed it across his arm.

Blood welled instantly, crimson against his skin. He barely flinched.

The dagger pulsed in my grip, heat radiating from it. The chamber shuddered, the torches flaring, the air shifting.

The pedestal cracked.

A section of the wall rumbled, the stone folding inward to reveal a new passage.

The trial was complete.

I let out a slow breath and turned the dagger in my hands. The blade was clean—Cairon's blood had vanished the moment it touched the metal.

I looked up at him, but he wasn't looking at me. He was staring at the cut, his expression unreadable.

Marek crossed his arms. "Well. That was deeply uncomfortable for everyone involved."

The guide chuckled. "Ah, but necessary. A wound, after all, is not just skin-deep. The mark lingers long after the blade is gone."

Cairon finally met my gaze. "Are you alright?"

I blinked. "Me?"

"You hesitated."

I clenched my jaw. "Of course, I hesitated. I just cut you."

His lips pressed into a thin line. "It had to be done."

He wasn't wrong. But the way he was looking at me now—calculating, as if trying to decipher me—set my nerves on edge.

The guide clapped his hands. "Wonderful. Now, shall we continue?"

Marek sighed. "Oh yes, by all means, let's walk deeper into the nightmare dungeon."

Ignoring him, I stepped into the new passage. The walls narrowed, forcing us close together as we walked. The torches here burned with a dim, silver light, casting flickering shadows that almost seemed to reach for us.

A shiver ran down my spine. Something about this place felt…off.

Cairon moved beside me, his presence steady. But the air between us was different now.

I had wounded him.

And even though it had been a choice—a necessary one—part of me wondered if the damage ran deeper than the cut on his arm.

I tightened my grip on the dagger and pressed forward.

Because something told me this was only the beginning.