They must be using dimensional stones to expand the interior of the gauntlet, folding space in on itself to create something impossibly large within the structure’s relatively modest exterior. The realization makes my skin prickle—dimensional magic is notoriously unstable, and one wrong move could collapse the entire space.
Not safe,my dragoness growls in the back of my mind, her voice carrying ancient instincts honed over generations of blood memories.
I have to agree with her assessment. There’s nothing remotely safe about this entire setup, no matter which path I choose. None of the pathways seem trustworthy—each one radiates its own particular brand of danger like competing predators marking territory.
Time to figure out the lesser of the evils, I suppose.
The path to the far left looks disturbingly similar to the catacombs under Blackhaven—same rough stone walls, same smell of old death and older magic, even the same angle of descent that leads deeper into darkness. My familiarity with it makes it simultaneously appealing and suspicious.
The path just to the right of that one looks like part of the Temple of Bahamut—all gleaming white marble and soft golden light that promises safety and sanctuary. Deceptively safe-looking, which makes it possibly the most dangerous option. Anything that looks that welcoming in a gauntlet designed to test our limits is definitely hiding something nasty.
The second path from the right looks like the standard gauntlet construction I’m used to—wooden walls, mechanical traps, the occasional pit filled with something unpleasant. Familiar in its hostility, at least.
The last path to the far right looks like it should be in a crypt rather than a training exercise—stone walls covered in ancient moss, the smell of graves and forgotten rituals, shadows that seem to move with their own malevolent purpose.
For all I know, they could all be illusions. Every single path could be a carefully crafted lie designed to lure me into choosing based on false assumptions. Or they could all be exactly what they appear to be, which would be its own special kind of psychological warfare.
The path that looks most like the catacombs under Blackhaven calls to me with its familiarity. I know those tunnels like I know my own scales—every twist, every hidden passage, every place where danger likes to hide. If this is an accurate recreation, that knowledge could give me an advantage.
Decision made, I move toward the leftmost path, my boots barely making a sound against the wooden floor.
Then the air is sucked out of my lungs in a violent rush, as if some invisible giant has squeezed my chest like bellows. Myvision darkens at the edges, then rushes inward like water down a drain, and the world goes completely black.
The last thought I manage before consciousness slips away is a single word:Trap.
