Déjà Vu

As his eyes opened, a sinister and foreboding darkness clawed at his vision. There was almost no difference between when his eyes were closed and now.

Not to mention the disorienting sensation in his head—it felt detached, as if it had been severed from his neck. Empty. Loose. Like his neck had grown too weak to support it.

A slight frown settled on his face, even if it couldn't be seen.

'What is this…? What's going on…?'

Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

'…'

Hadn't he just been dying a few seconds ago?

It had happened too fast for him to fully register, but he was certain—his head had been beneath a merciless guillotine, the vicious slab of butchering metal falling in a swift, decisive stroke.

…Severing him painlessly.

Perhaps painlessly wasn't the right word. It had happened too quickly for pain to even settle in.

But it had happened.

And just before everything faded, he had heard a divine, impassive voice confirming his death.

Auren wasn't one to assume divinity announced the deaths of mortals. In fact, he would have laughed if someone had claimed they died and heard confirmation of their passing.

That would make divinity a rather sinister and malicious existence.

Yet, no one lived to tell such a tale. Not humans. Not even the divinities themselves, who were too busy slumbering to care about something as insignificant as a single death.

Which left one very discomforting question:

'What did I hear…?'

And more than that—

'Why does this darkness feel and smell familiar?'

Auren shifted slightly and stood. The shadows curled around him, draping every corner of the space, yet he knew—somehow—that the room was small, the walls pressing close. He couldn't explain how he was aware of the space around him, but he was.

It hadn't been there before. Not the last time he remembered being in a space like this.

But now it was.

And through the thick, suffocating darkness, he could tell—this place was compact, confining.

Then, directly in front of him, loomed a black, metal fortress of a door, sealing him inside.

'Don't tell me…'

The realization sank like a cold stone in his gut.

'I'm in a prison again.'

Again.

Auren was silent. Short of words. He tried to speak, but no words came. His mouth opened and closed, uselessly.

He decided to move forward and touch the door. The last time, it had been bars—iron, rusted, and cold.

This was different.

Yet, everything else—this atmosphere, this suffocating familiarity—was the same. A perfect echo of before.

Auren suddenly felt reluctant to move. A creeping unease slithered up his spine.

Still, he forced himself to take a step forward—

A sharp, metallic clatter rang through the silence, making him jolt.

His breath caught.

Only now did he notice the weight of cold metal shackled around his wrists and ankles.

They had been there all along.

The chains weren't short, nor were they long—but they permitted movement, albeit within a cruelly restricted range.

He wasn't just imprisoned.

He was bound.

And that created a complication of events for him.

The last time he was imprisoned, at least he could walk freely. At least he wasn't chained.

A low, eerie chuckle slipped past Auren's lips, hollow and bitter.

'Did I… by some miracle, not die? And now they've learned better…?'

His expression darkened as the thought settled. His gaze dropped to the chains around his wrists—ashen, rusted, corroded by time. Yet, even in this suffocating darkness, he could see them.

Once, they might have been silver—radiant restraints meant to bind something greater. Now, they were relics of a fallen grace.

Then—

Footsteps.

Distant, yet unmistakable.

Auren's breath staggered. The déjà vu struck with the force of a hammer, shattering his mind into fragments of past and present. Panic wedged itself into his ribs.

He trembled.

Cold gripped him—an unnatural, bone-deep chill that slithered beneath his skin, like needles of ice burrowing into his flesh.

Sweat cascaded down his spine. Within seconds, his black linen clothing was soaked, clinging to his body in damp, suffocating folds.

Death once was fine. But twice?

No.

Auren did not want to die again.

It was stupid to be killed by the same thing twice.

But what was he supposed to do?

He was only a Nascent. He hadn't fully bloomed. Those sentries—they had to be Devouts. Their souls had formed a heart, meaning they were full-fledged Blesseds!

They could kill him in under three seconds.

And here he was—bound. Powerless.

All he had was the irritating, unrealistic desire to live.

Hatred boiled inside him. Spite clawed at his chest.

He hated the world. Its people.

Most of all—

The Archon that had cursed him.

But none of that mattered right now.

Emotion wouldn't save him.

Action would.

Auren paused.

His mind tore through hundreds — no, thousands — of ways to survive in a matter of seconds.

And with each passing second, the footsteps drew closer—each measured step echoing through the oppressive silence.

Auren felt it. Heard it.

His heartbeat pounded against his ribs, loud, frantic, deafening.

'Calm down. Calm down, you fuck-rotted mongrel!!'

He screamed at himself inside his mind, forcing the rising panic back down his throat. He needed control. He needed to breathe.

A sharp inhale. A slow exhale.

Steady.

But the steps were too close now.

Then—

A metallic clatter shattered the ominous quiet, reverberating through the dark chamber.

Auren stiffened.

The noise sent a jolt through his spine, his fingers clenching involuntarily.

Then—

A deep, ancient groan rumbled through the heavy air, guttural and strained, as the door began to move.