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He stood there, fingers hovering a hair's breadth from the door. No handle on this side, nothing for him to grab. A push was all it would take. Everything he needed—everything he wanted—was right here. Without his magic, it was nothing. Reclaim it and come back. Simple. Yet his feet remained rooted.

He stared at the door in the dark—time lost all meaning. No sound of guards or food dropping. He strained his eyes, hoping to see—it wasn’t necessary. He knew every seam and crack, where the grain was smooth and where it was rough. Minutes or days might have passed before Kru finally pushed forward.

A deep creak that rattled his ears. A light that started like a flame and then blinded him like the sun grew before him. Tentative steps pushed him forward, hands shielding his face, eyes peeking out between his fingers. The light faded, and shadows formed into shapes. He didn't recognize any of it.

He remembered dim halls and cold, dingy stone. The staircase was gone. In its place: marbled floors and whitewashed walls, 40 feet wide and 100 feet high. No torches remained, yet the space pulsed with its own pale interior light. “More illusion,” he mumbled. “More reality,” a whisper shot back.

No doors. No windows. Only the endless, repeating veins of marble. Kru drifted through the halls like a ghost. He stopped occasionally, glancing back at the path—stark, curveless, and devoid of escape. A never ending void. Counting steps weighed on his soul. He abandoned the tally. Kru walked on.

He walked, pausing to rest before pressing on. Hunger gnawed at his belly, yet no relief appeared. Then, a shift in the distance—a speck, blurry and ill-formed at the edge of his vision. Kru stopped. The change, however slight, was remarkable in this endless void. He nodded and followed the horizon.

Step after step, he forged ahead. The vague speck at the horizon remained fixed, unmoving in its resolve. He walked, rested, and pushed on again, measuring time by the ache in his legs rather than the tick of a clock. Gradually, the blur sharpened; its edges coalesced to reveal not a man, but a boy.

Kru stopped mere paces away, yet the boy didn’t look up. White, loose sleeves and faded brown pants cut at the shin shifted as he moved, a cord at his waist. His focus solely on a coin—snapped into the air, caught, and slapped against his hand. A silent shake of the head, and the cycle began again.

Kru cleared his throat, but the boy—perhaps ten years old—remained oblivious to the attempt. Kru called out, his voice coarse from long disuse, “Can you help me?” The boy caught his coin and stopped. He tilted his head, a shine in his eye, a smile on his lips. “Well, it’s about time you got here.”

The boy began dancing—tapping his feet, twirling, and laughing throughout. He stopped, arms wide, and gave an immaculate bow. Kru was transfixed, yet confusion weighed heavily on him. “I don’t understand. Can you help me?” “I’ve answered that. Try something else.” “Who are you?” "Oh, very good!"

The boy dove into his dance. Flipping his coin high he spun, catching it while offering a bow. “Surely you remember me. Surely you know. For I linger in your mind and continue to fester and grow. All run from me, but you feed me your soul. Yet you do not know me, for I come after your heart’s goal.”

Kru stared, eyelids heavy, his jaw tight as if words were stuck in his throat. “I tire of riddles. Death, Jur, or fool, I’ll play no games. Answer me or begone.” The boy’s eyes went wide, cheeks puffed, hands over his mouth. For a moment, then no more. He burst out laughing and fell to the floor.

The boy dragged himself off the ground, hand on chest to stifle his laughter. “Oh, Kru,” he said with a smirk. “You have made your life an enigma without even knowing. Truly, it caught me by surprise. Surely you see me now. Surely you know. For I am the first person you killed in the name of Jur.”

Kru huffed and shoved past the boy, his stride long and impatient. “Hey, where are you going?” The boy turned, jogging to keep pace. “No more games. I’m not here to confront my past or seek some poetic absolution. I am here for the power to stop Jur. To break his machines and save the world.”

“But… that’s not how this works,” the boy said, rushing to block Kru. “It is now. Get out of my way.” “And if I don’t?” The boy lifted his chin, his voice rising in a mocking, singsong taunt. Kru’s eyes narrowed. He was done talking. His hands snapped out, burying his rage into the boy's throat.

They slammed to the floor, Kru shrieking, spittle spraying from his lips. His fists pummeled relentlessly until the marble tiles ran red. Hair matted across his face, the stench of sweat, grime, and blood pungent in his nose. His squinting eyes darted around the hallowed halls. “Give me my magic!”

He rose from the corpse, wiping his hands on its bloodied clothes. He gave a nod. There was always something trying to distract him, trying hard to veer him from his path. But Kru knew better than others—such diversions were for lesser men. Find the Jur Poral, save the world. Kru accepted the price.

The price. Kru paused at the thought, squatting to rummage through the boy's pockets. A cold shiver rushed down his spine as his fingers met silver metal. He pulled it up, rolling it through his fingers before slipping it into his palm. He smiled, standing to walk, the coin held firmly in his hand.

With each step, Kru advanced down the endless walk. He had no concern for the miles, or the hunger that raked at his soul. He simply walked. Another person appeared, yet they did not block his path; they stood aside. Another and another. With every person, a recognition; for he had ended them all.

The loose crowd began to close in, tightening around him until he was walking down a gauntlet of onlookers. Kru ignored them all. Yet, with each step, the shadows whispered—louder, until even he could not ignore it. “Do not continue this way, Kru. You are provoking him.” “Who? Jur? Let him come.”

Ceilings scaled the heavens, casting stained-glass light over rows of tables bowed under a cornucopia of meats, cheeses, and fine wine. The grand hall held bounty enough to feed a kingdom, its splendor suffocating. Torches blazing. Yet amid the roaring warmth of the feast, Kru stood utterly alone.

He walked the lines of tables, eating as he went—grapes, cheeses, breads, prime meats, and fine wine. His belly full, he dropped onto a bench and seized up a napkin, stripping off his rags. He wiped his face, arms, and legs. As a cloth turned black with grime, he tossed it aside and grabbed another.

Stripped of the filth and rags, he turned his back on the pile. He cleared a nearby table, gripping the cloth. Lacking a blade, he used his teeth—biting and tearing the fabric to size. He bound it tight, knotting a strip around his waist. Cleaned. Fed. Clothed. Once more, he was ready for power.