Page 79 of The Onyx Covenant

At the chamber’s center stands a fountain—not of water, but of what appears to be liquid moonlight that’s slightly translucent, cascading over a series of black tiers into a basin below. The singing emanates from this impossible fountain, rising and falling with the flow of the water.

“Is this a shrine?” Theron asks, his voice hushed with wonder despite his earlier suspicion.

I approach cautiously, drawn by the beauty of the spectacle. “I think so, but where’s the clue?”

As if in response to my question, the liquid in the fountain ripples, its surface clearing to reveal an image—not a reflection, but a vision of another part of the maze. I lean closer, mesmerized by what I see—a huge clearing dominated by a stone circle, at its center a pedestal upon which rests a black stone that pulses with inner light.

“The Onyx Moonstone,” I breathe, recognizing it from descriptions in ancient texts.

Theron moves beside me, equally entranced by the vision. The image shifts, rippling outward from the center to show the path leading to this important location—a series of turns and landmarks that I try desperately to memorize. Left at the weeping willow, right at the stone archway, straight past the pool of shadows…

“We need to remember this,” I say urgently, still watching the vision unfold.

“No need,” Theron responds, his voice oddly flat. “I know exactly where that is.”

I turn to him, surprised. “How could you possibly?—”

The words die in my throat as I see his face. His eyes have gone completely black, reflecting the obsidian walls around us. His expression is slack, vacant, as if something else is looking out through his features.

“Theron?” I whisper, fear clutching at my heart. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t respond, just continues staring at the fountain with those unnervingly black eyes.

I reach for him, grabbing his shoulder. “Theron! Snap out of it!”

The moment my hand makes contact, a jolt of energy surges between us, not painful but powerful enough to make us both gasp. Theron staggers backward, blinking rapidly, his eyes returning to their normal gray.

“What the fuck just happened?” he growls, shaking his head as if to clear it.

“You were… gone,” I explain, still gripping his shoulder. “Your eyes went black. You said you knew where the moonstone was.”

He frowns, confusion evident in his expression. “I don’t remember that. Last thing I recall is looking into the fountain and seeing the stone circle.”

My unease deepens. “The fountain was showing us the path to the moonstone, but something happened to you when you watched it.”

We both turn back to the fountain, but the vision is gone. The moonlight water continues to flow, but it shows nothing now except its own luminescent ripples.

“I don’t like this,” Theron mutters. “The maze is playing games with us.”

Before I can respond, a chilling scream echoes through the chamber—raw, terrified, and abruptly cut short. My blood runs cold.

Theron’s head snaps up, his body instantly alert. “Which direction?”

I pivot, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. “I think… that way.” I point to a passage on the opposite side of the chamber from where we entered.

Without hesitation, we sprint across the moss-covered floor, the glowing plants leaving trails of blue light beneath our feet like spectral footprints. The new corridor is wider than the others, the walls here composed of both stone and thorns intertwined in an elaborate latticework.

We run blindly, guided only by instinct and fear for our friends. The passage twists and turns, branching occasionally, forcing quick decisions based on nothing more than gut feeling. The maze seems to respond to our urgency, the walls pulsing faster, the whispers growing louder, more insistent.

After what feels like an eternity of desperate searching, we burst into another clearing, this one vastly different from the fountain chamber. Here, the ground is covered not in moss but in pale white flowers that close at our approach, their petals folding inward like tiny fists. The air is thick with their floral perfume.

“Careful,” Theron warns, placing a protective arm in front of me. “Something’s not right.”

In the clearing’s center stands a massive willow tree, its trunk black as night, its drooping branches composed not of leaves but of thin silver chains that tinkle softly as they sway. Beneath the tree, a figure sits cross-legged on the ground, back toward us, head bowed.

I step forward despite Theron’s restraining arm.

The figure doesn’t respond or turn. As we approach cautiously, I realize it’s large enough to be a male.

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