Page 188 of The Ascended
"Marx! Listen to me, dammit!" The tone was unmistakable even through the chaos.
"Kyren," I gasped, changing course toward the sound. We rounded a corner to find him kneeling beside a huddled form, his normally stoic face creased.
Marx was curled into a tight ball, her beautiful gown now torn and soot-stained, her body racked with sobs.
"They’re dead because of me," she was saying, over and over. "The two contestants—I cursed them, Kyren. I just wanted to watch—they went up in flames because of me. It’s been so long since I lost control like that!"
"No, Marx, you didn't," Kyren insisted, trying to pull her to her feet. "Get up now. We have to go."
I rushed to them, dropping to my knees. "Marx," I said, taking her face between my hands, forcing her to look at me. "This is the third trial—it's testing our desires, our weaknesses." I glanced at Kyren. "We need to find an exit."
His eyes met mine with grim understanding. "I knew something was wrong the moment the illusions appeared," he said. "I can always distinguish reality from falsehood. I've been searching for you three since the fires started spreading."
Together, we managed to get Marx on her feet. Thatcher kept glancing back the way we'd come, as though the illusions of our mother and father might still be there, waiting for him to return.
Marx suddenly jerked to a stop, her head whipping around. I followed her gaze and saw him—a young man standing in the smoke, his face gentle despite the chaos around us. He had dark hair and kind eyes, one hand extended toward us.
"Finn?" The name tore from Marx's throat.
She wrenched free of my grip, stumbling toward the figure. The man—Finn—smiled at her, that same gentle expression never wavering as he beckoned her closer. He was moving backward, toward where the flames burnedbrightest.
"Marx, no!" I lunged after her, catching her arm just as she reached for him. "He's not real!"
"Let me go!" She fought against my hold, her voice breaking. "He's right there—Finn, wait!"
The illusion kept beckoning, kept smiling, kept drawing her toward the fire.
"Marx, look at me." I grabbed her face with both hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. "Finn is dead. You told me yourself—the priests killed him. This isn't him."
"No." Tears streamed down her face, cutting tracks through the ash and grime. "No, he's—he's right there. He came back for me. He always said he would?—"
"The Trial is using your memories against you." My voice cracked as I held her tighter, feeling her shake apart in my hands. "Just like it showed me and Thatcher our parents. Just like it's showing everyone what they want most. It's not real."
Marx's legs gave out. I caught her as she crumpled, her hands fisting in my shirt as sobs wracked her body.
"I couldn't save him," she whispered against my shoulder. "I just stood there and let them?—"
"You were trying to survive." I held her tighter, my own eyes burning. "There's no shame in that."
The illusion of Finn stood patient in the smoke, still smiling, still waiting.
"He's not talking," she said, her voice hollow. "Finn never could shut up. Always had some terrible joke..."
"Because it's not him," I said gently.
Marx pulled back, wiping her face with shaking hands. She looked at the illusion one more time, and I saw her eyes harden with the same determination that had kept her alive all these years.
"Fuck you," she told the false Finn.
The illusion flickered, its smile faltering for just a moment before resuming its beckoning gesture.
"We need to go," Kyren urged from behind us. "The fire's spreading."
Marx nodded. She let me pull her away, but her eyes kept drifting back to where Finn stood in the smoke.
"Don't look back," I murmured. "It only makes it worse."
"Speaking from experience?" she asked, her attempt at humor falling flat.
