Kieran was the first to walk upon his bridge, and he pursued the end with the greatest momentum out of the seven… until he didn't.
He followed the pull of the Condemned Chain that was to be passed on, that much he was sure of. While following it, however, he failed to realize when the scenery around him had begun to change or the sickening scent of rotten blood wafted past his nose.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. That amiss feeling gnawed at Kieran's confidence.
'What?'
Why did he not understand what was going on with his body? Or where he was exactly? Wariness and alarm gripped Kieran's mind as he glanced at the six empty bridges spanning deep into the distance.
The other Inheritors were gone.
Had the Testament of Dying Blood already taken him, or were they taken?
"…Hello?"
No answer. Complete silence.
"Altair…"
He called out to his friend, but that uncanny silence remained. He could feel nothing in this eerie calm. A calm that swallowed many things.
Something resonant and wise within Kieran warned him to stop walking, to turn back, but the pull… the pull overwhelmed him. It was irrefutable and irresistible. He couldn't break away, so he inevitably gravitated toward that nameless and mysterious beckon.
That dreadful feeling grew in his heart, soon blossoming into ripened fear.
He was disconnected from the Zenith Frequency in this place. But he was also disconnected from something more meaningful.
His progress and his support.
He was alone — like he had started in the first place.
'…Is this my condemnation? Loneliness? Solitude?'
The question made Kieran consider his aspirations. What did he hope to achieve?
One such desire was to remain the sovereign of his volition. To achieve that desire, however, he had to be matchless. But the peak was said to be lonely. No one else was there; otherwise, it wouldn't be called such.
A lonely road traveled by few — that was what the journey to the peak was.
Was there any fulfillment in that goal, though? The people along the way would become memories that faded, existences that passed, and dust that settled.
"You will always be alone. Where you walk, Death and Destruction follow. Ruin cherishes you. It has sunken deep, for it is your blood, permeates you without end, and now runs deep and rampant."
As if his deepest thoughts were being repeated, manipulated, and mocked, a voice akin to a whisper spoke mordant taunts into Kieran's ear. He turned around, looking for the person or thing responsible.
Again, there was nothing.
He was here upon the Condemned Bridge alone, cast away in some bleak setting where his thoughts were his only friend. And even those seemed like they were trying to condemn, mock, and banish him to some hell where solitude was his torment, companion, and adversary.
He had been to that place once before. He didn't wish to return, but it was calling out to him, beckoning for his return. Little by little, his footsteps slowed, and his limbs became heavy, then powerless. All aspects of his power, of what him... him, faded from Kieran in an escaping torrent.
That mordant voice whispered into his ear again.
"…Will you do anything to win back your lost power?"
Kieran didn't answer. He struggled to say no because a dark emotion robbed him of that ability. What would he do if he was ever forced back into that hell?
What choices would he make? Did his true character match what he was trying to show others? Or… did he hide a different face? One even he was unaware of?
'I'm not a bad… no, terrible person. I am a survivor. I do what needs to be done.'
Kieran started to reason with his thoughts like there was another him replying. Maybe there was. Could he trust that, though? No… no, he felt he shouldn't.
The Maddened were trying to wrest him away! He couldn't become one of Argexes' minions — he refused and reviled that fate.
Kieran's steps stopped in the center of the Condemned Bridge. His gaze was unfocused, giving the impression that he was utterly mindless.
Around his feet, a gigantic Mark of the Maddened formed. The bridge shifted colors, embodying fresh, old, and dying blood all the same.
The Testament's written history was being spoken, and its audience consisted solely of Kieran.
"The Blood will die with you. Pay tribute to the Choices made. The Testament is unforgiving because fate is a cycle. It repeats and repeats and repeats… so experience it."
Then, Kieran felt numerous condemned hands emerge from that giant symbol and grip his legs, tearing him beneath the surface soon after.
In that moment, desperation took hold of Kieran and returned clarity, but it wasn't enough.
'No! Let me go.'
Kieran kicked, screamed, and attempted to resist the pull, but again, it was inexorable.
That almighty attraction dragged him into the depths until he was submerged in a sea of red liquid. His screams no longer made a sound. The blood gurgled and bubbled, some seeping up and reaching its terminus before breaking the surface.
The bizarre viscosity made it challenging to place, but Kieran knew that metallic taste and pungent flavor all too well.
He was drowning in blood.
Sinking further and further until finally, he lost himself. How poetic. He was drowning in the very power he needed. At least, he thought so.
'This is real, right? If it weren't… the Book would help me. Book…'
Weakness continued to devastate Kieran as he called out to the Compendium. He thought he had heard its archaic intonation for a moment, but that was a hallucination of his effete mind.
It withered, and Kieran withered with it. He did not breathe, move, or blink. Held in place by the peculiar protean blood, his body floated and weakened.
Gradually, the light in his eyes faded, and his soul's liveliness left his body. With the escape of his soul, Kieran's body withered constantly until it was an emaciated figure floating in condemnation.
His Test had begun. He was being Challenged. And in that challenge, he would find many answers. Agatha had been gravelly wrong about the repercussions of the Trial. This was not a simple severance from Significance.
This was a castration of all that was. A Condemned Fiend was too dire of a threat to be allowed to walk freely. Everything was thus stolen from Kieran.
…
Kieran blinked, awakening in a distorted world.
All of his senses were in disarray. Sensations, sounds, lights — they all bled into a dissonant blur. He caught a glimpse of primitive sconces attached to many aged stone walls. Then, he started to notice more and more unusual things.
For one, he was lying on a rigid bed in a small room fit for one person. A rusted chandelier of austere metal was hanging above his bed, attached to the ceiling by a dangling hook. It was patchwork but still an attempt at something nice in this otherwise spartan place.
As the minutes passed, Kieran gained the ability to move, albeit slowly and very much in need of assistance.
'Am I old?'
No, that wasn't the answer to his question. The tight skin on his lightly tanned forearm told him that assumption was wrong. Famished then? Kieran lifted his sullied rags, and lo and behold, he had the body of a cadaver!
Bone… and skin with scant amounts of muscle. More than that, Kieran realized his hands were small, almost tiny.
He shuffled to a round mirror near the room's only door fashioned out of rotted wood. Layers of dust buried the mirror's dull luster, but after minutes of huffing and rubbing, he polished it enough to see his face.
'Who?'
Kieran was stunned by the unfamiliar, childish face. After a few wordless blinks, Kieran felt despair.
'…The Testament of Dying Blood… is a damned child's tale?!'
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