The Cradle's doors creaked wider, the smell of ancient dust and forgotten memories washing over Fred and the others. Shadows curled along the walls, flickering in the pale light of the survivors' torches.
"Stay close," Fred ordered, his voice low.
The woman who had led them here — still cloaked in mystery — merely smiled faintly, as if she knew something none of them did.
The survivors moved hesitantly, wide-eyed and trembling. Mira kept her sword drawn, every step forward a battle against the primal fear that gnawed at them all.
Inside, the Cradle was a labyrinth — towering halls lined with fractured murals, shattered stained-glass windows that once told stories of hope, now depicting broken angels and fallen kings.
Fred ran his fingers along the wall. It was warm. Alive.
"This place is... breathing," Mira whispered, unnerved.
The woman nodded. "The Cradle remembers everything."
---
Deeper inside, Fred stumbled into a wide circular chamber.
In the center stood a pool — not of water, but of shimmering light, swirling like liquid stars. As Fred approached, the surface rippled, and images began to form.
He saw himself, younger, standing before a massive door he didn't recognize. Beside him was a woman — not Mira, not anyone from the survivors. A woman with silver hair and kind, fierce eyes.
A memory.
But it wasn't his.
Fred staggered back, heart hammering.
"What is this?" he demanded.
"The Cradle feeds on echoes," the cloaked woman said softly. "Fragments of lives, dreams, and regrets. It shows you what you've lost... or what you could have had."
Fred's fists clenched. "I don't need to see this."
"Maybe you don't," the woman said, her voice almost a whisper. "But the Cradle shows you anyway."
Behind him, the survivors watched silently, as if fearing that speaking would shatter the delicate threads of memory weaving through the air.
Mira touched his shoulder. "You okay?"
Fred nodded tightly, though inside, he felt as if pieces of him were unraveling.
---
The deeper they traveled, the stranger the Cradle became.
The walls pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. Doors appeared where none had been moments before. Voices whispered just out of reach, calling Fred's name.
At one point, they came across a garden — indoors, growing wildly, illuminated by glowing spores. Strange, beautiful plants twisted toward them, almost beckoning.
Fred didn't trust it.
He moved them quickly past, ignoring the siren-like pull.
But one of the survivors — a boy barely older than a teenager — lingered too long. The vines slithered out, wrapping around his legs, his arms, his throat.
He didn't even scream.
By the time Fred reached him, it was too late. The boy's face was serene, as if he had simply fallen asleep.
Fred burned the vines away with a shard-weapon, his chest heavy with guilt. Another life lost because of hesitation.
He couldn't afford it anymore.
No more mercy.
No more mistakes.
---
Finally, they reached a massive central hall.
At its far end, a great throne sat beneath a shattered dome, moonlight spilling down onto the cracked floor.
And sitting upon that throne —
Fred froze.
His heart stopped.
It was him.
Or... it looked like him.
A perfect mirror image, except this version of Fred smiled coldly, eyes gleaming with malice and sorrow intertwined.
"Welcome back," the doppelgänger said, rising to his feet. "We've been waiting for you."
The survivors backed away in terror. Even Mira hesitated, her blade trembling.
Fred forced himself to step forward. His mouth was dry.
"Who... are you?"
The other Fred tilted his head.
"I am your future," he said. "The one you were too weak to become."
Around the hall, the shadows coalesced into forms — more Lost Ones, more twisted memories, more regrets given flesh.
Fred tightened his grip on his weapon.
Whatever this was, whatever test the Cradle had set before him — he would face it.
Even if it meant fighting himself.
---