The Pact

She fell into silence after the final gesture.

There was no body, no blood, only the weight of a life now reduced to memories. Yuri felt herself floating, detaching from gravity like a knot coming undone.

And then the city, the lights, the names, and the guilt receded from her as though the curtain of life’s performance had finally closed. What remained was a corridor of darkness where every step produced no sound. There was no light!

The edges of that corridor opened into a hall with no walls or ceiling, only a gray, smooth floor stretching endlessly in all directions. A reddish glow pulsed in the distance, approaching with the rhythm of a tide.

When the light finally settled, a being inconceivable awaited her.

The figure took on a humanoid shape, shrouded in a long crimson mantle, its edges frayed as though dragged across infinite ages. The fabric concealed nearly all of its face and body; only the arms remained visible: thin, ashen, their skin dull and lifeless. At the center of the torso, where a chest should have been, a single eye stared unblinking — a vast eye, its iris a dim red, the elongated pupil fixed and motionless.

Its many arms sprouted irregularly from the torso. Two rose above its head, palms outward. A third grasped the edge of the mantle, keeping it from dragging across the ground. Another made a sign of blessing, fingers extended, thumb withdrawn. One more held a slightly curved quill pen. To the right, another carried a scroll bound in dark ribbons.

There was an impression of heat radiating from it, though no flame was present — a sense of fire without the need for burning.

“Yuri” — the figure said, mouth unmoving.

Its voice was deep and resonant, a tone reverberating not only through air but deep within bone. There was a slow cadence to it, a rhythm like embers crackling in a fire that would never die out.

She did not respond immediately. Firstly aware of herself.

In this realm, her appearance retained echoes of who she had been. A triangular face, pale skin, thin brows. Her long hair, a faint shade of pink, fell halfway down her back. Her eyes, dark and steady, carried the same defiance she had used to face the misery of her life.

Her body was slender, hands small, nails short, but scars remained on the wrists that had once tried to open themselves. Barefoot, she felt the ground beneath her toes. A simple white shift covered her frame, like a nightgown — clothing reduced to its most essential idea.

“Where am I?”

“In an in-between place” — the voice was not mere sound; it scorched itself into her mind and chest, as though each word had been branded into existence with heated iron. The pronunciation was clear but bore a weight like forbidden chants. — “A post-life realm where those without purpose are brought when the cycle breaks.”

The scroll unraveled on its own. The quill scratched across the surface, moving continuously though the hand seemed not to write at all.

Yuri raised her chin. This afterlife had no sky. Above her, a translucent dome revealed blotches of color drifting like algae through heavy water.

The light came from cracks in the dome, long slits opening into deeper darkness beyond. From each fracture, brief sounds spilled: a distant chorus, metal clashing upon metal.

They were not voices but impulses — fear, hunger, terror — slashing through the body like blades of ice. At the edges of vision, columns bent and straightened at unnatural angles, following an alien architecture incomprehensible to the human eye.

“Did I die?” Yuri asked.

“The body ceased to function” corrected the figure. The arm making the sign of blessing lowered slightly. — “The will remains, and your final act sealed it here, at this

“Why me?”

The central eye focused upon her.

“You chose to end your own life. Or have you forgotten? The world needs someone willing to bear the weight of change. Even if it is unjust…”

Yuri remembered the leap, like a ballerina. The lights, for the first time in years, letting her be seen by all. The feeling of ecstasy and then… nothing.

“Can you help me?”

The creature extended the scroll-bearing arm; The surface revealed lines in no language known to humankind.

“You will act in my name, to break the barrier imposed upon us by the Veil of Aether. You will be given a form mortals may understand. They must understand.”

Yuri lifted a hand, demanding to speak.

“And if I refuse?

“Oblivion. Everything you have done will have been in vain.”

“And what are you, truly?”

The crimson mantle shifted. The arm holding its edge moved slightly, lowering the garment as if in greeting. The eye did not blink.

“I am one of the Nine, set as warden in a house long broken. You recognize me because, deep down, you called for me. You cried for justice spoken in the language of fire. I am… the Burning Voice.”

The plain changed; gray rain began to fall, no drops, only dampness painting the air. A single umbrella rolled across a street full of office workers; a soft jazz tune played, then the image vanished.

“If I accept… what will I become?” — Yuri asked.

“You will remain yourself” said the Voice, “but now with purpose. The world will call you by another name. It dies even now, but you will kill the old so the new may rise.”

Yuri imagined a new body.

Pale skin marked by black sigils yet to be inscribed. A partial cuirass over the chest, greaves, gauntlets, pauldrons, a short skirt of metal plates. Crimson fabric beneath, tall boots with narrow heels, a white mask leaving only the eyes exposed — now glowing crimson.

She thought of the weight of each piece locking into place, the rhythmic clicks of armor assembling. The burning circle at her feet, the pillar of light rising upward. A uniform.

“Will it hurt?”

“Yes” said the Burning Voice. “Pain is the price for changing the meaning of things. But this time there will at least be meaning."

“And where will I return?”

“Ordinem Finis. You will find allies and countless foes. They will demand you kill, spare, bargain, break. You will choose. I demand only that you open the passage, that my kind may return. And the old world will perish — its hypocrisies, its miseries erased. At last, there will be peace. And silence…"

Yuri pondered the offer. The roofless hall, the fissures in the Aether, the echoes beneath — all awaited her answer. There was no comfort here, none at all. Only purpose. And that, at least, was familiar. Finally, a direction. An end to emptiness.

— I accept.

The quill moved, signing the final line. The scroll rolled itself shut, the ribbons binding it once more. The central eye dilated, its pupil stretching until it nearly reached the edges. Heat without flame swelled around her.

“Your body will be remade. A channel of Aether aligned to my focus will be woven through you. Your armor will answer both your will and the needs of each moment. Do not hesitate! Hesitation invites rupture.”

A dry crack split the ground. Thin fissures traced a circle beneath Yuri’s feet. Red lines. Light climbed her legs as her hands clenched, feeling the weight of the promise. Her hair lifted though no wind blew.

It was rebirth. For her, apotheosis.

“One last question” Yuri said, her voice already distorted by the transformation. “Will I truly have a choice? Or am I just a puppet?”

“Always” answered the Voice. “The pact is no chain. It is a tool.”

The circle reached its height. The gray hall receded. The layers below shrank to mosaics. The Aether’s dome closed like the eyelid of some colossal eye.

The heatless flame cooled into memory.

The Burning Voice raised its two highest arms, palms outward.

“This power shall be called Gift. Form a contract with me, Yuri… and become a magical girl!”