Dawn broke slow and cold over the horizon, casting pale amber light through the skeletal branches above. Orien Vale stirred beneath his cloak, rising from dreamless sleep. The flame-shaped shard and the featherstone lay untouched beside him, still glowing faintly from the previous trial. He blinked against the brightness and listened: birdsong, rustling leaves, the quiet rush of the river behind him. No footsteps. No voices. The world had returned to normal—or as close to it as it ever would.
But something was calling.
It began subtly, like the memory of a voice. A tug behind his eyes. A pressure in his ribs. Orien turned toward the satchel where he'd stored the sealed letter from the Lira-like apparition. Still unopened. Still mysterious.
And yet the call didn't come from it.
He reached for the pouch containing the shards. As his fingers brushed the surface of the featherstone, a vibration rippled through his arm. He pulled the stone free and held it up to the light. The shimmer inside pulsed—once, twice—then steadied. His heart skipped.
A third shard was calling him.
He stood, slinging his pack across his shoulders, and took one last look at the Silent Bridge far behind him. Then he walked east, following a path that didn't yet exist.
The terrain shifted quickly. Trees grew denser, their trunks thick and gnarled. Moss hung in drapes from every branch. The deeper he walked, the dimmer the sunlight became, as though it struggled to penetrate the canopy. Birds no longer sang.
By midday, the path sloped downward into a forest basin. The wind had stopped. Insects didn't buzz. The air was thick with the scent of something ancient—old stone, old magic. That was when he saw it.
A boulder. Smooth. Rounded. Unnatural.
Carved into its surface was a spiral of symbols he didn't recognize, all encircling a single indentation just large enough for the featherstone. Beneath it, in crude Common script, were four words:
"Your name is known."
The stone in his hand grew warm.
With hesitant breath, Orien pressed it into the indentation.
The stone glowed.
The symbols lit in sequence—one by one, around the spiral—until the boulder cracked down the center with a sigh of dust. The forest trembled. The ground shifted. And from the split, a stairwell descended into the earth.
He hesitated only briefly. Then he descended.
The air below was dry and cold. The walls were carved from black granite, etched with spirals like the boulder above. But here, among the carvings, were names. Hundreds. Thousands.
Some had been scratched out.
Others shimmered faintly.
And there, in the center of a circular chamber, stood the Calling Stone.
It floated above a pedestal, glowing with a deep blue hue. Around it hovered three fragments—shard-shaped, like the ones he'd collected. One glowed with the faint fire of the second trial. Another shimmered silver, like the feather. The third was blank.
Orien stepped forward. The moment his foot crossed the threshold of the chamber, the fragments spun and vanished—absorbed into the Calling Stone.
And then… it spoke.
"Orien Vale. Son of Narin Vale. Bearer of Flame and Feather. Listener of the Echo. You stand before the Third Calling."
His skin prickled.
The voice was not a sound—it was inside him, deep and thunderous.
"Your name is known. Your path is written. But ink fades. And names… change."
The floor trembled. The pedestal sank, revealing another passage.
"Descend. Know yourself. Or be forgotten."
He obeyed.
The tunnel spiraled downward for what felt like hours. He emerged into a cavern lit by strange crystals embedded in the ceiling—sky-blue and vibrating softly. A lake spread before him, still as glass, reflecting the crystals like a shattered sky.
At its center stood an island of obsidian.
And atop the island, an altar.
He waded into the water. It was not cold. Not warm. It simply was—a sensation beyond temperature. Halfway across, his reflection changed.
It stared up at him. But it was not him.
This Orien was older. His hair was longer. His eyes harder. His expression… was that regret?
He stumbled.
The water around him shifted, thickening into mist.
He looked up. The island was gone.
He stood in Elowen.
His childhood home. His father's forge. The village green.
And then, a voice.
"You never said goodbye."
Lira.
She stood before him in the mist, younger, smiling sadly.
"You left," she said. "But I stayed. I stayed and watched the sky change."
He reached for her—but his hand passed through.
"You weren't ready," she whispered. "And neither was I."
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"Because you still carry me."
The mist deepened. The forge dissolved. Elowen was gone.
Now he stood in a battlefield. Smoldering. Ash-stained. Hundreds of broken swords. A single banner—his family's—ripped and burning.
The older Orien knelt in the center, blood on his hands.
"No!" Orien stepped forward. "This hasn't happened. This isn't real."
"It will be."
The Calling Stone's voice boomed.
"The name Vale carries weight. Fire and burden. This is what awaits, should you continue."
He clenched his fists.
"I've seen what comes from hiding. From running. I won't do it again."
"Then take your name. And bear it."
The battlefield vanished.
He stood once more before the altar.
A third shard hovered above it—this one shaped like a blade. It shone silver-blue.
He reached out, and as his fingers closed around it, a burn etched itself into his skin—his right forearm flared with pain, and when he looked down, the mark of Vale had returned. A crest of flame and feather encircled by an eye.
"Trial III awaits. Ninety-seven remain."
He turned, ascending once more to the surface.
But this time, the names on the walls whispered.
They spoke of choices.
They spoke of names forgotten.
And they whispered his.
"Orien Vale… Orien Vale… Orien…"
He emerged into twilight.
And the Calling Stone vanished behind him, sealed once more.
But the voice lingered in his mind.
"You have answered. The world watches. The Trials remember."