The heavy black stone door groaned loudly as it started to open, its rusty hinges protesting after years of silence. The sound echoed in the quiet chamber behind Orien, a harsh reminder of how long the door had remained shut. As it swung wide, Orien took a step forward, feeling the cool, dark air of the inside cling to him briefly before he turned away. Stepping out into the bright, burning desert sunlight, he immediately felt the difference in environment. But something was off—something unnatural had shifted in the air, in the way his compass responded, in how his instincts prickled.
The compass, which had spun wildly on the journey, now sat still. Its needle pointed unwaveringly southwest, guiding him away from the endless, shifting dunes and toward an outline in the distance—a jagged, uneven shape sharply cutting across the horizon. It was clear this silhouette was made of rugged, broken stone, and it called to him with an almost magnetic pull. The landscape behind him was now dominated by the towering spines of mountains, their peaks lost in the haze of heat. At their feet, nestled in a shadowed valley, lay the remains of an ancient ruin—long forgotten by most and crumbling with age, yet somehow still pulsing with old magic.
Orien's body was worn down from the effort. His muscles ached from exhaustion, and his skin was burnt from days under the relentless sun. His throat was parched, and thirst clawed at him, but he pushed forward. Rest was a luxury he couldn't afford. The spirits had not followed him into the temple, but their whispers lingered at the edge of his hearing—coiling through the wind, watching him with silent patience, waiting for him to slip. Orien clenched his fists, knowing he had no choice but to walk on. Every step he took was weighted with urgency. The trial was not over; the danger was still lurking in the shadows. He had to keep moving before the spirits regained his scent or revealed their true intentions.
He pressed on through the shifting landscape. As he moved beyond the sandy dunes, the terrain changed beneath his feet. The soft sand gave way to jagged, uneven stone. Sharp ridges jutted out from the ground like broken ribs baked in the sun. Sparse patches of thorned scrub—stunted and tangled—began to appear, clutching at the earth like desperate hands. The air itself seemed different; it held a faint metallic tang, replacing the dry desert scent with something sharper, more bitter. It was as if he had crossed into a different world—a place where old magic still thrived beneath the surface.
The sun was beginning to dip slightly, casting long shadows across the rocks. Despite the lowering of the sun, heat still radiated from the stones underneath his feet, almost as if the ground itself was still burning from within. Guided by the compass, Orien tracked the needle as it pointed toward a narrow canyon forming between two sloped rock faces. The entrance was tight, barely wide enough for him to squeeze through. Each step he took echoed loudly off the canyon walls, bouncing back in a deafening roar. The silence was thick and oppressive. Inside, the air was still, heavy with anticipation.
Then, suddenly, he heard it—the sound that broke the silence.
A low, steady, pulsing breath—like a deep, wet sigh coming from somewhere ahead. It was a sound that made his skin crawl, as if some great beast was alive behind the rocks, inhaling or perhaps preparing to strike. Orien instinctively slowed his pace, every nerve tense and trembling. His eyes darted around, searching for the source. Carefully, he moved forward, trying to stay hidden behind a bend in the canyon. Peering cautiously around the rough stone, he saw it.
There it was. A creature of nightmare, chained to an ancient, shattered altar. Its fur was thick, matted, streaked with dried blood. The creature was enormous and twisted—part wolf, part ox—stitches and scars crisscrossed its body. Some parts looked stitched together by magic, others by madness. One eye burned like molten gold, bright and fierce. The other eye was torn shut, a jagged scar running down its face. The beast's body tensed as it slowly shifted its massive head toward Orien, low growls rumbling from deep within its chest. Then—unexpectedly—it spoke.
"You carry the mark," it rasped, voice gravelly and broken.
Orien froze. His heart hammered in his chest. It was shocking—how could a beast speak? The creature coughed wetly, shuddering with each breath.
"All things speak when bound by old magic," it said, voice rough with age and pain. "Some are cursed to speak only truth, especially those trapped by powerful spells."
Orien's mind raced. "Are you my trial?" he asked, voice husky with exhaustion.
The beast paused, its chained limbs twitching. "I am Trial Four," it growled, voice thick with bitterness. "But not the one you must fight. This isn't the trial I represent. The beast you face is not me—it's what broke me, what kept me chained here."
A gust of wind swept through the canyon, carrying dust and loose stones. Orien stepped closer, wary. The beast's eyes flickered with a strange intelligence, or perhaps a warning.
"So, what do I do?" Orien pressed, feeling the weight of his journey pressing him down.
The chained creature grunted, limbs jerking again as if trying to break free. "Release me," it rasped. "Or kill me. Only then will the next path be unlocked for you."
Orien looked at the chains—thick iron runed with glowing symbols etched into the metal. Old Valean script, he recognized faintly from his studies. The magic was old—powerful enough to imprison even a creature like this. He reached out, hand trembling, and touched one of the runes. Suddenly, a jolt of energy surged through him—a sharp shock that made him stumble back.
"There has to be another way," he said, voice strained.
The beast growled. "There's always another way," it said grimly. "But they all demand sacrifice—something valuable must be given to break the spell."
Orien sat down on a nearby rock, carefully unwrapping what rations he had left. He took a few bites, hoping to gather strength. His eyes traced the glowing runes on the chains, reminiscing about stories from the Valean Library—old carvings, symbols in dusty tombs, and his mother's delicate sketches in the margins of his childhood books. Suddenly, one rune shimmered faintly when he pressed his finger against it.
It meant 'Remembrance.'
He remembered what his mother used to say about symbols—they held power, but only if you knew their meaning. His fingers traced the rune again, and a flash flooded his mind—visions of himself as a child. Watching his father kneel before a similar symbol carved into stone, chanting softly as if summoning something lost. The memory was vivid and clear, as if he was right there again.
He whispered softly, "Orien Vale," into the silence.
The rune flared brightly, and one of the chains snapped open with a loud clang. The beast roared, more in surprise than rage or pain.
"You remember," it said with a growl, voice thick with awe.
"I remember enough," Orien replied, breathing heavily as he moved to the next chain. That one bore a rune for 'Regret.' He hesitated, feeling a sudden weight in his chest.
He whispered, "I abandoned her." The words tasted bitter.
Instantly, another chain broke free with a flare of light. Orien felt the shift in his mind and soul—an ache of remorse that refused to fade. Only two chains now remained—one marked 'Truth,' the other 'Burden.'
He reached for the rune for 'Truth,' voice trembling as he prepared to speak.
"I wanted the trials. I wanted to find meaning. Even if it meant losing myself," he admitted aloud.
Again, a flash of memory struck—visions of his younger self, wrestling with doubts, searching for answers. The chains shattered with a loud crack, releasing more pain and clarity.
Now only the last rune, 'Burden,' pulsed beneath his hand. It felt heavy, almost too much to bear. He hesitated.
He spoke softly, voice strained. "I carry too much. I've taken on too much weight, too many secrets."
The beast's eyes softened, a strange smile curling on its face. "No," it whispered, trembling. "You carry just enough."
With that final word, the last chain snapped. The beast's enormous form surged upward, trembling but free. Its eyes met Orien's, full of both gratitude and sorrow.
"You've freed what was truly broken," it said quietly. "The next gate opens at dusk. Walk the path to the west."
Orien nodded. "What will happen to you?"
The beast, with a slow, sad smile, answered, "I remember my name now."
It turned and limped into the canyon's shadows, disappearing as the darkness deepened. The air grew heavier, and the compass in Orien's hand shifted again. It now pointed away from the ruined beast and toward the dimming light beyond the mountains.
He looked at the horizon, then at his guiding tool. A single step remained before he could move forward. Without hesitation, Orien started walking toward the fading glow, driven by the knowledge that his true trial was only just beginning.