The trees swallowed the light, their branches dense and darkening the sky above. At first, it was just the shadow cast by tall pines, their thick boughs blocking out some of the sun's warmth and brightness. Shadows stretched long and deep beneath the canopy, turning the forest floor into a maze of dark shapes. But gradually, the brightness faded further, and the sun seemed to vanish completely. The woods grew silent, more ancient and still than they appeared before. No birds chirped or called out, as if the forest itself was holding its breath. Silence replaced sound, and the darkness wrapped everything in a heavy, almost sacred quiet.
Elira walked beside Orien, her hand hovering near her sword's hilt. Neither of them spoke. The air grew thick with tension, each step echoing softly on the soft earth. The compass, their only guide, pointed straight ahead, but something had changed. It pulsed with a deeper, stronger beat as if responding to the strange atmosphere. Orien felt it in his chest—a deep, resonant thump that sounded like a heartbeat not his own. It grew louder, more urgent, making his nerves tighten.
Suddenly, the trees ended as sharply as they had begun. Without warning, the dense forest gave way to a massive opening—a yawning chasm that stretched wide in front of them. The ground before them dropped steeply into a huge pit, so vast it looked like a giant had sliced it out of the earth. The bottom of the pit blazed with molten red lava that flickered and shimmered like living fire. Along its edges, ancient stone ledges spiraled downward in tight coils, resembling giant coils of a snake. These ledges glowed faintly from the heat rising up from below, their surfaces trembling with energy. The entire pit radiated intense heat—a wave of warm air pushed upward, swirling around the edges of the opening. Everywhere they looked, the rock told a story—etched into the volcano's own skin was a single word that shimmered faintly in the dim light.
That word read simply: "Descent."
There was no further hesitation. They both knew what lay ahead. In complete silence, they began their descent. Step by step, they moved downward, the air growing hotter and thicker with each level they passed. Sulfur fumes mixed with the smoke lifted from the molten depths, creating a suffocating, living fog. The heat pressed on them as if the very air was trying to burn away their resolve. Sweat streamed down Orien's face and back, soaking into his clothes as he kept pace. His vision blurred at times; everything seemed to wobble and shift. The very stone beneath his feet radiated warmth, as if the ground itself was alive and breathing with the torching heat.
Elira stumbled once, slightly losing her balance. She caught herself quickly, her expression calm but strained. "We're being tested already," she said grimly.
Orien nodded, knowing she was right. "Endurance," he whispered, more to himself than to her.
But the challenge was more than just heat or fatigue. The narrow path forced them close enough to the edge of the lava to feel its scorch. The whispers began as faint voices echoing up the shaft—soft words that seemed to slide through the air. Sometimes, the sound was almost familiar. At moments, Orien thought he heard his own voice echoing back at him. Other times, it sounded like his mother's gentle voice calling across a distant space. Once, in the restless silence, he believed he heard Elira scream. Yet, he looked around and saw she was still beside him, her eyes fixed forward, her face completely focused. Neither of them spoke again. Instead, they kept their eyes trained on the path ahead, silently preparing for whatever lay beyond.
When they reached the fifth coil, the path branched into two choices—a fork in the road. Two staircases wound downward in opposite directions, each disappearing into a glowing tunnel within the rock itself. The compass, which had steadied earlier, suddenly started spinning wildly. It pulsed with erratic energy, as if confused or overwhelmed by what lay ahead.
Elira stepped forward without hesitation. "A choice," she said quietly.
Orien hesitated, weighing his options. "Which way is the Trial?" he asked, voice strained.
She looked toward the tunnel to her right, where the fire and heat danced across its surface, then shook her head. "One burns the body," she said softly.
Turning toward the other, she added, "The other, the soul."
Orien eyed her carefully. "Split up?"
Elira shook her head immediately. "No. We stay together, always." Her voice was firm, full of resolve.
After a moment's pause, they made their decision. They took the tunnel into the glowing rock, trusting each other to face what came next.
Inside, the air grew even hotter. Flames flickered along the walls—quick, bright, terrifying—seeming to dance and ripple like living ink across the surfaces. The narrow corridor forced them into a single line, so close that even a small misstep could send them into the fire. Glowing runes dotted the floor, flashing as they crossed over them, their symbols lighting up with each step. The voice returned, deep and ancient, resonating from an unseen presence.
"You seek power forged in pain," it echoed.
"You seek truth drawn from ash," it continued. "You seek the fire at the heart of all things."
The flames surged suddenly, hotter than before, engulfing them in a searing wall of heat. Orien froze, clutching his stomach as visions tore through his mind. Flames devoured his home, his brother's screams echoing in his ears. The tower they once fought in crumbled around him, falling into ruins. The images swirled and spun, overwhelming his senses until everything went dark.
He woke up alone.
Elira was gone.
He found himself in a vast chamber, shaped like a dome. Cracks marred the ceiling, and a glowing underground lake of lava stretched out beneath. Suspended above the bubbling depths, on stone pillars, was a small platform. Resting on it was a forge—a place where metal and fire met. A hammer lay beside it, heavy and cold. Close to the forge, a sword sat embedded in a bed of molten coals. It gleamed with a faint, unfinished glow, waiting for someone to take it.
Standing beside the forge was a figure dressed in obsidian armor. Only its outline was clear, but its face was hidden behind a helmet shaped like a dragon's skull. The figure's presence radiated power and menace. Then, the voice returned again, deeper and more commanding.
"Trial V. Face the one who forged your fear," the voice commanded.
The armored figure raised its hammer high.
Without hesitation, it swung forward to strike.
Orien sprang into action. The duel was fierce but quick. He dodged and rolled, trying to land a blow. But the armored figure moved with unnatural speed and skill. It seemed to anticipate his every move, as if it had read his mind. Orien felt the blow land hard, knocking him back. His vision blurred, and he struggled to stay upright. His eyes fixed on the edge of the platform, just above the shimmering lava.
He saw the sword in the glowing coals again. Unfinished, just like him—scarred and incomplete. Without thinking, he reached for it. His hand touched the hot surface, and pain exploded through his fingers. He cried out but didn't let go. Instead, he grabbed the blade and lifted it.
The sword flared with white-hot fire, brighter than before. The heat was immense, but Orien pushed through. The armored figure hesitated, sensing the change. He stepped forward, voice filled with new resolve.
"I am not afraid of who I was," he said.
With renewed strength, he swung the fiery sword. The blow shattered the obsidian helm in a spray of shards. Beneath it, he saw his own face—older, colder, harder than before.
The figure dissolved into shadows and smoke, leaving Orien standing alone. The fires flickered, and silence settled over the chamber once more.