The First Gate
Dusk descended like ink spilled from a celestial pen, blotting the horizon and muffling the breath of the strange land. The Archivist led them through a shifting vale of symbols and fragments—floating runes, flickering visions of what might have been lives once lived and lost.
Before them stood a gate of stone and song. No hinges, no lock—just a monolith humming with ancient resonance. It pulsed with a rhythm that echoed Mira's heartbeat, yet remained just out of sync, unsettling in its near-familiarity.
"This is the Gate of Memory," the Archivist said. "To pass, you must face the truth of what was, unshrouded by comfort or denial."
One by one, they stepped forward.
Elric went first. The stone shimmered, revealing a battlefield—not the one they had just fought, but one from his childhood. His father's last stand, his own escape. He watched himself turn away from a fallen comrade, shame buried beneath survival. Tears welled in his eyes as the vision ended. But he bowed, accepted it, and the gate allowed him through.
Lena followed. Her truth was a memory of the Academy—of a spell gone wrong, a friend turned to stone by her own error. She had buried it under logic and learning, but now faced it with raw pain. The gate shimmered and passed her through.
Valien's trial was longer. The vision showed a young prince watching his city burn. Voices cried for help, and he—terrified—chose exile over resistance. His silence, not spells, doomed them. When he emerged, his hands shook, but his spine was straight.
Bram hesitated. His memory unfolded not as an image, but a sound—the cries of those he had known in the Between, fragments of lost souls calling to him. His eyes rolled white for a moment, then cleared. He crossed the threshold in silence.
Mira stood before the gate last.
The orb glowed faintly in her palm as the stone came alive. Her vision pulled her backward—back to the moment her mother died. Not in battle, not in some noble blaze, but in silence, in sickness. Mira, still a girl, had promised to stay—but ran to the Keepers' grove to escape the pain. When she returned, her mother was gone.
"I'm sorry," she whispered aloud. "I was just a child, but I still carry that choice."
The stone pulsed. Accepted.
On the far side, the land changed again—colder, brighter, alive with motes of floating flame and mist. The next gate shimmered on the horizon, taller, darker.
"The Gate of Belief," the Archivist intoned. "But you may rest. Memory takes much, and belief will demand more."
They camped in silence. Around the fire, Mira felt lighter. The truth had not broken them. It had clarified them.
As she stared into the flames, the orb whispered a single word she had never heard before.
Her true name.
She smiled faintly. Tomorrow, they would face belief. Tonight, they remembered who they were.