Chapter 64 – Trial of Echoes
The halls of Virellas Arx shimmered like dreams suspended in glass. Within its spires, time itself seemed to breathe. Arcane constructs moved silently through the corridors—guardians made of light and law.
Jean walked beside Lucien Magus, the Heir of the Magistery, each step echoing across mirrored floors. Whitney padded close, his divine senses bristling.
"I won't waste time," Jean said. "The threat of Antares grows by the day. My clan bleeds itself in a succession war, and your Magistery remains isolated. This ends today. Fight beside us."
Lucien gave her a measured glance. "Before we forge a pact, you must undergo the Rite."
Jean raised an eyebrow. "What rite?"
Lucien stopped before a vault carved with countless names—some glowing, others scorched out.
"The Trial of Echoes. Every Magus Heir undergoes it. It will reveal your soul… and determine if you are worthy of binding magic to your cause."
Jean's hand tightened on Luxclade. "And if I'm not?"
"Then the Arx will consume you."
Jean stepped forward without hesitation. "Then let it try."
Lucien nodded once. "So be it."
---
The chamber of the Trial was a sphere suspended in nothingness. No walls. No floor. Only runes—countless runes—drifting like stars.
Jean stood at the center.
The runes ignited.
And suddenly, she was no longer alone.
She stood in a memory—not her own, but Severra's.
She saw the world aflame. She saw dragons soaring over broken cities. She saw the first Emissaries weeping over fields of the dead.
And then—Martin Luther. Standing atop a mountain of ruin, his aura shining like a sun.
She reached for him—but the scene shattered.
Now she stood before a younger version of herself—alone in the Academy courtyard, crying over the loss of her parents.
"Why did you leave us?" the younger Jean whispered.
Jean clenched her fists. "I didn't. I survived."
The illusion wept.
Then another voice spoke—one darker, twisted with bitterness.
"You'll never be enough."
It was Tiran, her brother, the fiercest of the contenders in the Succession War.
"You were always the weakest," he snarled. "A child with a goddess' favor, but no spine. You think a glowing sword makes you a leader?"
Jean stepped forward, eyes blazing.
"No," she said. "But I earned my blade. I bled for it. I suffered for it. And I will burn down every throne before I let you take what I've become."
Light erupted from her chest.
The illusions shattered.
The chamber trembled.
From outside, Lucien watched through a scrying orb, his expression unreadable.
"She didn't break," one of the Archmages whispered.
Lucien whispered back, "No… she forged herself."
---
The vault doors opened.
Jean emerged—breathless, eyes glowing faintly with the aftermath of god-flame.
Lucien stood waiting.
"Well?" Jean asked.
Lucien smiled, just slightly.
"The Magistery will stand with you, Emissary."
---