When the pain finally faded, Aaron sat on the floor, gasping for air. His muscles still twitched from the aftershocks of the agony that had ripped through him. His head was spinning, and for a moment, he could barely focus on what was around him.
"Are you okay?" Era asked softly, stepping closer, concern in her eyes.
Aaron's voice was shaky as he spoke. "The ring… It just… it spoke to me. There were instructions. Things I have to do. If I don't, the pain... it'll get worse."
"It's the price of pushing beyond your limits. The ring doesn't forgive anger, and it doesn't forgive mistakes." Era said, a hint of bitterness in her tone. "You forced it to draw more power than you can handle. Now, it's punishing you for it."
Aaron swallowed hard, trying to push the panic down. "Is this… normal? For all the bearers, I mean?"
Era shook her head slowly. "No. The Phoenix Ring is different. Special. It's the only one I've ever heard of whose emotions can cause it to act this way. I don't face this kind of consequence. For me, it's just the voice that guides me, giving me instructions, nothing more."
Aaron clenched his fists, trying to process everything. "So… why me? Why does this happen to me?"
Era expression hardened. "As far as i know, the Phoenix ring always tests the worthiness of its bearer. It demands discipline, control. Anger throws that balance off. You will have to learn how to manage it. Or else…" She let the sentence hang in the air, the threat unspoken but clear.
Aaron felt his stomach twist. He couldn't afford to let this ring control him, to let the anger rule him like it had that day. He had to find a way to get through this.
Before Aaron could say more, a figure appeared in the doorway—tall, dignified, draped in indigo robes trimmed with silver thread. His aura commanded silence, and even Era straightened slightly at the sight of him.
The High Weaver stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room with the calm authority of someone used to being obeyed. His silver circlet glinted under the soft overhead lights as he spoke, voice smooth and deliberate.
"Era," he said with a respectful nod, "Hydra received your request for an audience."
Aaron glanced at her, surprised. Era gave no reaction, merely watching the man with unreadable eyes.
"However," the Weaver continued, "she regrets to inform you that she cannot meet with you at this time. She is preparing to address the Council of Eminent Weavers within the hour. That takes precedence."
A flicker of something passed through Era's expression—disappointment, maybe, or acceptance. She gave a slight nod.
"She sends you her regards," the man went on. "Wishes you a good return among us, a swift recovery… and, above all, rest. That is your priority now."
"Understood," Era said quietly.
Then the High Weaver's gaze shifted to Aaron, scrutinizing him for a brief moment.
"As for you," he said, "Hydra has made her decision. Your training begins tomorrow."
Aaron, still catching his breath, managed a weak, dry laugh. "Yeah, the ring just told me the same thing."
The High Weaver did not so much as blink. He offered no acknowledgment—only turned crisply on his heel, clearly finished delivering his message, and strode out of the room.
Aaron watched him go, his brief spark of humor quickly fading. Silence settled over the room once more, heavy and final.
"No rest for the weak," he muttered.
Era gave him a sideways glance. "That wasn't rest. That was mercy. Tomorrow, you'll wish for today back."
Aaron exhaled, letting his head fall back against the wall. "Great."
She stood slowly and walked to the doorway but paused before leaving. "Get some sleep, Aaron. You'll need every second of it."
Then she was gone, leaving him alone with the soft hum of energy still pulsing faintly in his chest… and the weight of tomorrow pressing harder with every breath.
---
In a vast chamber carved into black obsidian, lit only by the flickering glow of ethereal blue flames, five ominous figures stood in silence. They flanked a narrow aisle, two to one side, three to the other, like sentinels awaiting judgment. At the far end, an ornate, throne-like chair sat empty, its presence commanding reverence. The silence was thick, broken only by the low hum of the void that pulsed through the air.
The door creaked open.
Boots clicked against the polished stone as a hooded figure entered. All five bowed as the figure passed between them with a regal and effortless menace.
Corvus, the Voidfather, swept back his hood as he reached his chair. His piercing gaze drifted across each figure before settling into the high-backed seat like a monarch on his throne.
"We are not complete," he said calmly, but the undercurrent of disapproval in his voice was unmistakable. "Where are the others Black hands?"
From the shadows stepped Malrik, the Shadow Warden, his voice low and sharp like a blade in the dark. "Tharok is occupied—creating a barrier of defiance around the Rosewood perimeter. As for Selara…" He allowed the sentence to trail off with a knowing smirk. "You knowo how capricious she can be."
As if summoned by name, the door flung open once more with theatrical flair. A gust of lavender smoke spilled in, followed by a swaying, elegant figure whose every step echoed with mockery.
Selara, the Dreambreaker, glided into the chamber, her robe of illusion shimmering with shifting patterns. "Darling, did I miss the part where we all pretend to care about punctuality?" she purred, her tone a blend of silk and venom.
Vayra scoffed.
"Always late," muttered Vayra, the Bloodweaver, arms crossed, eyes gleaming crimson. She lounged against the wall with thin trails of blood dancing between her fingers like strings. "But then again, dreaming takes time, doesn't it, Selara?"
"Some of us dream, dear. Others just bleed," Selara replied with a smirk.
Malrik stepped between them with a raised hand. "Enough. This meeting is not for petty games."
Corvus said nothing for a moment, simply observing—calculating. His gaze lingered last on the quietest of them all.
Apophis, the Devourer of Light stood still, cloaked in a swirling darkness that seemed to devour even the dim blue flame around him. He hadn't spoken, hadn't moved. Just watched.
Corvus tilted his head. "You are quiet tonight, Apophis. That means something is bothering you."
The room turned to the shrouded figure. For a moment, there was only the sound of distant thunder from beyond the walls. Then Apophis spoke, his voice a low growl laced with decay.
"Why did you spare the Phoenix Ring bearer master?"
The question struck the room like a hammer. Even Selara's smirk faltered slightly.
Corvus leaned back, steepling his fingers. "It was a strategic retreat. Reinforcements were arriving. Besides…" His eyes glinted with something cold. "The bearer will fall into the trap I've set for him. He is already cracking. It's only a matter of time my hands."
"As you please, Master," Apophis said, but the dark energy around him pulsed in agreement—or warning.
Corvus rose from his chair slowly, his voice rising just enough to the air. "You will have your destruction, Devourer. All of you will. Soon, we will strike a blow that will shake the Sky Weavers to their core. Let them gather, let them prepare. None of it will matter."
He turned his back on the Sentinels and faced the wall, where a grand map shimmered into view—runes glowing over key locations.
Corvus smiled.
"A great victory is coming. And when it does, the Phoenix will burn... in our fire."
The flames around the chamber flickered violently, casting long shadows of monsters on the wall. And in the growing darkness, the Sentinels waited. Ready.