The world became fire and stone.
Kael charged first, his blade whistling as it clashed against the granite hide of the nearest beast. Sparks burst into the fog, illuminating monstrous faces formed of obsidian and anguish.
Mira's shield slammed into one of them, cracking its jaw and sending it tumbling back. "They don't bleed!" she shouted, parrying a second strike. "What are these things?"
"Memories!" Ysera roared. She stood in the center of a firestorm, her staff spinning as flames coiled and leapt. "The Watcher is pulling Kael's fears into form. These are echoes of pain!"
Kael gritted his teeth. The creatures weren't just strong—they were familiar. One had his father's eyes. Another, the twisted grin of the commander who betrayed his village. The largest bore the face of Kael himself, scarred and laughing.
He staggered.
The Watcher's lantern pulsed red.
"The blade will burn the bearer."
Kael's knees buckled. The phantom version of himself stalked forward, armor blackened, Ashreign burning in his grip. He raised the blade—and it screamed.
"Do you regret it?" the phantom asked. "The oaths you broke? The people you lost? Your hands are soaked in more than just vengeance, Kael. They're soaked in fate."
Kael stepped back. Mira slashed through two more beasts, bloodless and crumbling.
"You aren't real!" she shouted.
"But he is," the phantom sneered. "I'm what's coming."
Kael's heart pounded. He saw the flame of Ashreign in the mirror version's hand, saw it flicker with chaotic wrath.
And in that moment, he made a choice.
He dropped his sword.
The phantom lunged.
Kael caught the blade with his bare hands.
Pain roared through him. Flesh seared, bone cracked—but he held it. The fire flowed into him, through him. His eyes lit with starlight.
"I don't fear what I become," Kael whispered. "I shape it."
With a roar, he turned the blade and drove it through the phantom's chest.
The creature vanished—along with the other beasts. The mist lifted. The Watcher lowered its spear.
"Trial passed," it said. "Path open."
The lantern dimmed. The earth closed. A narrow path appeared through the mountain, lined with ancient stone steps and runes that pulsed in rhythm with Kael's breath.
He retrieved his blade.
Ysera staggered beside him. "What… what just happened?"
"I saw the truth," Kael replied. "And I bled for it."
They walked into the dark.
The path wound downward, carved not by mortal hands, but by an age lost to all but whispers. Stone faces lined the walls, their mouths agape as if singing in silence. Blue fire danced atop the sconces with no fuel, casting ghostlight on the trio as they descended deeper into the Vault of Sorin.
"These steps haven't been walked in a thousand years," Ysera murmured, brushing her hand against an etching that shimmered briefly beneath her touch. "Sorin was the last of the Arcbinders. If his vault still holds... it could change everything."
Kael said nothing. His hands were still blistered from gripping the phantom blade. The pain reminded him he was real. That his choices had weight.
Mira led the way, shield raised, her eyes flicking to every shadow.
At the bottom, the stairway opened into a massive chamber. Pillars of crystal rose to a ceiling that glittered like a starless sky. In the center stood an altar—a monolith of obsidian with chains of silver coiled around it. Upon it rested a sphere, black as void, pulsing with slow, steady light.
Ysera's voice quivered. "That's not just any relic… That's the Heart of Sorin."
Kael stepped forward. "And it's not alone."
From the shadows, a cloaked figure emerged. Tall, lean, and unmoving. A mask of polished bone concealed his face, and an emerald brand glowed at his throat.
"Ashreign's child," the figure said. "You arrive at last."
Kael raised his blade. "Who are you?"
"A remnant. A guard. I was bound to this vault to test those who seek the Heart."
Mira drew her blade. "Another trial?"
The figure nodded once. "This one is not of fire or illusion. It is of will. Of choice. Only one of you may pass. The others must be left behind. This is the law of Sorin's vault."
Silence.
Kael looked to his companions—Mira, steady as stone. Ysera, eyes wide with history and hunger.
And then he looked at the Heart.
Its pulse echoed in his chest.
A choice must be made.
The silence thickened like fog. The Heart of Sorin pulsed again—stronger this time—each beat calling out, not in sound, but in thought. Kael felt it burrowing into his resolve, tempting, whispering, beckoning.
"One of us?" Mira's voice was a low growl. "What happens to the others?"
The masked guardian's voice was even, timeless. "They remain. Not by death, but by stasis. Until the chosen returns. If they return."
"Then it's a cage," Ysera spat. "A prison dressed as tradition."
"Not a prison," the guardian replied. "A crucible. The Heart demands clarity of purpose. Unity cannot pass this gate. Only solitude."
Kael looked to the two women—his shield and his fire.
"I'll go," he said.
"No," Mira and Ysera answered together.
Kael stepped forward. "This isn't a debate."
Ysera's brow creased. "You think this is your burden alone?"
"It's my blade," Kael said, holding up Ashreign. "My fate. And if the Heart is truly Sorin's... it will answer only to the one meant to carry its weight."
The guardian inclined his head. "Then speak your choice. Who shall remain?"
Kael turned to Ysera first. "You know the ancient tongues. The runes. You're the key to what comes after."
Then to Mira. "And you… you've kept me alive more times than I can count. But if this trap becomes my tomb, I want someone who will tear the world apart to free me."
Both stared at him, straining to argue.
"I choose to go," he finished. "Alone."
The moment the words left his lips, the ground trembled. The chains around the Heart receded, slithering into the stone. The obsidian cracked, revealing a stair descending further—lit by starlight that had no source.
Kael gave one last look to his friends, then stepped beyond the altar, vanishing into the unknown.
As he vanished, the guardian turned to the women. "You may wait here, or forget him and walk away. The choice is yours. As it was his."
They said nothing.
And above, the chamber sealed.
The stairwell spiraled downward, cut from a single column of midnight stone, as if birthed from the world's core. Kael descended in silence, each footstep echoing faintly against the void. The air shimmered, thick with ancient magic—neither warm nor cold, but sharp, as if infused with memory.
The deeper he went, the less real the world above seemed. Even Ashreign at his side dimmed, its crimson glow subdued in the presence of something older—something sovereign.
Finally, he reached the bottom.
A chamber stretched wide before him, circular and hollow, its walls inscribed with a language so old it burned to look upon. Floating in the center was a mirror—not made of glass, but a silvery surface that rippled like water suspended in the air. Beneath it, a single word carved in ancient runes:
"Face."
Kael approached cautiously.
The mirror pulsed.
A figure emerged.
Himself.
But different.
His reflection stood taller, eyes darker, blade twisted into something monstrous—Ashreign corrupted. Around his reflection's neck hung a crown Kael had never worn, forged of bone and shadow. The image smiled—not with malice, but pity.
"You are not ready," the reflection spoke. "You still believe you are the hero."
Kael gritted his teeth. "And you think you are not me?"
"I am who you will become," the reflection said. "If you continue down this path without understanding. Without breaking."
Then the mirror shattered—and the chamber was gone.
Kael stood now on a battlefield of ash and ruin, the sky torn, the stars gone. Armies clashed in the distance—ghosts and men and beasts alike. Screams filled the wind.
And standing before him: the corrupted version of himself. Flesh and steel.
Ashreign in its broken form surged forward.
Kael raised his blade, his heart pounding—not with fear, but clarity.
The trial had begun.
Kael lunged, steel screaming as Ashreign met its twin. Sparks rained between mirrored fates—one forged from resolve, the other born of ruin.
The corrupted Kael—Shadow-Kael—moved with precision and rage, as if every strike were punishment, not combat. His Ashreign, twisted by voidfire, wailed with each clash, a cry not of metal but of something alive. Something ancient.
Kael parried low and rolled, sweat and blood streaking down his brow. The battlefield around them faded into insignificance. There was no war. No prophecy. Only this: man against his potential downfall.
"You will become me," Shadow-Kael hissed, blade grazing Kael's shoulder. "The moment you sacrifice too much. The moment you believe power makes purpose."
Kael grunted, pushing off with raw fury. "I am power. But I am also choice."
He unleashed a flurry of blows. Ashreign lit up like a storm reborn, runes along its edge flaring crimson, then white. The force of each strike echoed like thunder in the barren void.
Shadow-Kael stumbled.
Kael advanced. "I fight not to be greater. I fight to be enough."
With a final roar, he drove Ashreign into his counterpart's heart.
But there was no blood.
Only light.
The shadow version exploded into embers, and Kael collapsed to one knee, chest heaving, surrounded by silence.
The ground beneath him shifted. The battlefield disintegrated into sand, and the sky returned—dawnlight piercing through clouds above.
He had passed the trial.
Yet the words of his shadow remained:
The moment you believe power makes purpose… you lose everything.
Kael sheathed Ashreign. He rose. There was no time to dwell.
Somewhere beyond the cliffs of Mirathal, Lord Draeven stirred. And Kael now knew: the war ahead would not just test his sword.
It would test his soul.