Chapter Four: Trial of Flame
At the break of dawn, a horn fashioned from dragonbone sounded through the ancient city. Its deep, resonant call stirred the sleeping embers of Solen'Kael. Lyra awoke with a start, her heartbeat already racing. Today was the second trial—one that tested the body, not the mind.
The Trial of Flame.
Initiates gathered in the Obsidian Arena, a circular platform suspended over a river of lava. Heat shimmered in the air, distorting reality. No enchantments guarded them now. This was raw, unforgiving magic.
The Flamekeepers stood on elevated platforms, their expressions solemn. High Keeper Thariel stepped forward, his crimson robes billowing in the rising heat.
"Today, the fire judges your flesh. Endurance, strength, control. You will fight—not each other, but your fears."
He gestured, and the arena cracked open into five segments, each a different terrain forged from elemental flame. One was an infernal forest, another a burning desert. A spiral tower of molten glass loomed at the center.
Lyra was directed toward the tower.
Heart of the Tower
She entered alone.
The heat inside was suffocating, the air thick with ash and memories. As she ascended the winding stairs, her thoughts unraveled. The voices returned—her own doubts made manifest.
You are no heir. You're a frightened girl who watched her world burn.
She pressed forward, sweat pouring from her skin. Her vision blurred.
On the third level, flame-wraiths attacked—shapes of fire with no substance, yet every strike seared her flesh. She summoned her power, but it sputtered, wild and uncontrolled.
Remember who you are.
Elion's words echoed in her mind.
She clenched her fists, focused, and let the fire come—not from rage, but resolve.
The flames obeyed.
A shockwave burst from her, scattering the wraiths. She stumbled forward, up another flight, toward the heart of the tower.
There, she found a throne of charred wood, atop which sat a crown of cinders.
A figure awaited her—her mirror self, wreathed in fire.
"You carry the burden," it said. "But do you carry the will?"
"I don't know," Lyra whispered. "But I'll burn for the answer."
They clashed—magic against magic, fire against fire. Each strike drained her. Each breath hurt.
Finally, Lyra collapsed to her knees, too exhausted to move. But she smiled.
She had not fled.
The mirror-self dissipated.
The crown of cinders floated to her hands.
She had passed.
The Broken and the Brave
Not all initiates returned.
Of the thirty-five that entered the trials, eleven were carried out on stretchers. Two remained behind, their souls lost in the fire.
Lyra stood among the survivors, her body wrapped in healing cloth, her hands scorched but steady.
High Keeper Thariel placed a burning sigil on her shoulder. "Marked by fire. Tested by flame. You walk the path."
Elion appeared at her side, limping but grinning. "I almost lost an eyebrow," he joked. "But you… you nearly became fire itself."
"I'm not done," she said.
"No. You're just beginning."
Above them, the Embercore pulsed brighter than before.
And far beneath the Crucible, something ancient stirred.
Something that remembered her name.