The Obsidian Vale had collapsed behind them, leaving nothing but molten scars where once a king's failure slept. Ren Zian had taken the Fifth Pact, and though his body bore no fresh wounds, his spirit carried new weight.
They traveled through dusk toward the frost-laced highlands of Elaria. Snow had begun to fall—not the gentle kind, but a biting wind that sliced through cloth and courage.
"We'll rest at Frostmoor Pass," Arin announced. Her voice held steel, but her eyes kept flickering toward Ren.
Nyelle walked beside Eira, whispering chants beneath her breath. The fallen goddess was quiet now, withdrawn—perhaps reflecting on the cost of her interference with the herald.
But it was Lyra who walked closest to Ren, her fingers occasionally brushing his sleeve, her expression unreadable.
They had not spoken since that night under the stars, when silence burned brighter than fire.
Frostmoor Pass was a forgotten temple buried in ice and shadow. They lit no torches—it seemed sacrilegious.
Inside, the walls were carved with depictions of war maidens and divine oaths. The floor still bore bloodstains frozen into glass.
As the others set up their gear, Ren stepped aside to a silent corner where a statue of an unnamed goddess overlooked the snow-covered altar.
Arin approached from behind, dropping a blanket over his shoulders.
"You're burning out," she said.
Ren gave a soft laugh. "Feels like I've been burning since chapter one of my life."
She didn't smile.
"Do you trust me?" she asked suddenly.
Ren turned. "With my life."
"Then fight me."
"What?"
She dropped her sword between them. "Spar me. Right now."
Ren blinked, then nodded slowly. "Alright."
The clash was swift—Arin moved like a tempest, forcing Ren to react, defend, stumble. Her strikes had no malice, only urgency.
"Why?" he panted after parrying another blow.
She didn't answer until she disarmed him and had him on his knees.
Then she knelt beside him, grabbing his collar.
"Because you need to remember you can bleed. That you're not a god. That you have people who can pull you back before you fall."
Ren's breath caught. Her forehead touched his.
And then… she kissed him.
Not fiercely, but with the restrained hunger of someone who had waited too long.
"I don't follow you because of your pacts," she whispered. "I follow you because I know the kind of man you are beneath them."
His fingers grazed her waist, trembling.
But before anything else could happen—
A shriek shattered the air.
They both turned.
Nyelle had collapsed. Eira was at her side in seconds. "She's been marked!" the goddess hissed. "A divine echo—someone traced her soul."
Ren rushed over, heart pounding. "By who?"
Nyelle's eyes fluttered open. "By… by the next Trialmaster."
The vision shared by her spell was horrifying:
A tower of bone, suspended above a sea of screaming shadows. And atop it—a creature made of silk, wings, and golden teeth.
"The Sixth Pact lies in the Maw of Harael," Nyelle gasped. "It is not a test of heart, or flesh, or spirit… it's a test of fate."
Eira paled. "No mortal has entered and returned sane."
Ren looked at them all, his expression unreadable. Then he took Arin's hand, gently.
"I'll survive. Because I'm not walking in alone."
Arin gave a sharp nod. Lyra stepped forward and took his other hand.
"Then let fate test us all."