Suddenly, the ground before them cracked open, and shadows began to rise—figures, memories of those who had failed this trial before. Shadows of the past, twisted and broken, they moaned in agony, their voices indistinct but filled with sorrow.
The trial had begun in full force. The shadows moved toward them, hungry, with hands outstretched. They were ghosts of failure—those who had attempted to pass the trial but had not been strong enough to bear the weight of Ashenreach.
The air crackled with tension, the shadows swirling around Kaleon and Theo like a living storm. They could feel the weight of their ancestors' mistakes pressing on them, the legacy of failure trying to drag them down.
But this time, the brothers were not alone.
Kaleon gripped Shadowrend, the blade pulsing with energy. He had learned to channel the strength of the Flameheart, and with a powerful roar, he slashed through the nearest shadow, the blade slicing through its form with ease.
Theo, too, stood tall, his hands glowing with raw lightning energy. Tempest Fury surged to life, arcs of lightning bursting from his hands as he cut through the shadows, each strike filling the air with the sound of thunder.
They were not the ones to fail. This was their trial to pass.
With every strike, the shadows grew weaker. The land's pulse seemed to slow, the pressure in the air lifting as they fought back against the ghosts of failure. The brothers were proving their strength—together—and the land was forced to acknowledge it.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the shadows receded, fading into the ground beneath them. The land's pulse slowed, and the pressure that had weighed down on them began to lift. The Watchers appeared once more, standing at the edge of the clearing, their eyes filled with approval.
"You have passed," the first Watcher said, his voice rich with finality. "The Heart of Ashenreach has judged you. You are no longer mere travelers. You are bound to the Flameheart."
The second Watcher nodded solemnly. "But remember this—true power does not lie in strength alone. It lies in knowing when to act and when to yield."
Kaleon and Theo stood, breathing heavily, their bodies covered in sweat and ash, but their hearts were steady. They had passed the trial. They had survived.
The next step of their journey had begun.
Ashenreach lay still once more.
The echoes of the battle faded, but its weight lingered. Kaleon sat on a crumbled stone, eyes fixed on the strange grey soil beneath him. Beside him, Theo leaned against a tree with bark like petrified bone, his breath slow but steady. Their panther cubs prowled in circles, growling softly, eyes always scanning the horizon—as if expecting the land to strike again.
But no threat came.
The Watchers, now more shadow than form, hovered at a distance. The first spoke in a voice touched by reverence.
"You have endured more than the land expected. Fewer than ten have stood here and lived. Fewer still have been chosen afterward."
Theo looked up, his voice dry but curious.
"Then what are we now?"
The second Watcher turned to them. "You are Oathborn in waiting. Not chosen... but acknowledged."
She extended a long-fingered hand, and the ashen floor cracked open—revealing stairs of glowing obsidian leading into the earth's heart.
"The Masters await."
Kaleon met Theo's gaze again. No words were needed. They rose, brushed the ash from their clothes, and descended—panthers padding silently behind them.
The air shifted with every step downward.
Heat radiated from the walls—soft at first, then intense. Wind whipped around them though no space should have allowed it. This tunnel was ancient, carved by forces forgotten. It pulsed with power.
And then the stairs ended.
They emerged into the Heart Hall—a vast, circular chamber of black stone veined with crimson light. At its center stood two twin thrones, sculpted from living flame and rising wind, facing one another but not quite touching. Between them, a pedestal hovered, and above it blazed a sphere of fire and air, swirling endlessly—the Flameheart Core.
Two figures stood beneath it.
One was tall, dark-skinned, with hair like burning coal and robes that shimmered like molten rock. His eyes burned with quiet fire.
The other was lean, her silver-white hair braided with feathers. Her robes flowed like the breeze, her voice soft but unyielding when she finally spoke.
"We are Corvalen and Seyra."
"Flame and Wind."
"Master and Mistress of the Flameheart Order."
Theo and Kaleon stood silent, breath stolen by the weight of the room.
Corvalen's eyes met theirs. "You are not chosen. Not yet. But you are not lost."
Seyra stepped forward, extending two glowing scrolls bound in air. "You are Oathborn in waiting."
"The land tested your body. Now, the Flameheart shall test your soul."
The ground trembled.
The twin thrones sank into the floor as the Heart Hall shifted. The walls folded open, revealing a new chamber behind—circular, filled with ancient weapons, broken mirrors, and glowing pools of memory.
Corvalen's voice echoed:
"In this trial, you will face yourselves—not the land, nor shadows. But your truths. Your fears. Your lies."
Seyra whispered, almost a breath on their ears:
"You will not fight with swords. You will fight with truth. And only one who accepts themselves may be accepted by the Flameheart."
Kaleon and Theo stepped forward.
Their final trial as Oathborn in waiting was about to begin.
The moment they stepped into the chamber, the air shifted.
A humming silence enveloped Kaleon and Theo. The circular room dimmed, the walls now like obsidian mirrors reflecting not their appearances—but flickering shards of their memories. The chamber was alive with emotion, pulsing to the rhythm of their thoughts.
Then came the voice of Seyra, low and eternal.
"Truth weighs more than metal. Bear it, or be broken."
Kaleon's footsteps slowed as he stared into the tall mirror that stood like a silent judge in the center of the hall. Dust clung to its silver edges, and the glass shimmered unnaturally, like a pool too still for comfort. Something about it felt wrong—ancient, watchful. He should've turned away. But he didn't.
The mirror rippled.
And then the image began to take shape.
It was Skarnhold—majestic and whole. His family stood before the great hall as if frozen in time. Therion at the center, strong and solemn, his sword resting at his side. Draven beside him, arms crossed, eyes sharp with suspicion. Lysera stood behind them, her expression unreadable but not unkind. Vaelira clutched a small book, her eyes lifted toward the sky. Malric and Elryn played near the stairs, laughing in a memory long dead.
Then came his father—Lord Darion Skarn. Towering. Weathered. And cold. His gaze was iron, fixed forward.
But none of them saw Kaleon.
They looked past him, through him—as though he was not there, had never been.
"Father," Kaleon whispered. "Therion?"
No answer. No shift in their eyes. It was as though he were a ghost in his own bloodline.
Then the image twisted.
Flames. Screams. Skarnhold burning.
The laughter turned to shrieks. Malric curled in a corner, crying out for help. Elryn's hand reached through the fire, only to vanish into ash. Lysera stood shielding Vaelira, who clutched a bloodstained book. Draven screamed a war cry and was cut down by unseen blades. And Therion…
Therion was kneeling beside Maelor, whose chest had been opened like parchment, blood pooling beneath him. A blade was in Kaleon's hand—slick, foreign.
It wasn't his.
It was Ser Vaelor's.
Kaleon dropped it, horror surging through his veins. "No—no, that wasn't me, I didn't—"
But no one listened.
They all turned, one by one, staring with hollow eyes filled with accusation and disappointment.
"You let us fall," Therion's voice thundered from the mirror, every word like a hammer on his chest. "You were weak."
"I—" Kaleon dropped to his knees. "I tried to save you. I never ran."
A child's voice echoed behind him, soft, broken, and far too familiar.
"But you hesitated."
He turned.
And saw himself as a boy.
Maybe seven years old, huddled in soot-streaked rags, eyes wide with terror. Behind him, flames danced high, and shadows twisted into monstrous shapes.
"You hesitated," the boy said again, voice cracking, "and someone else had to die."
The boy lifted his hand.
And in it, he held the charred remains of a tiny wooden wyvern—Kaleon's first toy, the one his mother gave him before she died.
Kaleon staggered backward, clutching his chest as if he could stop his heart from pounding through his ribs. "I didn't mean to. I didn't—"