Chapter 5 - Chapter Five: The Trial of Shards

The Abyssal Forge lies deep within Vyrnhold's bowels, a cavern of molten fire and shadow, its walls of jagged blackstone glowing with veins of crimson magma, their heat a suffocating weight that sears my lungs. Forges line the chamber, their anvils scarred, stained with old blood, the air thick with the stench of charred bone and iron, a bitter tang that coats my throat. Crimson runes pulse along the ceiling, their light flickering like dying embers, casting my shadow long and broken, a fractured reflection of the girl I was. The wards here are a furnace, hotter, tighter, choking my emberstone fire to a faint spark, a defiant ember that fights to burn against the oppressive heat that presses in from all sides.I stand at the forge's edge, my crimson cloak tattered, stained with ash and blood, my emberstone dagger a warm pulse in my hand, its glow a frail beacon in the molten gloom. The Trial of Shards waits—a test where we must forge a shard of our essence into a weapon, a blade to bind our magic, our will, our survival. The Hollowed Relic's whisper grows louder, a scream in my mind—Forge me, or break—and my visions surge—relics pulsing, blood spilling, Zorak's sigil burning, my fire a pyre. I grip my dagger tighter, my knuckles whitening, my heart a drumbeat of dread that echoes in my bones, louder than the forge's roar, a bellow that shakes the cavern.The Ritual of Echoes left me raw, my mind heavy with my mother's scream, the High Matron's scorn, wraiths wearing their faces, their claws reaching for me. Zorak Draven's touch lingers—his hand steadying me, his voice rough, "Breathe, Syris," his eyes raw, wounded, a crack in his storm that pulls at me, a tide I can't outrun. I saw our connection, a thread of blood and fire, the relic binding us, our fates intertwined, our curses one. I was a priestess, trained to wield flame and prayer, not to burn for a man whose sigil speaks in blood, whose myth is a blade at my heart. But Vyrnhold doesn't care for shoulds, and neither does my fire.Initiates cluster around me, their faces pale, their eyes haunted, their breaths shallow in the searing heat. Taryn Emberly stands close, her spectral raven perched on her shoulder, its talons drawing blood that stains her gray tunic, a stark contrast to her freckled skin. Her runestone hums, its blue glow flickering, and her eyes are sharp, a quiet fire that burns brighter since the Sanctum, where we faced our echoes together."Syris," she whispers, her voice trembling over the forge's roar, "what if we forge something we can't control?"Her fear mirrors mine, a cold knot in my gut, and my throat constricts, my visions flaring—a relic glowing, Zorak's sigil burning, my fire consuming all. I swallow hard, the taste of blood lingering, and meet her gaze, steady despite the dread coiling inside me."Then we control it anyway," I murmur, my voice raw, a promise to us both. "Together."Her nod is a vow, a bond forged in blood and fire, a spark of kinship I didn't expect to need in this hell of molten ruin. Her raven's void-like eyes meet mine, a flicker of warning, a creature bound to her as my fire is bound to me.My gaze snags on Zorak Draven near a forge, his leather coat scarred, his dagger twirling lazily, a predator at rest, a storm waiting to break. His dark hair falls into his eyes, framing his sharp jaw, and his smirk is a blade, a challenge to Vyrnhold, to me. But his gaze—dark, possessive—catches me, a jolt of heat like fire meeting tinder, a spark that burns despite the wards, despite my will.In the Sanctum, he guarded me, his sigil pulsing, his voice raw; now, his eyes claim a piece of me I haven't offered, a piece I'm not sure I can keep from him. Whispers trail him—Draven's sigil is alive, a curse that speaks—and my stomach twists, the boy's words echoing: It speaks to him. His sigil pulses, a violet glow matching the runes, and my visions surge—Zorak bleeding, the relic calling, my fire a pyre.I force my eyes away, my fingers digging into my dagger's hilt, because he's chaos, a storm that could wreck me, and I've seen enough wreckage—my mother's death, the temple's betrayal, my fraying faith. But my heart lingers on him, on the crack in his smirk, the pain I glimpsed, a wound that mirrors my own, a shadow that calls to me in ways I can't name.Kaelith Vorne leans against a forge, their dark braids blending with the gloom, their smirk too knowing, like they've already forged their shard, already won. Their shadow-magic coils at their feet, a dark tide, and their eyes catch mine, a chill that peels back my secrets, weighing my worth in a game I don't understand.Riven Kade stands apart, his pale face a mask, his telepathic aura a faint hum, like static before lightning. His gray eyes flick to the forges, as if he senses the relic's call, a truth that binds us all. Elyse Marrow paces nearby, her sea-green hair damp with sweat, her water-orbits flickering, her laugh brittle, a shield against the dread in her wide eyes.Commander Lirien Thorn strides in, her wyrm Vyrath's growl a low thunder, its scales gleaming, its eyes burning coals that sear my resolve. Her silver hair is braided tight, her crescent blade sheathed but heavy with intent, a silent threat. Her frost-cold eyes sweep over us, judging, discarding, as if we're already ash."The Trial of Shards begins," she says, her voice steel, cutting through the forge's roar. "Forge your essence into a weapon. Bind your magic, or let it consume you. The Covenant demands resilience, and the weak have no place here."Her gaze lingers on Zorak, on me, a flicker of doubt that makes my skin prickle, a chill that seeps into my bones. My fire stirs, a spark that fights the wards, and I step toward a forge, the heat a wall, the relic's whisper a scream in my mind.The Abyssal Forge is a crucible of fire and shadow, its blackstone floor slick with molten splatter, its anvils scarred with claw marks, stained with blood. The heat is a beast, a suffocating weight that sears my skin, my lungs, the air shimmering with crimson light, a haze that makes my vision swim. Each step is a battle, my boots slipping on the slick stone, my shoulder stinging from the Sanctum's spikes, a sharp reminder of how close I've come to breaking.I reach a forge, its flames roaring, a maw of molten fire that spits embers, their glow mirroring my emberstone dagger, a faint pulse, a tether to my will. The relic's whisper grows louder—Forge me, or break—and a psychic pulse hits, the Veil's voice a knife in my mind: Bind your essence, or burn.My essence surges, vivid, relentless—my mother's scream as the Wastes took her, the High Matron's curse, "You are no daughter of flame," my fire burning the altar, marking me heretic. I stagger, blood dripping from my nose, warm and coppery on my lips, my dagger trembling in my hand, my knees buckling against the stone.Taryn's hand brushes mine, her raven screeching, its wings beating the air, a frantic rhythm that mirrors my racing heart. Her voice cuts through the Veil's whisper. "Syris, focus," she says, her tone steady despite the fear in her eyes, her runestone glowing brighter, a blue light that pushes back the molten haze.I nod, my breath ragged, and channel my essence, my fire, into the forge, my dagger pressed against the anvil, its emberstone glowing, a spark that fights to burn, to bind. The flames flare, a roar that shakes the cavern, and a shard takes shape, a blade of emberstone and shadow, its edge glinting with my guilt, my fire, my defiance.A wraith lunges from the shadows, its claws dripping molten ichor, its eyes voids that pull at my soul, a hunger that mirrors the forge's own. I dodge, my heart slamming against my ribs, my boots slipping, and slash with my new blade, fire sparking, a defiant ember that refuses to die. The wraith shrieks, its form fraying, but another takes its place, faster, hungrier, its claws raking the air.Zorak appears, his dagger a blur as he cuts through the second wraith, ichor splattering his coat, staining the stone. His eyes find me, dark, possessive, a jolt of heat I can't name, a spark that burns despite the wards. "Stay close, priestess," he growls, stepping between me and the shadows, his body a wall of defiance, his blade an extension of his fury.His tone sparks fury in me, a fire that flares against his arrogance. I yank my arm free, my blade flashing, my fire surging, a spark that lights the forge, casting our shadows long and jagged. "I don't need saving, Draven," I snap, my voice a blade, my eyes blazing with a fire I won't suppress, not for him.His smirk strains, and I see it—pain, a crack in his myth, a wound that mirrors my own—and my heart lurches, traitor to my resolve, because that crack calls to me, a shadow I can't ignore. His sigil pulses, brighter, a violet glow that matches the runes, and my visions flare—Zorak bleeding, the relic calling, my fire a pyre.Kaelith slips from the dark, their blade dripping ichor, their shadow-magic coiling, a dark tide that moves with their will. "Your fire burns bright, Vaelor," they say, their voice smooth, their eyes glinting with hunger, a predator's gaze that makes my skin crawl. They strike a wraith, their movements fluid, but their glance at Zorak is sharp, calculating, like they're waiting for him to break.Riven appears next, his telepathy staggering a wraith, its form fraying under the weight of his mind, his pale face unreadable, his gray eyes heavy with secrets. Elyse stumbles nearby, her water-orbits faltering, a wraith's claw grazing her arm, blood welling bright, her laugh brittle, her fear raw, a mirror to my own.The forge trembles, a rune overhead shattering in a burst of crimson light, embers raining down, sharp and glinting, forcing me to duck, my cloak tearing further, my shoulder screaming with pain. The relic's whisper grows louder—Claim me, or burn—and my visions surge—I'm holding the Hollowed Relic, its surface slick with blood, Zorak's sigil burning, his scream echoing, my fire a pyre, Vyrnhold crumbling, the Veil fraying, wraiths pouring through.I collapse, blood streaming from my nose, pooling in my mouth, my blade trembling, my breath a gasp, my chest heaving. Taryn's raven screeches, her runestone glowing, and she kneels beside me, her voice fierce. "Syris, come back," she says, a command, a plea, and I cling to it, my fire flickering, a spark that defies the relic.Zorak's shout is raw, his blade flashing as he guards me, his sigil pulsing, brighter, answering the relic's call, a connection I can't escape. Kaelith's shadows coil, their smirk gone, their eyes narrowed. Riven's telepathy hums, his gaze heavy, a storm pressing against my mind. Elyse's water-orbits dim, her scream a whisper, a plea for survival.The floor cracks, a trap triggered by the rune's collapse, and molten streams erupt, rivers of fire that sear the stone, their heat a wall that forces me back, my cloak singeing, pain flaring in my shoulder, a white-hot agony that makes my vision swim. I dive, pulling Taryn with me, my heart racing, my fire flickering, a faint ember that fights to survive.Zorak curses, his blade slashing a stream, the metal sparking, his eyes on me, fierce, unyielding, a storm that refuses to break. "Move, Syris!" he roars, his voice raw, and I scramble to my feet, my blade trembling, my fire burning for survival, for defiance, for the girl I was before Vyrnhold tried to break me.Kaelith dances through the streams, their shadows shielding them, but their glance at Riven is too quick, too pointed, like they're hiding something, a secret tying them to the relic, to the Veil. Riven's telepathy shatters a stream, the stone exploding in fragments, his face strained, his aura a storm humming in my bones.Elyse's water-orbits deflect a stream, their light dim, flickering, her eyes wide with terror, her scream a raw sound that cuts through the chaos, a cry for mercy that Vyrnhold will never give. A final psychic pulse hits, the relic's voice a scream: You are mine, as he is mine. My visions surge—Zorak's sigil burning, the relic in my hands, my fire a pyre, Vyrnhold crumbling, wraiths pouring through.I see our bond, a thread of fire and blood, the relic binding us, our curses one. I stagger, blood pooling in my mouth, my blade trembling, my breath a gasp. Zorak's hand steadies me, his touch warm, too close, his eyes raw, a crack in his myth that makes my chest ache, my fire flare."Breathe, Syris," he murmurs, a tether in the dark, and I pull away, my blade trembling, but his touch lingers, a spark I can't douse, a tide I can't outrun. Taryn's raven dives, her runestone glowing, her eyes fierce, a quiet fire that burns for us. Kaelith's shadows coil, their eyes glinting with knowledge, or hunger.Riven's telepathy hums, his gaze heavy, a storm pressing against my mind. Elyse's water-orbits dim, her fear raw, her scream a whisper now, a plea for survival. Lirien lands, Vyrath's roar shaking the forge, its scales glinting, its growl a thunder that vibrates in my bones.Her crescent blade cleaves the air, a sharp arc that cuts through the shadows, and the remaining wraiths scatter, their screams fading. "Enough!" she commands, her voice steel, her eyes frost, cutting through us—Zorak's clenched jaw, blood dripping from his arm; Taryn's trembling resolve, her raven bloodied but defiant; Kaelith's sly calm, their shadows coiling; Riven's silent weight, his telepathy a faint hum; Elyse's faltering grin, her arm bleeding; my unsteady fire, my blade trembling, blood staining my lips."You live," she says, her voice a judgment, a warning, her gaze lingering on Zorak, on me, a flicker of respect, or doubt, that makes my blood run cold. "For now."The relic's whisper pulses, its truth closer, tied to Zorak's sigil, to my visions, to the Veil, a connection that binds us, a thread I can't untangle. I rise, my legs unsteady, my shoulder stinging, my blade heavy, my cloak singed, stained with ash and blood. Taryn's nod is a quiet strength, a vow we'll keep fighting, a bond forged in fire.Zorak's gaze burns into me, dark, possessive, a fire I can't control, a storm that threatens to drown me. Kaelith's smirk, Riven's silence, Elyse's cracked bravado, Lirien's command—they're pieces of a puzzle I don't understand, shadows in a game where the stakes are my soul, my fire, my survival. Vyrnhold is a beast, and the Trial of Shards has only honed its hunger. I'm not ready, but I'm still burning, a spark in the dark, a flame that refuses to die, and that's enough. For now.