The Ashen Hollow is a scar in Vyrnhold's heart, a sunken cloister where the blackstone weeps soot and the air tastes of spent magic, bitter as regret. The trial's survivors huddle here, initiates battered but breathing, our cloaks torn, our blades dulled by wraith ichor. The chamber's walls are etched with faded runes, their violet glow dim, like stars drowning in a polluted sky. Above, the spires loom through a cracked skylight, their jagged silhouettes a reminder that Vyrnhold watches, always. My shoulder throbs where the spike grazed me, the pain a sharp pulse that matches my heartbeat, but it's the emberstone dagger in my hand that grounds me, its faint warmth a tether to the fire the wards can't fully choke. I'm Syris Vaelor, and I survived the Trial of Shattered Runes. But survival feels like a debt, and Vyrnhold is a merciless creditor.
Taryn sits beside me on a cracked bench, her spectral raven preening its blood-flecked feathers, its eyes like polished voids. Her gray tunic is torn, her hands steady now, but her face is pale, her lips pressed tight as if holding back a scream. The runestone she clutched in the Labyrinth rests in her lap, its light faint but steady, a mirror to her resolve. I want to ask about her raven, about the grimoire she carries, about the fire I saw in her eyes when she faced the wraiths, but the words stick in my throat, heavy with the weight of what we've endured. Instead, I shift closer, my cloak brushing hers, and say, "You fought like you belonged there." My voice is low, rough from ash and fear, but it carries the truth. Her eyes meet mine, wide but sharp, and a small smile flickers, fragile but real. "I didn't think I could," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper, "but you were there, Syris. That mattered."
Her words hit like a spark, kindling something warm in my chest—kinship, or hope, or maybe just the relief of not being alone. I nod, my throat tight. "We're not done yet," I say, a vow to her, to myself. "We'll keep fighting." She clutches her runestone tighter, her raven shifting, and I see it—a spark of defiance, a girl who's finding her edges in this crucible. My visions flicker, unbidden—blood pooling, a relic pulsing—but I push them back, focusing on Taryn's steady breathing, on the faint hum of her runestone. She's a piece of this puzzle, a thread I want to protect, and that resolve steadies me, like a flame finding fuel.
The cloister buzzes with the other initiates, their voices a low hum of exhaustion and bravado. Elyse Marrow leans against a pillar, her sea-green hair matted with sweat, her arm bandaged where the wraith clawed her. Her water-orbits are gone, her hands empty, but she forces a laugh, loud and brittle, as she boasts to a boy about dodging the spikes. Her eyes dart to me, raw for a moment, and I see the fear she's burying, the same fear I wore when I fled the Emberheart temple. I look away, my chest aching, because I can't carry her pain, not when my own is so heavy. Riven Kade sits alone, his pale face unreadable, his telepathic aura a faint prickle against my skin, like static before lightning. His gray eyes flick to the skylight, as if he sees something beyond the spires, and my visions pulse, a faint echo of his presence in them—shadows, relics, a scream. I shake it off, my fingers tightening on my dagger, but his silence is a weight, a question I can't yet answer.
Kaelith Vorne prowls the cloister's edge, their dark braids swaying, their shadow-magic coiling at their feet like a restless serpent. Their smirk is back, too smooth, too knowing, but their eyes are sharp, scanning the initiates like a predator weighing prey. They pause near Zorak Draven, who leans against a wall, his leather coat scarred, his dagger spinning lazily in his hand. His dark hair falls into his eyes, and his smirk is a blade, sharp and reckless, but there's a tension in his jaw, a crack in his defiance that wasn't there before. My gaze snags on him, unbidden, and my breath hitches, a spark of heat I don't want to name. His eyes find me, dark and heavy, and my chest tightens, my fire stirring despite the wards, a defiant ember that burns for him, against him. I force my eyes away, my knuckles white on my dagger's hilt, but his presence pulls, like a tide I can't outrun.
Kaelith murmurs something to Zorak, their voice too low to catch, and he laughs, a rough sound that doesn't reach his eyes. My stomach twists, the boy's whisper from the courtyard echoing: They say his sigil's alive, that it speaks to him. What kind of curse lives in him? And why does it feel like my visions know him, like he's the man bleeding in my dreams? I push the thought down, my jaw clenching, but Kaelith's glance flicks to me, their smirk sharpening, like they've caught a secret I haven't named. I don't trust them, not their sly calm, not the way they watch Zorak, as if they're pulling strings I can't see. My fire flickers, a spark of defiance, and I resolve to watch them closer, because Vyrnhold is a game, and I'm not a pawn.
A low hum vibrates through the cloister, and the initiates fall silent, their eyes turning to the dais at the chamber's center. Commander Lirien Thorn steps forward, her silver hair gleaming in the rune-light, her crescent blade sheathed but heavy with intent. Her wyrm Vyrath coils behind her, its scales like oil, its eyes burning coals that sear my resolve. Her presence is a blade against my spine, cold and unyielding, and her frost-cold eyes sweep over us, judging, discarding. "You survived," she says, her voice steel, each word a weight that presses on my chest. "But survival is not enough. The Covenant demands more—loyalty, strength, sacrifice. The next trial will test your essence, your will to wield the Veil's power."
My stomach twists, a cold knot of fear I can't untangle. The Veil's power—what does that mean? The relic's whisper grows louder in my mind, a pulse that matches my heartbeat, and my visions flare—runes glowing, blood pooling, Zorak's face twisted in pain. I clutch my dagger tighter, the emberstone's glow a faint pulse against my skin, but the wards here are a vice, choking my fire until it's a faint ember in my chest. Lirien's eyes linger on me, a flicker of something—respect, or doubt—that makes my skin prickle. "Rest now," she says, her voice heavy, like a judgment. "Tomorrow, you train. The Covenant watches." She turns, Vyrath's claws scraping the stone, and the initiates exhale, the tension breaking like a snapped thread.
Taryn shifts beside me, her raven settling, and murmurs, "What's the Veil's power?" Her voice is small, but her eyes are steady, searching mine for answers I don't have. I shake my head, my throat tight. "Something they want us to bleed for," I say, the words bitter. My visions pulse, fragmented—relics, shadows, a scream—and I grit my teeth, forcing them back. The Covenant's motives are a shadow I can't pierce, but their grip on Vyrnhold is iron, and I'm caught in it, a spark in a storm that could snuff me out.
Zorak approaches, his boots scuffing the stone, his dagger sheathed but his presence a storm, all sharp edges and chaos. My heart lurches, traitor to my resolve, and I stand, my cloak falling around me like a shield. "Priestess," he says, his voice low, mocking, but his eyes are different—wounded, a crack in his storm that makes my chest ache. "Still praying for a quick death?" His smirk is strained, and I see it—the weight of the trial, the shadow in his gaze that isn't just defiance. My fire flares, a spark that defies the wards, and I step closer, my voice sharp. "I don't pray anymore, Draven. And I don't need your pity." His smirk falters, and for a heartbeat, he's not the reckless storm—he's a boy, broken, carrying a curse I don't understand. "Not pity," he says, softer, his eyes holding mine. "Just… don't die yet, Syris." My breath catches, his words a spark that lingers, and I turn away, my dagger trembling in my hand, because his softness is more dangerous than his mockery.
The cloister's runes flicker, and a new figure steps onto the dais—a Covenant emissary, cloaked in black, their face hidden by a bone mask etched with sigils that pulse like open wounds. Their voice is a hiss, cold as the Veil itself. "Initiates, heed the Covenant's will. The Trial of Essence awaits. Prepare your souls, for the Veil claims the weak." They raise a hand, and a psychic pulse ripples through the cloister, the wards flaring, whispering: You are nothing. You will fall. My mind reels, my visions surging—Zorak bleeding, the relic pulsing, my fire a pyre—and I stagger, my dagger slipping, blood dripping from my nose. Taryn grabs my arm, her touch steadying me, and I meet her eyes, her resolve a mirror to my own. Zorak's hand hovers near me, but I pull away, my fire flickering, my resolve fraying.
The emissary vanishes, the wards easing, but the relic's whisper grows louder, a call I can't ignore. I sink back onto the bench, my shoulder stinging, my breath ragged. Taryn sits close, her raven watching me, and I nod, a silent vow: we'll survive this. Zorak lingers nearby, his gaze burning into me, but I force myself to look away, the spark between us alive, dangerous. Kaelith's smirk, Riven's silence, Elyse's cracked bravado, Lirien's cold command—they're pieces of a puzzle I don't understand, shadows in a game I didn't choose. The Covenant's will is a noose, and my visions are a blade, cutting deeper with every pulse. Vyrnhold is a beast, and I'm still burning, a spark in the dark. For now.