The descent into the second trial was not sudden, but gradual, like sinking through layers of memory wrapped in mist. Kahel was no longer standing on jade; the platform had vanished beneath him, and now he drifted through weightless twilight, the world shaped only by sensation.
He wasn't falling. He wasn't flying.
He simply existed—until something took form.
It began with sound: the faint creak of wood, wind pressing against thin walls, and the soft crackle of fire. Then light appeared, muted and golden, flickering against low ceilings. Finally, the shape of a room emerged, worn but familiar. A single oil lamp burned on a table made of uneven planks. There was a door with no lock, a window that refused to close, and a wooden bed covered in faded blankets.
Kahel stood in his childhood home.
Not just a memory of it—the scent of boiled herbs, the texture of the floor beneath his bare feet, even the dull ache in his knees from sleepless nights—everything was exactly as it had been. No detail spared.
He reached for the edge of the table. It was solid.
This place was real, or close enough that the distinction no longer mattered.
"You again," came a voice.
Kahel turned.
His younger self stood in the corner, barefoot, arms wrapped around his knees. The boy looked up at him with hollow eyes, wide and dark with confusion. There was dirt on his face, a bruise along his temple.
"They said you'd come," the boy whispered.
Kahel frowned. "Who did?"
"The ones who made this place. The ones who watch the roots of your flame."
The room shifted subtly, like a breath inhaled and held. Shadows thickened along the walls. A second door appeared beside the first, this one black and lined with iron studs. The younger Kahel stood and walked to it, pressing his palm to the surface.
"It's locked," the boy said. "They said you can't leave until you open it."
Kahel approached, his gaze fixed on the strange door. Unlike the rest of the house, it felt ancient, like it didn't belong to his memory. He reached for the handle.
The moment he touched it, a whisper echoed behind his ears.
"One truth. One lie. One fear. All must be named."
He tried to pull away, but the handle held fast. Pain flashed through his hand. Not from injury—from memory. His thoughts burned with images: his mother's corpse, Lyren bleeding beneath the Dreadcat's claw, the future self with golden eyes.
"One truth..."
His lips parted before he could stop himself. "I wanted to die after she did."
The door creaked.
"One lie..."
"I don't care who my father was."
A crack spread across the iron.
"One fear..."
His hands trembled. He turned his head, staring down at the younger version of himself.
"That I'll become what I saw. That the flame will erase who I am."
The door split down the center with a sound like splintering bone.
The world exploded in light.
Kahel gasped, stumbling forward as the illusion dissolved. Wind returned to his lungs like fire. The chamber around him reformed, shaped now into a ring of obsidian pillars. Each one bore his reflection, slightly warped, slightly older.
He stood alone—and yet not.
For across from him now stood Lyren.
Or the shape of her. Not wounded, not afraid. Radiant, poised, watching him with something colder than the Lyren he knew ever had.
"If you fight me," she said, drawing a blade of moonlight from the air, "you risk everything."
Kahel steadied his stance.
"If I don't, I lose more."
Their blades clashed. The Trial of the Mind was not yet over.
The first few strikes came fast and hard. Kahel deflected each one, the weight of the illusionary blade jarring through his arm. She moved like the real Lyren—fast, clean, efficient—but without restraint. Her attacks were measured and perfect, like a sword form executed by someone with no fear of consequence.
She wasn't here to test his body. She was here to force doubt.
"You're still soft," the illusory Lyren whispered between strikes. "You hesitate. You burn, but you don't aim. Your enemies won't wait for your flame to bloom."
Kahel growled, his defense breaking momentarily as she drove him back. He rolled, dodging a downward slash, and retaliated with a burst of Ashen Flame. It streaked across the black floor like liquid fire, but she stepped aside easily.
The flame recoiled.
Kahel stared, stunned. It had retreated on its own.
She advanced again, blade singing.
"Even your power fears your heart," she said.
Kahel gritted his teeth. His chest ached from the trial's weight, not just physically, but spiritually. It wasn't just a test of memory now. It was the sharpening of his will against the manifestation of every insecurity he tried to bury.
She lunged.
He answered.
This time, the flame didn't wait. It surged in time with his step, coating his blade in pale fire. Their weapons collided, and the light exploded between them. For the first time, she stepped back.
"Good," she said. "Now strike me with purpose."
Kahel lowered his weapon.
"No."
The illusion paused.
"You won't pass unless you win."
Kahel shook his head. "This trial isn't about killing you. It's about confronting what I think you'd say. What I'd believe."
He closed his eyes.
"You're not real. But the doubt is."
When he opened them again, she was gone.
The pillars around him crumbled, fading into ash.
He fell to his knees.
The obsidian floor pulsed, then split.
And through the opening, light poured upward.
A voice echoed from below.
"The third awaits."
Kahel stood slowly. Whatever lay ahead would be more than physical or mental. The soul was next.
And for that, even flame might not be enough.