The gate opened just enough for a single soul.
Not an invitation. A challenge.
The forest behind her pulsed with quiet, like it knew what was happening. Like it had seen this a hundred times before and still wasn't sure who'd make it.
Luma stepped forward. Barefoot, breath shallow. The medallion clinked softly against her chest, warm from her skin.
She crossed the threshold.
The moment she did, the air shifted—subtle at first. The fog thinned, but not because of wind. It just… withdrew, like a curtain pulling back. The trees inside weren't taller, but they felt taller, casting shadows that bent the light sideways. And the silence?
It wasn't peaceful anymore.
It was watching.
She turned to glance behind her—instinct, fear—but the gate was gone. Not closed. Not hidden.
Gone.
Nothing but trees now. And stone.
She spun in a full circle. The trail had disappeared, even her own footprints swallowed by the earth like she'd never walked here at all.
Her chest tightened.
It's a test, she thought. It has to be.
So she breathed. Deep. Focused. Aziel had taught her the mental stillness routine:
"Breathe like the world isn't ending. Even if it is."
She walked forward, one slow step at a time.
The trees grew denser. Every branch looked like a hand. Every gust of wind sounded like a whisper, but not quite words—more like fragments of voices, pieces of conversations she'd forgotten.
Then she heard it.
"You're not ready."
She froze. The voice was behind her—but also in her.
"You're loud. You're proud. You still think you're special."
Luma turned, scanning the trees. No one.
"You carry the Flame like it's proof. It's not."
Suddenly, a figure stepped out from behind the trees.
And her stomach dropped.
It was her.
Not a reflection. Not a twin.
Herself. But… different. The same boots, the same face—but colder. Cleaner. No dirt, no fatigue. This Luma looked like a version of her that never left the city.
The other Luma tilted her head.
"You want peace?" she asked. "You don't even know what you're made of."
Real Luma gritted her teeth. "I know enough."
Fake Luma stepped closer. "Do you? You judged them. You think you're better than them because you read books instead of screens. But you're still angry. You still crave control."
Luma stepped back. "Shut up."
"You want to burn the world down and call it rebuilding."
Luma clenched her fists. "You're not real."
"Neither is your revolution."
Suddenly, everything dimmed. The forest spun. She fell to her knees, disoriented.
Then—silence. Deafening.
She opened her eyes.
She was alone again.
The fake version of her was gone.
But the words stayed, echoing in her gut like poison.
She sat there, kneeling in the dirt, shaking. Her hands were dirty. Her clothes torn. She felt small. Not like a warrior. Not like a flame-bearer.
Just a girl. Alone.
And then she heard Aziel's voice, not in the trees—but inside her memory.
"The fire that burns loud dies fast. But the one that learns to listen? That fire lasts forever."
Luma closed her eyes.
She inhaled.
And when she exhaled, she let the anger go. The pride. The pain. The old Luma.
All of it.
When she opened her eyes again, the forest was still.
And the path… was clear.
A single trail now curved forward between the trees, lit faintly by sunlight that pierced through the leaves like gold-threaded needles.
She stood up.
Worn. Tested. But ready.
This time, she didn't run toward it.
She walked.
With silence in her blood.