The morning after the storm was eerily calm. The world glowed in a strange, muted gold, as though the sun itself hesitated to touch the cursed mountain. Mist still clung to the jagged slopes, curling around the rocks like ghostly fingers. Every step the trio took crunched softly on the thin crust of snow.
Aric led the way, the relic resting against his chest, its faint warmth pulsing with every heartbeat. The light it gave off was subtle now—steady, rhythmic, like the beat of something alive. Lira followed close behind, her breath visible in the cold air, clutching her satchel of herbs and charms. Kael, silent as a shadow, brought up the rear, his spear glinting whenever a stray beam of light broke through the clouds.
The path ahead wound steeply upward, carved into the cliffside by ancient hands. Strange markings lined the stone—symbols neither of them could read, half-erased by time and ice. The higher they climbed, the stronger the sense of presence became, as if unseen eyes watched from every crevice.
"This place…" Lira whispered. "It feels like walking through a memory."
Kael grunted in agreement. "A memory that doesn't want to be disturbed."
Aric paused, resting his hand on a weathered pillar that jutted from the path. It was cracked but still stood tall, carved with a familiar emblem—a circle engulfed in flame. He traced it with his gloved fingers, and for an instant, the world around him flickered.
He was no longer on the mountain.
He stood in a vast hall of stone, filled with the scent of burning incense and molten gold. Rows of warriors knelt before a blazing altar, their armor gleaming in the light of the sacred flame. At the center stood a figure—his own face reflected in the man's features, though older, harder, crowned in light. The man raised the flame high, shouting words Aric couldn't understand, and then the vision shattered.
"Aric?" Lira's voice pulled him back.
He blinked, staring at the now-dull stone. "I saw… something. A hall, warriors, and someone who looked like me."
Kael's jaw tightened. "The spirit said you were marked. Maybe these memories are tied to that. Be careful—old magic plays tricks on the mind."
Aric nodded, but the unease in his chest deepened. If those visions were memories, then the truth of who he once was might be more terrible than he imagined.
They climbed in silence after that. The air thinned, and every breath felt heavy, sharp as knives. The wind whispered faintly now—not wild, but speaking in tones that almost formed words. At first, Aric thought it was his imagination. But then Lira stopped, eyes wide.
"Do you hear that?"
The wind carried a low, rhythmic chant. Voices—many of them—echoing softly through the mist. It wasn't coming from ahead or behind, but from everywhere.
Kael's knuckles whitened around his spear. "Keep walking. Don't listen."
But the voices grew louder with every step, their tone changing—pleading, sorrowful, accusing.
"You left us.""You burned the world.""You carry the flame that doomed us all."
Aric froze. The relic at his chest throbbed in answer, and pain seared through his mind. Images flared—cities crumbling in fire, oceans boiling, faces twisted in terror. He stumbled to his knees, clutching his head.
"Aric!" Lira rushed to him, gripping his arm. "What's happening?"
"The voices…" His breath came ragged. "They're showing me—showing what I did."
Kael pulled him up roughly. "Don't let it in! It's not truth—it's the mountain's trial!"
But deep down, Aric wasn't sure. The visions felt too vivid, too real. If the spirit had spoken truth, if his soul once bore the Flame's power, then maybe—just maybe—these were the echoes of his own sins.
The path narrowed, forcing them to move single file. The mist thickened until they could barely see a few paces ahead. Then, suddenly, the trail ended at a wide stone platform overlooking an endless chasm.
At the center stood a single monument—a sword driven into the rock, its blade still glowing faintly with ember-like light.
Aric stepped forward, drawn to it. The whispers fell silent. Even the wind seemed to stop.
He reached for the sword's hilt. The instant his fingers touched it, a shock of energy surged through him. Fire erupted in a circle around the platform, and from that fire rose figures—phantoms clad in ancient armor, their hollow eyes burning with gold.
"The Watchers," Kael hissed, raising his weapon.
The ghosts moved, forming a ring around Aric. Their leader—taller, cloaked in a mantle of scorched feathers—spoke in a voice that was both thunder and sorrow.
"To claim the Heart of Flame, the soul must remember its burden."
The ground trembled. Flames coiled upward, forming visions around them—Aric's past life, his betrayal, the sealing of the sacred fire. Every image burned itself into his mind like a brand. He fell to his knees, gasping, the relic blazing hot against his chest.
"You were the Keeper," the ghost intoned. "You swore to guard the Flame, but when pride consumed you, it consumed the world."
Aric trembled, staring at his reflection in the sword's molten surface. His voice was barely a whisper. "Then this isn't a journey forward… it's atonement."
The Watcher raised his spectral blade. "Only through remembrance can the flame be reborn. Only through fire can guilt be cleansed."
Then the ring of fire closed in.
Kael and Lira shouted his name, but their voices were drowned out by the roar of the storm reborn. The light swallowed everything—stone, snow, sky—until only flame and memory remained.