The labyrinth walls sank into the earth, dissolving into smoke until the cavern was bare once more. The five stood gasping, bloodied and exhausted, weapons slick with ichor. Kael's grip on the broken shard trembled, the strange hum still lingering in his bones.
Then the voice came again—colder than before, echoing from nowhere and everywhere:
"Final trial: Face yourselves. Survive."
The crystal light died. Darkness swallowed them whole.
Kael blinked—then staggered. The cavern was gone. He was standing in a small, familiar room. The smell of smoke and damp hay filled his nostrils. His old world. His old home.
The orphan's barracks.
Children coughed in the corner. A man's shadow loomed at the door, belt in hand. Kael's breath hitched. He hadn't been here in years, yet it was real—the sting in his lungs, the fear in his chest.
"Useless," the voice sneered. "You'll never be more than this."
Kael gritted his teeth. "No. I left this behind."
But the shard in his hand was gone. His fists were bare. The shadow grew larger, swelling until it towered over him, eyes burning with fire.
He swung—Kael braced—
Then the world shattered.
He was back in the cavern, on his knees, gasping. The others were scattered across the floor, each lost in their own illusions:
• Darius fought against a spectral version of himself, every strike met by equal, mocking strength.
• Rynna knelt, hands shaking as phantom blades dripped with blood only she could see.
• Jorek screamed as shadows crushed his hammer again and again.
• Serran clutched his staff as flames consumed an invisible library, every book turning to ash.
Each was breaking under the weight of their fear.
Kael staggered upright. His body trembled, but something was different. In his palm, the shard flickered back into existence, glowing faintly. Its hum steadied his heartbeat, cutting through the illusions' weight.
The voice returned, pressing down like iron.
"To endure is to conquer yourself."
Kael looked at the others, thrashing in invisible battles. He could barely stand. His body screamed to collapse. But instinct pulled him forward.
He reached Darius first, grabbing his arm. The shard pulsed—the illusion faltered. For an instant, Kael felt Darius's struggle: his pride, his terror of weakness, the shadow self that mocked him.
Kael didn't fight it for him. He couldn't. All he did was anchor him—shake him hard enough to make his real blade clash against the phantom's.
Darius gasped, the illusion breaking for just a moment. His eyes locked on Kael's, wild, but alive.
"You… damn you…" he growled—but there was no venom in it this time. Only desperation.
Kael moved on, dragging his half-broken body from one comrade to the next. Each time, the shard flickered brighter, resonating with their struggles, lending just enough of himself to steady them, never defeating their trials for them—only giving them the chance to rise.
One by one, they did. Rynna's blades steadied. Jorek roared and lifted his hammer once more. Serran's fire turned to light.
Until at last, all five stood, shoulder to shoulder, the illusions shattered around them like broken glass.
The cavern was silent. Then the voice returned—not cruel now, but solemn.
"Few endure the fire, fewer still the labyrinth. But those who face themselves… are worthy."
A blinding light split the chamber. The stone doors ahead opened, spilling cold, fresh air into the suffocating dark.
The trial was over.
Kael sagged, clutching the shard. His body was weak, blistered, and aching. He wasn't the strongest. He wasn't the fastest. But in that moment, he knew something the others didn't:
He hadn't just survived. He had helped others survive.
And that—he realized—was the first step toward a strength no trial could measure.