The desert sun had reached its zenith, pouring its relentless light over the endless waves of sand. The dunes shimmered in hues of gold and white that seared the eyes and scorched the skin. Each grain reflected the heat like molten glass, and the air itself seemed heavy, thick with a weight that pressed on Evren Calden's chest. Every step forward through this sun-blasted expanse carried meaning. I will climb. I will endure. I will not fail.
Evren's muscles screamed in protest, every fiber aching from the previous night's trials. The memory of Caro's sacrifice burned inside him like a furnace, feeding the Abyssal Flame that pulsed through his veins. He could feel it now as a living extension of his body—a heartbeat, a lifeline, a manifestation of the promise he had made to his mother.
Beside him, Lira Solen moved with the fluidity of a shadow gliding over the dunes. Each motion was precise, deliberate, yet instinctively beautiful. Her daggers caught the sunlight and sent sparks dancing across the sand. The desert, Evren noticed, had begun to feel almost alive. The dunes were not inert; they seemed to shift subtly, a rhythm behind their movements. Wind whispered through the peaks and valleys, carrying a latent intelligence that tested for hesitation, fear, and weakness.
The absence of Caro was a hollow ache beside him, a reminder of the price of survival. Evren's heart twisted with grief and guilt, but he buried those feelings deep, transforming them into fuel for the fire in his chest. Grief became focus, guilt became vigilance, and the raw edge of anger sharpened his instincts. Every step forward was a statement—not just to the Tower, but to himself.
> "The Tower doesn't forgive doubt," Lira said, her voice cutting sharp as the wind. "It knows your heart better than you do. Focus, Evren. Every hesitation, every weakness, it will exploit."
Evren's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. The Abyssal Flame pulsed hotter, as if affirming her words. Around them, the dunes shifted again—subtle at first, then forming patterns in the sand that created pathways, pitfalls, and obstacles all at once. The Tower was testing them, pushing them not just physically but probing the very core of their will.
The first trial revealed itself suddenly. A ridge of sand twisted unnaturally, forming a hollow that swallowed the light, casting the dunes around it into abrupt darkness. From the shadowed crevice emerged serpentine phantoms, their sinuous bodies gliding across the sand with terrifying speed. Scales glimmered like liquid gold, reflecting the sun in blinding flashes, while eyes burned with an intelligence that chilled Evren to his bones. These were not mindless beasts; each movement, each strike, was a calculated test of timing, perception, and instinct.
Evren reacted instinctively. Flames erupted along the edge of his sword, the Abyssal Flame roaring to life, as if recognizing the challenge. He parried the nearest phantom, slicing through its shimmering body in a wave of heat and light. Lira moved alongside him, her daggers tracing arcs in perfect harmony, leaving fleeting streaks of silver fire in the air. Together, they became a single, synchronized force, a dance of survival that blurred the line between combat and artistry.
Time stretched unnaturally. Minutes became hours, or perhaps it was the Tower's will that slowed the world. The phantoms adapted with each strike, moving faster, attacking with precise coordination. The desert itself seemed to pulse against them, the sun's heat intensifying, the wind carrying whispers of doubt and visions of failure. Every step Evren took, every decision, became a gamble against illusion and reality alike.
A phantom lunged from the side, its form shifting into something hauntingly familiar—Caro's face, twisted in silent accusation. Evren's chest tightened; the phantom screamed in a soundless roar, seeking to fracture his resolve. Memories of Caro, of his mother, of their past life, crashed into him like a wave. The Abyssal Flame surged in response, a living extension of his will, slicing through the illusion with a torrent of fire. The phantom disintegrated into sand, leaving only a ripple behind, a warning of what could come next.
The sun climbed higher, relentless and unyielding, and the Tower intensified its test. Mirages flickered across the dunes: false paths, echoes of failure, whispers of despair carried by the wind. Evren had to distinguish the real from the Tower's deception, each choice carrying weight beyond the physical. His mind became a battlefield, as much as the shifting desert around him.
Lira's voice rang out, sharp and urgent.
> "Evren! The path isn't straight—watch the shadows!"
A phantom surged toward her, taking the twisted shape of a fallen climber, another cruel test designed to fracture trust and confidence. Evren's heart clenched. He could not allow the illusion to disrupt their unity. With a precise, blazing swing of his sword, he struck the phantom down. The light of the Abyssal Flame left scorched traces on the sand, a testament to his growing mastery over the fire within.
Hours passed in relentless trial. Sweat stung Evren's eyes, muscles screamed, and the relentless sun scorched their skin. Hunger and thirst pressed against them like solid weight. Yet with each phantom defeated, the Abyssal Flame pulsed stronger, feeding on grief, resolve, and the unyielding desire to fulfill the promise to his mother.
By the time the sun began its slow descent, painting the dunes in molten amber and deep shadows, the last phantom dissolved. Evren collapsed to his knees, chest heaving, limbs trembling. Lira knelt beside him, exhaustion etched across her face, yet her eyes held admiration and quiet pride.
> "You're growing stronger," she said softly. "The Tower… it doesn't respond to strength alone. It responds to intent. Your intent has carried you through this trial."
Evren's hands shook as he lowered his sword, heat radiating from the Abyssal Flame. Caro's sacrifice, the desert's trials, the illusions meant to shatter him—they had not broken him. They had forged him, carving resilience into his soul.
Night descended quickly, dragging a biting cold across the dunes. Stars pricked the velvet sky like tiny spears of light. The desert exhaled around them, whispering secrets that only perceptive souls could hear. The Abyssal Flame dimmed slightly, a quiet pulse in the night that seemed to acknowledge the growth it had witnessed in its wielder.
Evren stared at the horizon, the weight of his promise pressing down like the very dunes themselves. I will climb. I will endure. I will save her. Somewhere, deep within the vastness of the desert, the Tower whispered faintly, almost imperceptibly:
> "The path has begun, Evren Calden. Dream well… before you awaken to the next trial."
The night was calm, but only in appearance. Evren knew the Tower's trials were far from over. Each dawn would bring new tests, harsher and more insidious than the last. He tightened his grip on his sword, feeling the Abyssal Flame stir within, its heat a promise of power yet to be fully realized.
The climb had truly begun, and for the first time, Evren felt the weight of both fear and exhilaration settle into a single certainty: nothing—not heat, nor shadows, nor loss—would sway him from the path he had chosen.
The Desert of Souls had tested him.
It had demanded everything.
And yet, it had only strengthened his resolve.
Evren rose, shoulders squared, eyes alight with determination. Lira mirrored him, daggers at the ready, wings-shaped Soul Mark faintly glowing. Together, they stepped forward, leaving the last traces of light and battle behind them. The desert was quiet now, but Evren knew it was only a pause before the Tower's next challenge awakened.
The Awakening Trial had begun.