Auren's heart stutters, but he steadies himself, drawing a breath thick with anticipation. The sword-like pillars rise like silent sentinels, their gleaming edges casting reflections across the glowing stones beneath.
The entrance before him beckons, deep like the mouth of a forgotten beast. The air is heavy, still with the weight of centuries. His mind races, wondering if Rhett has already been claimed by the Trial’s grip, yet the silence answers only with the soft, eerie hum of the glowing swords.
With each step closer, the darkness shifts, like the very fabric of the world holding its breath.
A shift in the shadows, a glint of something more than just the play of light.
Then, it emerges.
A figure, tall and clad in dark armor, the color of void itself. A Wraithclad Knight—An Initiate. It moves with unnerving grace, its presence alone sending chills crawling up Auren's spine. The knight’s face is concealed, the blackened helm offering no hint of humanity, its very being an echo of death’s silent march.
Auren’s pulse quickens, but he does not flinch. Not yet. His hands tighten around the hilt of his blade, the cool metal familiar in his grip.
The blue of his eyes gleams like shards of ice as he faces the knight, its shape casting a shadow that stretches long before him.
"Are you the trial?" Auren murmurs, voice low, his caution painting each word.
The Wraithclad Knight offers no answer, only the soft scraping sound of its armored feet against the ancient stone. Each step, slow but inevitable.
Auren shifts into his stance, ready to face what comes next. This battle would be one of endurance, not power, he could feel it. He would not fail.
Auren stands still, his breath steady, waiting for the Wraithclad Knight to make its first move. The silence stretches, almost mocking him. Then, with a low hiss, the knight raises its dark sword high, and the ground beneath them shudders.
A ripple through the air, shadows rise and twist, like tendrils of darkness reaching from the void. From the blackness around the knight, smaller forms emerge: shadowy minions, their shapes blurred and indistinct. They move like wraiths, rushing toward Auren with unnerving speed.
Auren strikes first, his blade flashing, cleaving through one of the minions, but the shadow simply evaporates into the air. Another one appears, then another. The shadows swarm him, but their strikes are weak. Auren’s skill is enough to parry them away. Yet, with each swing, his frustration builds. He can’t fight shadows forever.
He forces himself to pause. I can't keep this up, he thinks. His eyes dart around, but the Wraithclad Knight remains an implacable force, watching and waiting.
The illusions begin. His vision shifts—suddenly, the knight is standing behind him, then to his left, then before him again. The images blur, flicker, disorienting Auren, pulling him into a state of confusion.
But something stirs inside him—something raw. He closes his eyes, shutting out the tricks of the knight.
Fight on instinct. Not with your eyes… but with your soul.
With his mind cleared, Auren opens his eyes again, but now he sees beyond the illusions. The true movements of the knight are simple, deliberate. Slow. Almost predictable.
He watches the knight’s shifts, mirrors them in his own movements, countering every strike with precision, each swing of his sword flowing with the rhythm of the knight’s dark dance.
They meet in a flurry of metal and shadow, each time their swords clashing, creating a pulse of light in the darkness. Auren is no longer reacting; he’s anticipating, moving before the knight can, a perfect reflection of his every step.
The knight falters for a moment, and Auren seizes the opening, driving his blade toward its chest. But the shadowy figure vanishes, its form dissipating into another illusion. Auren’s strike meets air.
A flash of movement behind him, a shadow slashing at his back. He whirls, meeting the blow with his blade—no, it's just another illusion. Damn it!
The shadows keep coming, the knight keeps evading, but Auren isn’t fooled anymore. He’s played the knight’s game. And now it’s time to end it.
His eyes narrow, scanning the surroundings. The environment. It was his advantage, not the knight’s.
Auren spots the sword-like pillars, their sharp edges glimmering in the dim light. One by one, the pillars are spaced, forming a jagged, narrow path. He feints to the left, baiting the knight into pursuit.
The knight's form lunges at him, too quick for Auren’s initial strike, but then it crashes into the edge of one of the pillars, the dark armor scraping against the stone.
The knight staggers. Auren grins, his plan falling into place.
He springs into action, weaving between the pillars, using their height and shape to block the knight’s path and limit its mobility.
A blade comes down, the knight’s strike aiming for Auren’s head, but he ducks, rolling behind a pillar. The knight, relentless, moves in too quickly—and too predictably.
Auren darts forward, shifting behind the pillar, and with a speed the knight doesn’t expect, he leaps, twisting midair to land on the knight’s back. His sword strikes down, swift and sure, into the crack between the armor plates.
The Wraithclad Knight staggers, a shriek of shadow echoing through the space, and in a final flash of darkness, it collapses, its form dissolving into nothingness.
The battle ends in a breath. Auren stands, chest heaving, his blade still raised, the faint hum of power in the air fading to silence.
He wipes the sweat from his brow and steps back, his mind still buzzing with the remnants of the fight. A victorious smile curves on his lips. That’s how it’s done.
But there’s no time for celebration. The trial is far from over.
—————————————————————————————
As Auren steps deeper into the burial ground, the air grows thick with a presence of something ancient that tugs at his very soul. Every step he takes feels as if it drags him further from the world he knows, the familiar weight of his sword growing heavier with each breath.
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Then the whispers begin.
Soft at first, like the rustling of dry leaves, but growing louder—more insistent. Words, voices, fragments of conversations that drift through the air like forgotten ghosts. “Help me.” .....“The end is near.” ......“We are all lost.”
Auren tries to block them out, to focus, but the whispers surge like a tide, crashing into him, pulling him under. His vision blurs, his head spins, and suddenly—he is no longer standing in the burial ground.
He is on the battlefield.
The clang of metal against metal, the cries of dying men, the stench of blood and sweat—everything is raw, real, and overwhelming. Auren feels the weight of the sword in his hand, the breath ragged in his chest as he swings it, cutting down an enemy with practiced precision. But the face of the man he strikes is unfamiliar. The weight of the kill feels hollow.
He looks around—everything is unfamiliar. The battlefield stretches for miles, an endless stretch of bodies, and in the distance, an imposing figure with eyes like burning coals stands before him, commanding with an unyielding power.
The ground trembles beneath his feet. And then, just as quickly, the vision fades.
He stumbles back, gasping for air. But the whispers have not stopped. No, they are louder now, surrounding him, enveloping him. He can’t see through them. The memories of the fallen—these lives lived and lost—are seeping into him, flowing through him, each one a piece of the puzzle that is no longer his own.
Another flash of memory. Another battlefield. Another soldier’s life he must live. This time, the blood is his. A blade pierces his side, and the scream that leaves his throat is not his own. The pain is sharp, searing, and it burns away the edges of his identity. He’s slipping, losing himself with each soul he inhabits.
Auren struggles to hold onto himself, to grasp the thread of who he is. He tries to remember his name, his past, his purpose—but the memories of the dead crowd in, overwhelming him.
His hands shake as he clutches his head, the world around him a swirl of faces, places, battles, and deaths that aren’t his.
Who am I?
The question echoes in his mind, but the answer is slipping through his fingers. The whispers are no longer words,they are feelings, sensations, emotions of a thousand warriors who lived, fought, and died in this place. Auren feels their despair, rage, sorrow and he cannot tell where they end and he begins.
Another vision--no, another life. Another soldier, another fight. He holds a spear in his hand this time, charging into battle with a cry that is both his and not his. He can feel the blood in his mouth, the sting of wounds not his own. He hears the clang of iron, the cry of men falling around him, and the weight of death pressing on his shoulders.
But this time—this time, the identity is nearly gone. He can no longer see the faces, no longer recall the names. The warrior’s soul that he inhabits is fading, and in its place, Auren’s own self begins to slip away.
I am—
The thought stumbles, but it can’t quite take shape. His name—the name that was once his anchor—dissolves in the sea of forgotten lives. Auren clutches his head, gasping for air, the weight of centuries crashing down on him.
He tries to scream, but the scream is not his own.
Who am I?
And the whispers grow louder.
And louder.
Until they are a roar.
Auren’s vision shatters once more, the world around him blurring and twisting until it reforms into a scene all too familiar. The air is thick with heat, the tension palpable, and the scent of blood lingers like a thick fog.
He stands in the courtyard, the familiar stone walls looming around him. The harsh sunlight bathes the scene in a cruel, unforgiving light. He hears the crowd—its murmurs, its whispers, the gnashing of teeth—but there is only one thing that matters: his father, Edrin, standing tall before the executioner, bound and defiant.
No, Auren thinks, but the thought is drowned by the flood of emotions that overwhelm him. This time, I won’t be weak. I can stop it. I have the power.
He looks down at his hands, the fingers curling into fists. His pulse quickens, a surge of heat coursing through his veins. His body feels different—stronger, faster, brimming with power, unlike any he’s ever known.
The echoes of the dead warriors who’ve passed through him lend their strength to his form. His heart beats in time with the rhythm of battle, with the pounding drums of war.
And there, at the center of the square, his father stands, facing Hadric Valthorne—his executioner, his murderer—bound before the crowd like a prize. The sight is all too familiar, yet it burns with fresh fury. Auren’s mind is clear now, sharpened by the trials he’s endured. He knows what needs to happen. I can save him. I can rewrite this. I can stop this.
His hand moves instinctively toward his sword, but something stops him. A presence—heavy and suffocating—presses against his very soul. He looks around, but the world seems to pulse and flicker. Time stutters, and he feels it—the presence of something beyond his understanding, something watching, waiting.
He steps forward, every muscle in his body screaming for him to act, to strike, to prevent the inevitable. His father’s execution is within reach. The power surging through him whispers temptation, offering him the strength to tear apart fate, to burn the past and carve out a new future.
I can rewrite this, Auren thinks again, his breath coming fast. I can end the pain. I can save him.
His hands tremble, his fingers inching toward the hilt of his sword. He can almost feel the blade bite into Hadric’s flesh, taste the sweet vengeance that would satisfy the hunger inside him. The crowd would cheer, his father’s life would be spared, and the weight of his grief would be gone forever.
The temptation clutches at his heart like an iron vise. Why not? Why not change it?
But then a voice—a whisper, a breath—cuts through the storm in his mind. “The true test is not in the power to change, but in the strength to accept what cannot be undone.”
Auren freezes. The voice—strange and ancient, yet somehow familiar—breaks through the fog of his thoughts. He looks around, desperate for the source of the voice, but sees only the twisted, blurry remnants of the execution scene, warped by the pull of fate and power.
The true test...
He stumbles back, breath ragged, as the weight of that truth presses on him. He doesn’t have to change it. He doesn’t have to rewrite the past. The future—his future—lies in the strength to carry the pain, to accept the loss, and to move forward. His father’s death is a scar on his soul, a wound that will never fully heal, but it is his to bear.
I am Auren. I will not be consumed by this.
With a final, gut-wrenching cry, Auren rips his hand away from the sword, his fingers curling into a fist. The moment he lets go, the world seems to shift—time returns to its rightful place. The executioner’s axe hangs above Edrin, its sharp edge glinting in the sun.
Auren’s heart pounds in his chest, but he stands firm. The temptation recedes. The whispers fall silent.
And then, as if from the depths of the earth itself, a figure emerges from the shadows.
The Nameless One.
The presence is overwhelming—unfathomable, ancient, and heavy with the weight of all things forgotten. The Nameless One stands tall before him, cloaked in the void, its face hidden behind a mask of shifting darkness. Its voice is a low, melodic hum, but the words strike Auren’s soul like a hammer.
“You have chosen, Auren of Veltharion.”
Auren’s legs feel weak, his heart faltering beneath the sheer gravity of the being before him. There is something in the Nameless One’s gaze, or perhaps its lack of gaze, that sees into him, through him, beyond him. It is the final test—the last trial he must face.
Auren swallows, his throat dry, but he stands tall. “What... what are you?”
The Nameless One steps closer, its form shifting with every movement, as if it is both here and elsewhere at once. It speaks again, its voice a cascade of ancient power. “I am the one who watches the choices of those who walk the path of power. You have come to me, boy, to face your own identity. What are you, Auren?”
Auren’s eyes narrow, his breath steadying as he squares his shoulders. He knows the answer now—he knows who he is. “I am Auren. I will not be bound by fate. I will choose my own path.”
The Nameless One pauses, as if weighing his words, then nods slowly, its form flickering.
"Then you are ready," it says, its voice an eerie whisper that lingers long after the words fade. "But remember, Auren, even the strongest souls may falter. The trial is not over. Your choices will define you, for better or worse."
With that, the Nameless One vanishes into the shadows, leaving Auren alone in the center of the execution, the weight of the trial settling heavily upon his shoulders. The world begins to shift again, the blurred edges of time fading as he returns to reality.
But Auren knows something now,he has resisted the temptation, embraced the pain, and found his true strength in the fire of the trial. And no matter what comes next, he will face it, as Auren, and no one else.