The morning air was crisp and cold as Zarin stood alone at the edge of the camp, the faint glow of the pendant beneath his cloak warming his chest as he watched the Wastes stretch out before him. The sky was a dull gray, the sun hidden behind layers of thick clouds, casting the land in a bleak, shadowed light. Reya was off to one side, focused on her own training—her sword flashing as she moved through a series of fluid, controlled strikes. Her movements had become sharper, more deliberate since their last trial, but Zarin could still sense the uncertainty beneath the surface.

The trial had left them both with questions—about themselves, about the Spire, and about Maros. Zarin had felt it too, a growing sense that they were all part of something larger, something far more dangerous than they had anticipated.

As he stood there, the sound of faint movement caught Zarin’s attention. It wasn’t Reya—her movements were loud and rhythmic. This sound was softer, more controlled, almost like the whisper of wind through the trees.

Curious, Zarin turned toward the source of the noise, his eyes narrowing as he spotted a figure in the distance. Maros.

The old mage stood on a rocky outcrop, just beyond the camp, his staff in hand as he moved through a series of slow, deliberate motions. Zarin had never seen Maros train before, had never even considered the idea that someone as powerful as him needed to train. But now, as he watched from a distance, Zarin realized just how wrong he had been.

Maros moved with a grace and precision that belied his age. Each movement was fluid, calculated, as if he were one with the very air around him. The staff in his hand crackled with energy, faint arcs of lightning sparking from its tip as he swung it in slow, sweeping arcs. The ground beneath him trembled with each motion, the very earth responding to his presence.

Zarin’s heart raced as he watched. He had seen Maros use his magic before, but this was different. This wasn’t just power—it was control. Maros wasn’t wielding the magic; he was part of it, his movements perfectly aligned with the forces around him. The wind, the earth, the air—they all bent to his will, flowing with him as if they were extensions of his own body.

Zarin felt a chill run down his spine. He had always known Maros was powerful, but seeing him like this—alone, unrestrained—it was as if Zarin was witnessing the true extent of his abilities for the first time. There was a rawness to it, a kind of primal energy that seemed both awe-inspiring and terrifying.

For a long moment, Zarin stood there, watching in silence. And then, as if sensing his presence, Maros suddenly stopped. The energy around him dissipated, the wind calming as the earth stilled beneath his feet. Slowly, Maros turned, his eyes locking onto Zarin with a gaze that felt sharper than ever.

“Curiosity, Zarin?” Maros asked, his voice calm but laced with something deeper—something Zarin couldn’t quite place.

Zarin hesitated, unsure of how to respond. He hadn’t meant to intrude, but now that he was here, the questions that had been swirling in his mind since their encounter with the creature bubbled to the surface.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Zarin said, taking a step closer. “I’ve just… never seen you like this before.”

Maros regarded him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a slight nod, he gestured for Zarin to approach. “You’ve seen the extent of my power before, Zarin. This is merely practice.”

Zarin moved closer, his eyes scanning the rocky outcrop where Maros had been training. The ground was scarred, the stone cracked and fractured from the force of Maros’ magic. The air still felt heavy with the residue of energy, as though the very environment had been altered by his presence.

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“I didn’t realize you needed to practice,” Zarin said, his voice quiet.

Maros raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Power is not a constant, Zarin. Even the strongest of us must maintain control. Without practice, power becomes wild, unpredictable. Much like your own magic.”

Zarin glanced down at the pendant around his neck, his thoughts drifting back to the trial, to the moment when he had finally felt a sense of control over the magic that had once threatened to consume him. “But you’ve had years to master it. How do you keep it in check?”

Maros’ smile faded, replaced by a somber expression. He looked out across the Wastes, his gaze distant. “Control is never truly achieved, only maintained. I’ve spent a lifetime learning that lesson. Power, in its purest form, is not something that can be tamed—it must be understood, respected. The moment you think you’ve mastered it, it slips away.”

Zarin felt a knot form in his chest. “Is that why you practice alone?”

Maros nodded slowly. “Yes. There are some things that are too dangerous to share, even with allies. The magic I wield is ancient, tied to forces far older than any of us. It’s not something to be used lightly.”

Zarin took a deep breath, the weight of Maros’ words sinking in. He had always seen Maros as a mentor, a guide, someone who had all the answers. But now, standing here, Zarin realized that even Maros struggled with his power—just like him.

For a long moment, they stood in silence, the wind whispering around them. Then, finally, Zarin spoke. “In the trial… you said you lost someone. A friend.”

Maros’ eyes darkened, the mention of his past clearly stirring something deep within him. He didn’t respond right away, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

“Yes,” he said quietly, after a long pause. “A friend. We came seeking the same power, the same knowledge. But the trial is unforgiving. It reveals truths about yourself that you may not be ready to face.”

Zarin felt a chill run down his spine. “What happened?”

Maros exhaled slowly, his voice filled with a sadness that Zarin had never heard before. “He wasn’t ready. The trial forced him to confront his own fears, his own doubts. And in the end… he couldn’t handle it.”

Zarin swallowed hard, the gravity of Maros’ words weighing on him. The trial had tested both him and Reya, had forced them to make difficult choices. But the idea of losing someone—someone you trusted—because they couldn’t face their own demons? It was terrifying.

“What was his name?” Zarin asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Maros hesitated, as if the memory was too painful to share. But then, with a quiet resolve, he spoke. “His name was Rovan.”

Zarin’s breath caught in his throat. Rovan. The same name as the figure they had encountered, the man who had known Maros, who had spoken of old ambitions and hidden motives. The man who had seemed to know more about Maros than Zarin or Reya ever could.

“Rovan?” Zarin repeated, his heart racing. “The man we met… he knew you. He called you an old friend.”

Maros’ expression tightened, his gaze sharpening as he turned to face Zarin fully. “Yes. That was him.”

Zarin’s mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. “But… how? How is he still alive? You said he didn’t make it through the trial.”

Maros’ face darkened, a shadow crossing his features. “He didn’t. The man you met—Rovan—he is not the same person I once knew. The trial broke him, changed him. What you saw was a fragment of who he once was. A shadow.”

Zarin felt a knot of fear tighten in his chest. “What do you mean, a shadow?”

Maros’ voice grew quieter, more ominous. “The trial doesn’t just test your strength—it tests your very soul. Rovan failed that test, and in doing so, he lost something essential. He became something else—something twisted by the magic of this place.”

Zarin’s stomach churned at the thought. Rovan had seemed so sure of himself, so confident in his knowledge of Maros and the world they lived in. But now, hearing Maros speak, Zarin realized that Rovan was something far more dangerous—a reminder of what could happen if the trial broke you.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Zarin asked, his voice strained. “Why didn’t you warn us about him?”

Maros sighed, his gaze softening slightly. “Because I hoped you would never have to face him. Rovan… he is a part of my past, a reminder of a time when I made mistakes. But now, it seems those mistakes have returned.”

Zarin stood there, his mind spinning with questions, with fear, with doubt. The trial, the Spire, Rovan—everything felt so much bigger now, so much more dangerous than he had ever realized.

But one thing was clear. Whatever lay ahead, Zarin would need to face it with the same resolve that Maros had shown. He couldn’t let the power consume him, couldn’t let the fear break him.

Because if he did, he might end up like Rovan.

And that was a fate Zarin would do anything to avoid.