They traveled in silence for hours.
Beyond the Temple of Hollow Echoes stretched a twisting trail of sand and forgotten time, cutting through a desert realm untouched by mortals. The stars overhead no longer matched the constellations of the known world. They had entered a divine corridor—an astral rift reserved for gods, forgotten truths, and those desperate enough to chase them.
Ren Zian walked ahead, a quiet fire in his eyes. The burn of three pacts still smoldered in his veins, each one louder now that the herald had marked him.
Behind him, Lyra clutched her staff tighter. She was healing, but slowly. Arin trailed silently, watching the dunes with distrust. Nyelle and Eira—the fallen goddess—walked together, deep in quiet conversation.
As the sands shifted, a strange structure rose ahead: a coliseum of obsidian bones.
Eira stopped. "This is it. The Trial of the Fourth Flame."
Ren frowned. "I thought the fourth pact would test my power."
"No," she replied. "It tests your desire."
They entered the coliseum.
It was empty, yet brimming with pressure. Above them hovered a radiant sphere of pulsing red fire. Around the arena, ghostly figures watched—echoes of past champions, pacted warriors who had either fallen… or worse.
A voice called out.
"Ren Zian."
From the center appeared a woman wrapped in flame and shadow. Her eyes glowed like coals. Her presence made even Eira step back.
"I am Tashara, the Keeper of the Fourth Flame."
Ren stepped forward. "Then you know why I'm here."
Tashara smirked. "You seek power. But the Fourth Flame doesn't reward ambition. It rewards surrender."
He frowned. "Surrender to what?"
"To yourself. To pleasure. To fear. To the truth you won't admit."
Before he could respond, the arena warped.
Ren was suddenly alone—stripped of armor, surrounded by warmth, silks, and a perfume so alluring it made his heartbeat stumble. Tashara stood before him now not as a goddess, but as a woman—beautiful beyond reason, her every glance a temptation.
"This is not real," Ren muttered.
"Isn't it?" she whispered. "All your life, you've resisted what you wanted. Held back your desires. Controlled your urges. But the gods cannot be claimed by men who are slaves to restraint."
She stepped closer, her fingers ghosting across his chest.
"You want power. But power is born from wanting. From taking."
He trembled, but did not move.
"If you wish to claim the Fourth Pact," she said, "you must prove you are no longer afraid to take what you crave."
Then she vanished—and in her place stood Lyra.
But not as she was.
She stood radiant, eyes blazing, lips parted in silent yearning. She reached for him.
"Ren..."
His breath caught. "No. This isn't her."
Tashara's voice echoed all around. "It could be. All of it. Yours, if you would only choose it. One kiss. One touch. One step."
Ren's fists clenched. "This is a trick. A test."
"Exactly. And failure means you walk away with nothing."
He closed his eyes. The scent, the warmth, the heartbeat echo—all of it clawed at him.
But when he opened them, he stepped back.
"I want her," he said. "But not like this. Not because it's offered. Because it's earned."
The illusion shattered.
Ren collapsed onto the arena floor.
The fire above descended, entering his body through the pact mark on his chest. Unlike the others, this one burned with longing—not just of flesh, but of soul.
When he stood, he was changed.
Tashara appeared again, now solemn. "You passed. The Fourth Pact is desire tempered by devotion. Many fall here."
Ren exhaled. "Then I've not fallen yet."
Behind him, the others approached.
Lyra looked at him, eyes searching. "What did she offer you?"
Ren met her gaze. "Everything I wanted. The wrong way."
Nyelle nodded. "You're ready now. For the crown."
But Eira's expression was grim. "Not yet. One pact remains. The final one… is the Pact of Ruin."
"And it will demand more than all the others combined."