Trial Day.
The sun rose red over the Trial Grounds.
Elara stood in a long line of hopefuls outside the obsidian gates of the War Academy, the scent of frost, oil, and nerves clinging to the air. Candidates fidgeted with sword hilts, tightened buckles, whispered last-minute spells. A few vomited discreetly into the gutter.
"You'd think they were going to die," Fig whispered from her shoulder.
"They might," Elara muttered.
Fig snorted. "That's the spirit."
The gates groaned open.
The courtyard beyond was carved from black stone and ringed with torchlight, despite the morning sun. A raised platform stretched down the center—at its end, a row of seated instructors in dark cloaks and war-crest pins. The Trial Masters.
Lyssandra was already ahead, striding with a swagger that turned heads. Flames curled lazily from her fingertips like pets on invisible leashes.
Teryn caught Elara's eye and gave her a subtle nod. She returned it. His face was calm, but she saw the tension in his shoulders. He had a stag's stillness, but also its readiness to bolt.
A booming voice echoed through the courtyard.
"Candidates! Today, you will be tested in two ways: strength and resolve."
The Trial Master, a tall woman with a shaved head and iron-plated boots, paced in front of the crowd like a war drum come to life.
"You will enter the arena alone. You will face what the Trial Stone chooses for you—combat, illusion, fear, or flame. Succeed, and advance. Fail... and leave."
She gestured to a hulking black monolith standing beside the instructors.
"The Stone sees what hides in you. Don't bother pretending."
Fig muttered, "Great. Magical mind-reading rock. Nothing could go wrong here."
The Trial Master smirked. "And candidates, the Trial Masters will see it all." she says indicating to the row of seated instructors.
"Lovely, nothing beats having lots of eyes staring at your privates." Fig says, sounding like someone already stole his dignity.
Elara squared her shoulders, lifted her chin proudly and stepped into the line.
One by one, candidates approached the stone. Some disappeared behind veils of magic, only to emerge minutes later—shaken or triumphant. A boy emerged sobbing, muttering about spiders. A girl came back soaked in sweat, her arms shaking uncontrollably.
When Lyssandra's turn came, the flames around her flared like banners. She paused just before the Stone, placed her hand to its surface, and vanished in a whirlwind of fire.
Two minutes later, she stepped out untouched, lips curled in satisfaction, fire still dancing along her braid. Applause. A few gasps.
Fig muttered, "Show-off."
Then came Elara's turn.
She stepped forward, bare feet whispering on the stone. The air around the monolith buzzed faintly, like bees inside a crystal.
The moment her fingers touched the monolith, the world tilted.
The arena vanished.
She stood in a forest.
Not just a forest—the forest. The one from her past life. Where she had died.
The trees were wrong here. Bigger. Hungrier. Their branches clawed at the sky and twisted in unnatural angles. Fog curled at the base of trunks like pale serpents, and the leaves whispered in a tongue only her bones remembered.
Her breath caught in her throat. The air was thick with moss, blood, and memories.
She turned in a slow circle.
This was it. The last place she'd stood in her first life. Where everything had ended.
And then he appeared.
Kaden.
Not as she remembered him in brief moments of longing and ache, but as he had been in those final moments: tall, powerful, gold-ringed eyes gleaming with betrayal. His skin caught light like dusk, and he walked toward her with that same certainty—as though her death had been inevitable.
Not real, she reminded herself. Just the Stone. Just illusion.
But her blood didn't care. Her limbs remembered.
"You think you've escaped," he said. His voice echoed through the trees, low and cruel. "But you always come back. You always kneel. No matter how many lives you get."
She backed away. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Her chest burned.
"Run," Fig whispered—but it was distant, distorted. He wasn't here. Not in this illusion. She was alone.
No.
Not alone.
Her hands gripped something solid. Ash-blades. Twin lengths of dark, polished wood and honed silver. The moment she held them, her spine straightened.
She would not run.
She would not kneel.
She planted her feet.
Kaden snarled, lunging. Shadows poured from his hands, coalescing into a jagged spear.
Elara dodged. Fast. Not as fast as she remembered being, but fast enough. She slid under his first strike, rolled, and came up with a blade cutting across his ribs.
He roared—not in pain, but in fury.
"You are mine," the illusion snarled.
"Not anymore," she hissed.
He struck again. And again. The forest blurred with motion. Trees shattered, fog twisted like claws, and lightning rippled in the sky above. She fought through it all.
This was not about speed or strength.
This was survival. Will. Memory.
Each time his illusion landed a blow, it hurt—but the pain sharpened her. Ground her. Gave her reason.
She remembered dying.
But now, she remembered fighting back.
A scream tore from her throat as she leapt, blades flashing.
She didn't land one killing blow.
She landed twenty.
The illusion of Kaden staggered, cracking like porcelain, black smoke pouring from every break.
"You will return to me," it gasped.
"I never will," she said.
The forest cracked.
Splintered.
Shattered.
Light swallowed everything.
Elara stood in the arena.
Breathing hard.
Blades still raised.
Sweat drenched her skin. Her knees shook. But she stood.
Silence fell over the courtyard.
Then—
A murmur. A ripple. One of the instructors leaned forward.
"She fought her own memory," someone whispered. "The Stone gave her her death... and she won."
Teryn grinned from the crowd. Lyssandra frowned, her fingers twitching at her side.
Fig popped into view on her shoulder, visible for the briefest instant only she could see. "Well," he said proudly. "That was... dramatic."
Elara wiped sweat from her brow and smiled.