Darkness enveloped them.
Not the kind born of night, but something older, heavier. It pressed against Ayla's skin like silk soaked in ash. The world she had known—the scent of pine, the wind on her cheek, the familiar weight of Kael's presence—felt like a fading memory the moment they crossed the threshold.
But she still felt his hand in hers.
And that was enough to ground her.
The Shadowlands were not what she expected. There were no flames, no rivers of fire or groaning souls. Instead, the air was still, damp, and strangely cold. Gray fog clung to the ground in shifting waves, and the sky above was a deep void, pulsing faintly with dying stars.
They stood on a narrow path made of black stone, suspended over an endless chasm. No visible walls enclosed them, and yet the silence carried an unnatural weight, as if something ancient were holding its breath.
Kael drew his cloak tighter and looked around. "This place… it's not made to welcome the living."
"No," Ayla whispered. "It's made to strip us bare."
Their steps echoed as they walked, though the path never shifted, never curved. It simply stretched forward into the mist. Ayla's fire—so wild and alive outside—burned low here, like a candle fighting back a storm. Even the runes on her skin, once vibrant with molten light, now glowed faintly.
Then came the whispers.
They rose like a breeze from below the path, curling around their ankles and rising to their ears. Ayla stopped, clenching her jaw.
"Did you hear that?" she asked.
Kael nodded. "Voices. But I don't understand them."
Ayla did.
They spoke in the tongue of her first life—the ancient language of flame and oath, of blood and promise. And what they whispered chilled her more than the wind ever could.
"You walked away. You let us burn."
Visions flickered in the mist. Ghosts of her past. A young soldier screaming her name. Her sister, Mira, as a child, eyes wide with betrayal. Her own hands stained with blood, her face twisted in rage.
"No," Ayla breathed. "That's not who I am anymore."
Kael stepped beside her, his hand brushing her shoulder. "They're illusions."
"They're truths," Ayla said. "But not the only ones."
The mist thickened suddenly. From its depths, a figure emerged—tall, cloaked in shadows, its face hidden behind a mask of bone. In its hands, it held a staff topped with a black sun.
"The first trial begins," the figure intoned. Its voice echoed not through the air, but through their very bones.
Ayla stepped forward. "I've already proven myself to the gate."
The figure tilted its head. "The gate judged your strength. We will judge your truth."
The stone path shifted beneath them, rearranging into a wide circle surrounded by monoliths carved with forgotten glyphs. Kael tried to follow her, but the mist rose like a wall, separating them.
"No," Ayla gasped, reaching for him.
"Face it," the figure said. "Alone."
Kael's eyes met hers through the fog. "You can do this."
She swallowed hard and turned.
The ground glowed beneath her feet. A memory bled into reality—she stood now in a throne room she hadn't seen in lifetimes. Marble floors. A shattered crown. Her sword embedded in a king's chest.
The moment she chose vengeance.
The bone-masked figure stood beside her. "Would you do it again?"
Ayla stared at the vision. The king had deserved it—his tyranny, his cruelty, his war. But she hadn't done it to save her people.
She had done it out of rage.
"No," she said quietly. "I would stop him. But not like this. Not out of hatred."
The vision trembled, cracked like glass, and then shattered.
The mists recoiled.
A path reopened.
Kael rushed forward, wrapping his arms around her. "Are you—"
"I'm fine," she whispered, but her voice trembled. "The trials aren't over."
"No," said the cloaked figure, now behind them. "You have passed the first. There are three. Each deeper than the last."
"What's next?" Kael asked, drawing his blade.
The figure pointed ahead. "Desire."
The path split into two. One shimmered with golden light—lush fields, laughter, a quiet life. The other, gray and cold, led deeper into shadow.
"I know what this is," Ayla said. "A temptation."
The cloaked figure said nothing.
Kael looked down the golden path, then back at her. "If it were real… would you take it?"
She thought of peace. Of laying down her blade, of a world where she could grow old. But the image faded, replaced by Mira's eyes, by the faces of the people still fighting, still hoping she would rise.
"I want peace," she said. "But not like this. Not while others are still shackled."
She turned to the darker path.
Kael followed without a word.
Behind them, the golden illusion withered like a dying flame.
And far below, in the deepest part of the Shadowlands, something stirred.
It opened its eyes.
And whispered her name—not Ayla, but her first, forbidden name.
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