The fire in the Temple of Echoing Flame had dimmed, but the air still crackled with anticipation. The Oracle no longer floated. She stood now, for the first time, her blind eyes fixed on Azael. Her voice was quieter than before, but no less powerful.
"The final Trial is not summoned," she said. "It is chosen."
Azael stepped forward. "Then I choose it now."
The Oracle nodded. "So be it. Trial of Dominion."
The temple rumbled—stone peeling back to reveal a gate forged of bone and fire. As it opened, the scent of blood and battle swept through, thick and metallic.
Selene's fingers brushed Azael's arm. "This one feels… different."
Lyka's grin returned, twisted and knowing. "Because this one doesn't test your pain, brother. It tests your power."
—
They stepped through the gate.
And entered a world aflame.
The sky burned gold and crimson. Mountains floated above the ground, tethered by chains of lightning. Rivers of molten shadow coursed through the valley below.
At the center stood an arena—massive, ancient, and alive. Its walls throbbed with veins of fire. Its floor was scorched black, stained by the remains of those who had failed.
A voice thundered through the sky.
"The child of ash and oath has come."
From the opposite end of the arena, figures began to appear—three of them.
The first wore Watcher robes, gold-threaded and stiff with authority. His eyes were hollow with hatred.
The second bore the markings of the Ashborn, skin carved with runes that bled power.
The third was cloaked in pure shadow, featureless—yet familiar.
Selene tensed. "Those aren't real. They're… pieces of him."
The Oracle's voice echoed in the wind. "They are echoes of the paths you could take. Each one offers power. Each one demands sacrifice."
Azael stepped into the ring. The figures raised their weapons.
And the Trial began.
—
The Watcher struck first—blinding speed, blades of light screaming through the air.
"You could be their king!" he roared. "Lead them. Rule them. Bring order!"
Azael blocked the attack, but the light seared into his skin.
Then came the Ashborn, laughing through cracked lips. "Burn it all. Leave nothing. Let flame cleanse the world!"
He hurled fire with wild abandon. Azael staggered back, caught between control and chaos.
And then… the Shadow stepped forward. Silent. Still.
It didn't speak.
It simply raised a mirror.
And in that mirror, Azael saw himself—not as he was, but as he could be.
A god of balance. Half fire, half void. Ruler of nothing. Master of everything. Alone.
The Trial wasn't about survival. It was about choice.
Behind him, Lyka called out. "Pick a side, Azael!"
Selene screamed, "No—become more!"
Azael dropped his sword.
Closed his eyes.
And chose.
—
Flame and shadow surged from within, not clashing—but merging. His body rose into the air, power crackling across his skin.
"I am not your pawn," he said, voice shaking the sky. "Not a weapon. Not a king. I am the flame between."
His fire burned away the Watcher's light.
His will shattered the Ashborn's chaos.
And to the Shadow… he extended his hand.
"You are part of me. But you do not own me."
The shadow nodded once—and vanished.
The Trial was over.
The arena crumbled.
And in its place, a single black-and-silver crown formed at Azael's feet.
—
The Oracle appeared once more, kneeling.
"All Trials passed. The Heir is crowned."
Lyka dropped to one knee, finally solemn.
Selene didn't kneel. She stepped forward—and placed her hand over Azael's heart.
"You chose right," she whispered.
But the clouds above rumbled. Thunder rolled.
And a dozen new sigils lit up in the sky—one by one.
The Oracle's face paled.
"What is it?" Azael asked.
"There are more," she whispered. "More like you. Other heirs. Other crowns. The Trials were only the beginning."
From the horizon, dark wings began to rise.
And far below, in the prison-city of Maerith, something ancient began to wake.
Stay tuned....