I stepped through the door, my senses on high alert. This trial felt different. The air was thick with tension, the silence pressing down on me like a weight. I scanned the room, my eyes darting around the vast, dimly lit space. The walls were lined with jagged stone, and in the center of the room was an altar of sorts—raised, with small shards of glass scattered across it, glowing faintly.
But what really caught my attention were the figures standing at the far side of the room. They were cloaked in shadows, their features indistinguishable, like silhouettes caught in a blur of smoke and mist. My heart rate picked up, but I steadied myself, taking in the scene with the practiced calm of a detective.
The voice—the same cold, disembodied one that had guided me through the other trials—spoke again, its tone tinged with amusement.
"Welcome, Echo. Welcome to the Shard Game. Here, your truth will be exposed, piece by piece. You will face your darkest memories—your regrets—and in doing so, you must retrieve the shards of the past. The only way to move forward is to confront what you've buried inside."
The shadows at the far end of the room stirred. They began to move toward me, their footsteps echoing eerily as they grew closer. I tensed, my mind racing. What did this mean? Expose your truth... Retrieve shards of the past? I already knew this was going to be a challenge. It wasn't just physical; this was going to be a mental game, one that would test me at my core.
I glanced at the altar again, noting the small shards of glass. Each one seemed to hold something within it—distorted images, fragments of scenes I couldn't fully make out. I had no choice but to take one.
The closest shadow stopped a few feet from me, its form still indistinct. But then, it raised its hand, and in a smooth motion, it threw something toward me. A shard of glass, glowing faintly with an inner light, clattered to the floor at my feet.
I didn't need to be told what to do. I picked it up, feeling its cool surface in my hand. The moment my fingers touched the shard, the world around me shifted, and the air grew colder.
The image inside the shard came into focus.
It was a memory I'd tried to bury—one I didn't want to see again. The cold, sterile room. The sound of my footsteps as I walked in, the distant hum of machines keeping a steady rhythm. And there, in the bed, lay a woman—her face pale, almost translucent, her body hooked up to an array of medical devices. It was my mother. She had been sick for so long. But I had never really let myself face it. The guilt I felt, the inability to help her, to save her... It haunted me.
I could hear my voice, a whisper in the back of my mind.
"I should have been there more. I should have fought harder."
But I hadn't. I hadn't fought hard enough. I'd been so wrapped up in my work, in my cases, that I hadn't been there when she needed me the most. It was a failure I couldn't outrun.
I forced myself to look away from the shard, my chest tight with the familiar ache of regret. I placed it down on the altar and looked toward the next shadow, waiting for it to move.
The next figure stepped forward, raising its hand in the air as if beckoning me. Another shard flew through the air, this one sharper than the first, and I caught it effortlessly. The moment it touched my skin, another memory flooded my mind.
This time, it was the night I'd lost everything—my career, my reputation, my sense of self. The case I had gotten wrong. The one that destroyed me. I saw the face of the victim—an innocent man—his eyes pleading for justice, but I had failed him. My decision, my mistake, had cost him everything. The image of his family—his wife, his children—flashed before me. The looks of betrayal and anger that had followed me everywhere after that. The hollow feeling of knowing I'd made the wrong choice, but unable to undo it.
I squeezed my eyes shut as the memory played out in vivid detail. The courtroom, the shouting, the accusations. The shame. I could still feel the heat of it, burning through me like acid.
"You couldn't even protect him. You were supposed to be the hero, the one who saved people. But you're nothing."
The words of self-loathing hit me hard. I wanted to throw the shard away, to erase that moment from my mind, but I couldn't. I had to face it.
I set the second shard down on the altar beside the first, feeling the weight of my failures settle deeper into my bones. The trial wasn't just about retrieving pieces of glass—it was about retrieving the pieces of myself that I had buried. The parts of me I didn't want to confront. But I had no choice. I had to face them all.
The next figure moved, but this time, I wasn't sure if I was ready for what would come next. My thoughts were racing. Would I survive this trial? Could I really keep going? I didn't know.
But one thing was clear: I couldn't stop. Not now.
I stepped forward, determined to face whatever came next.