The Trial Grounds of Varnhollow shimmered under the midday sun, but the heat was not natural.
A sea of ash carpeted the stone floor, and blackened statues of challengers past stood frozen in poses of agony and defiance. Crimson fissures glowed along the walls, veins of condensed aetherfire waiting to test the next fool brave enough to enter.
This was not a place for the weak of will.
Alaric stood at the entrance, eyes narrowed, the weight of expectation settling on his shoulders. His Fire Core, long tempered in battle and hardship, pulsed at his center like a forge bellows—slow, steady, relentless.
Kael gave a low whistle behind him. "You're sure this Trial won't just incinerate us all?"
"It'll try," Alaric said. "But fire's not just destruction. It's rebirth."
Lysera crossed her arms. "Tell that to my boots."
They stepped into the Trial zone. As the doors sealed behind them, the air shimmered—then ignited.
Trial Initiated.
A voice rang through the searing chamber. It wasn't spoken—it echoed within their cores:
"To conquer flame, one must burn without being consumed. Let your spirit blaze, or fall to ash."
Walls of living fire roared up around them, twisting into the shapes of beasts—molten wolves, fire-drakes, phoenix-shades. The room became a tempest of heat and fury.
Kael flared lightning instinctively. "I'll keep the flank clear!"
Lysera's blade danced into a defensive arc, light refracting through aethersteel.
Alaric didn't move.
He inhaled.
And then the fire obeyed.
Flames curved away from him, the Trial's searing torrent halting as though held by invisible reins. His aura surged—not just hot, but heavy. Gravity of flame, bending temperature and motion around him.
"Burn brighter," he whispered.
His right hand rose, trailing embers. Fire coiled into a whip, then hardened into a blade of living magma. But it wasn't reckless. It was precise, like a smith's strike.
With a swing, he parted the inferno—and a path opened, flames fleeing his presence like prey before a predator.
He stepped forward. The flaming beasts lunged.
Alaric spun, heat trailing his limbs like a cloak, and with every movement he left brands in the air—sigils that flared and exploded in timing with his strikes.
Sigilcraft. A rare form of fire-aether artistry.
He embedded a chain of them into the drake's mouth, and as it snapped closed—
Boom.
A chain reaction erupted inside its core. It didn't just vanish—it was unmade by its own flame.
Kael, watching between zaps of thunder, grinned. "Okay, that's new."
"Working on control," Alaric said, his eyes glowing bright bronze-red now, ringed with flickers of molten light. His cloak crackled with heat, but it didn't burn.
Lysera ducked beneath a fire-wolf and parried its lunge. "That's control? Remind me never to ask what chaos looks like!"
Alaric stomped once, and a ring of fire burst from his heel, carving a safe zone through the storm.
"Flame isn't just heat," he muttered. "It's memory. It remembers pain. Power. It remembers me."
The final phoenix swooped toward them.
Alaric held up his hand.
The bird stopped.
And knelt.
His aura now exuded dominance—Firebound Command—a rare phenomenon for fire wielders. The phoenix dissolved into cinders and reformed into a crown of flame around his shoulders.
The Trial's voice returned, quieter now, almost reverent:
"Fire knows its master."
A gate opened in the far wall.
Trial passed.
Kael clapped him on the back. "Okay, that was epic."
Alaric exhaled, letting the crown fade. "Still need more."
Lysera raised an eyebrow. "For what?"
He looked toward the next path—one leading into dusk-colored ruins where a dark wind blew.
"For what's coming."
End of Chapter 47