"Power does not protect you from fire. It teaches you how to endure it."
The illusion fell away like the peeling of a dream, and the cold cavern greeted Eliakim once more. He stumbled back, heart thundering, the echo of the false village still vivid in his mind. The ghoststone in his pouch flared hot against his chest, then settled to a faint pulse. Beside him, Skyling fluttered out from his cloak with a frustrated trill, its wings twitching nervously.
"I thought we were home too," Eliakim murmured, kneeling to catch his breath.
The silence of the cave pressed in on him again, the only sound his own heartbeat—and the slow, rhythmic dripping of water deeper in the tunnel. Something was waiting. He could feel it.
The wall where the illusion had once been began to shimmer. A new path, previously invisible, cracked open with grinding stone. Warm air poured from it, dry and acrid like burned parchment. Skyling recoiled into his cloak again.
Eliakim hesitated.
Then, with torch in hand and the bracelet of Kharuun glowing faintly on his wrist, he stepped forward.
The passage led him downward into a narrow corridor lit by veins of glowing red rock that pulsed with an inner heat. The air thickened. Sweat beaded on his brow. Charcoal-smudged symbols lined the walls—ancient sigils for flame, trial, and sacrifice. He touched one, and it hummed under his fingers.
Ahead, the passage opened into a massive circular chamber with a blackened stone floor cracked by glowing magma lines. In the center stood a pedestal, and upon it—folded with reverence—was a crimson cloak embroidered with ancient gold thread.
The Embercloak of Veyrun.
Its fabric shimmered faintly as if alive, rippling with heat despite the still air.
But between Eliakim and the cloak was a wide, yawning chasm. A single narrow bridge—just a line of sharp stones suspended over magma—connected both sides. Above, the ceiling roared with sudden fire as jets of flame poured from vents in timed intervals, scorching the cavern in patterns.
A voice whispered from the very stone itself:"To claim the Embercloak, you must walk through flame without losing yourself."
Eliakim clenched his jaw. "Alright then."
He stepped forward.
The trial began the moment his foot touched the first stone. The bridge wobbled, narrow as a plank. Lava hissed below. From the walls, blasts of flame erupted—one to the left, one to the right—then a wave overhead.
Eliakim dropped to his belly, rolling across to avoid the fire.
His clothes smoldered at the edges, the hair on his arms singed. But he moved fast, ducking, weaving, counting the intervals.
Skyling chirped frantically from beneath his tunic, refusing to peek out.
The second set of flames came faster, in erratic bursts. One scorched past him just inches away. The stone beneath his feet trembled and cracked.
A beam of heat licked across his leg, searing pain up his thigh. He grunted, biting down a scream, and lunged forward.
But the final leap was too far.
The stones ended five feet from the pedestal. Lava bubbled below, mocking him.
He stared across the gap. The cloak shimmered.
"Endure," the voice repeated in his mind.
He remembered his father's books. The fables of ancient warriors walking through storms and infernos, not with brute strength, but with courage tethered to restraint. He focused, calming his breath.
And then—he jumped.
The fire roared.
Time slowed.
Mid-air, he imagined the cloak already around his shoulders, the power not as a prize, but a promise—to protect.
He landed, barely, rolling beside the pedestal. The flames halted.
Silence returned.
His wounds still burned, but the pain dulled beneath the triumph swelling in his chest.
Eliakim reached up and took the Embercloak.
It was cool to the touch.
As he donned it, the threads shimmered and the air around him warped. The cloak tightened to fit his form and a new sigil lit up beside the gem on his bracelet. The cloak's enchantment activated: resistance to fire, enhanced agility, and camouflage in heat-based environments.
The voice echoed again:"One step closer. Six remain."
But just as he turned to find a way back, the chamber trembled. A tremor surged through the cavern. One of the stone supports behind the pedestal cracked.
A glowing eye opened in the molten wall behind it.
Then another.
A creature emerged—part elemental, part guardian—a Molten Hound, forged of obsidian and flame, its ribs glowing like furnace grates. It sniffed the air once, then bared fangs of lava rock.
Eliakim froze.
The ground split.
The hound charged.
He dove aside as the creature snapped its jaws where he'd just stood. A searing arc of flame followed its movement, scorching the air.
Eliakim rolled, grasping a broken shard of rock as makeshift defense. The cloak's enchantment shielded him from the worst of the heat, but not its force.
He baited the beast closer to the chasm, dancing on the edges, letting it overextend. Then, timing it right, he feigned a stumble and the creature lunged.
Eliakim twisted.
The hound missed—and plunged into the chasm.
Lava erupted like a geyser as the hound vanished below.
Breathless, Eliakim crawled away from the ledge, shaking, every muscle aching.
Skyling emerged and flopped beside him, wings flat and eyes wide.
He managed a weak grin. "That makes two."
The ceiling above him shimmered.
This time, no illusion.
A stone staircase descended from the cavern wall behind the pedestal, newly revealed.
Eliakim stood, bloodied but alive, cloak flickering faintly behind him, and climbed.
The bracelet pulsed softly.
Two sigils lit.
And ahead—another test awaited.