The trial chamber pulsed like the inside of a star, its walls flickering between solid crystal and infinite void. Lyra stood at the center, her body trembling, eyes lit with a brilliance that no longer seemed her own. The Infinity Seed had unfolded within her, threads of light snaking out and anchoring to unseen horizons.
Outside, the war raged. The stronghold shook as fleets clashed, their weapons splitting space into ribbons of fire. But within, silence reigned—until the veil broke.
Figures emerged from the fracture.
Commander Seris Dhal, clad in obsidian armor streaked with crimson, his eyes sharp with ruthless ambition. His very presence was war distilled.
Althira Venn, her steps silent, a blade humming faintly at her hip. Her gaze locked onto Lyra, not with hatred, but with a strange inevitability, as though she already knew the ending.
And then the roar—Kaelith the Flamebound tore through the veil, his body a grotesque fusion of flesh and echo-metal, molten fire spilling from the seams in his armor. Each step scorched the floor.
Kaelen raised his phaseblade, sweat streaming down his brow. "They're all here," he muttered. "Every damned predator."
"Not predators," Seris corrected, his voice cold. "Witnesses. The Seed will choose its bearer—and none of us intend to leave without it."
The Seed within Lyra pulsed violently, threads lashing out, reacting to the clash of wills. Her body arched, as if torn between voices too vast to contain. Through the burning light, her whisper reached Kaelen:
"Don't… let them take me."
The chamber trembled as Architect runes ignited above, forming a celestial jury of faceless giants. A voice like thunder rolled through the cosmos:
The trial has begun. Only one shall endure.
And with that, the chamber itself split into shifting battlefields—shards of other worlds crashing into one another. Desert plains, ruined cities, oceans of black flame. No longer a trial by spirit alone—this was war, staged upon the bones of infinity.
Kaelen tightened his grip on the blade. For Lyra, for everything—they would not bow.