The staircase vanished behind them, sealing with a thunderous slam. No way back. Only forward.
The whispers thickened, layering into words—half-recognisable voices that clawed into their thoughts.
"Coward."
"You weren't enough."
"Why didn't you save me?"
Elira's steps faltered. She gripped her spear so tightly her knuckles turned white. Before her, the figure of a girl shimmered into being—her younger sister. Fragile. Smiling. The one Elira had sworn to protect… the one she had failed.
"Elira, don't answer!" Reinhardt's voice cut through, sharp as steel. But it was too late—the illusion tilted its head, whispering with her sister's voice.
"Why did you let me die?"
Elira's breath hitched, tears burning at the edges of her eyes. Her spear trembled, as if her own guilt was dragging it down.
Reinhardt stepped forward, grabbing her wrist. His grip was firm, grounding.
"They're not real," he said, his tone steady though his chest tightened. "They're memories wearing skin. If you reach for them, they'll swallow you."
Elira's lips trembled—but slowly, she steadied, blinking back the tears. The illusion cracked like glass, scattering into the mist.
But the Depths weren't finished.
On the other side, Darius let out a guttural growl. A broad-shouldered man stood before him, armour dented, eyes blazing with disappointment. His father.
"You've always been weak. Hiding behind arrogance. You'll never surpass me."
Darius's pride—his shield—shattered. He staggered back, his usual venom gone. "You… you're supposed to be dead…"
The phantom stepped closer, voice cutting like a blade.
"Do you think you've earned your strength? You're still the child who begged for scraps at my table."
Reinhardt cursed under his breath. The Depths weren't attacking blindly—they were precise, surgical. Every phantom was a knife aimed straight at the soul.
"Callen!" Reinhardt barked, but his warning came too late.
The healer had fallen to his knees. Before him, a woman kneeled, her hands outstretched, blood staining her dress. His wife. The one he couldn't save.
"Callen… why didn't you heal me?"
Callen's face twisted in agony. His magic flared in his hands, instinctively reaching for her.
"I tried! I swear I tried!"
"Callen!" Reinhardt roared, grabbing him by the collar. "If you give them your power, they'll drain you dry!"
The Depths fed on weakness. On guilt. On regret.
Lyra was the only one who had remained silent, her bandaged arm still clutching her bow. But Reinhardt noticed the way her shoulders tensed, her breathing quickening. She was fighting her own ghosts, but holding firm—for now.
The mist thickened again. And then—
Reinhardt froze.
From the shadows, his own phantom emerged. Broken armour. Dead eyes. A mirror of the Reinhardt who had once failed this trial.
"You again…" Reinhardt muttered, jaw tightening.
The phantom smirked, his own voice mocking him.
"You'll fail them too. Just like before. Just like always. They'll all die because of you."
The others looked to him—waiting, desperate, terrified.
And Reinhardt realised: the Depths weren't testing them individually. They were testing him most of all. Because if he broke—their leader, their anchor—then the rest would crumble.
He took a single step forward, glaring into the hollow eyes of his broken self.
"Not this time."
The phantom's grin widened, teeth sharp, as the whispers rose into a deafening chorus. The trial was only just beginning.