The world erupted in crimson fire as their eyes met the statue's gaze. Elena plunged through reality's layers, drowning in liquid flame—WHOOSH—the world vanished.
She stood in a vast, shifting void where memories rose like crimson-lit stages. At her side, Andreas's face drained pale, confusion giving way to dread.
"Where... what is this place?" he whispered.
Before Elena could respond, the space around them RIPPLED and transformed, pulling them into the fist scene.
CRASH! The sound of steel meeting steel filled the air as Andreas found himself reliving his final day at Eisenwall Fortress. But this wasn't how he remembered it—the memory felt wrong, distorted, like looking through warped glass.
In this version, Andreas wasn't just fleeing from an overwhelming enemy force. He was actively sabotaging the fortress's defenses, his sword cutting down his own men from behind.
"No!" Andreas shouted, his voice echoing strangely in the memory-space. "That's not what happened! I never—"
Elena gasped as anguish slammed into her chest—not hers, but Andreas's. His confusion, his horror, his breaking heart as all he held sacred warped into something monstrous—she felt it all.
(This space connects our emotions,) she realized with growing fascination. (I can feel exactly what he's experiencing.) But as she observed his reaction to the distorted memories, understanding began to dawn. (This isn't random torture. There's a pattern here.)
Andreas was rejecting these false memories because they showed him as something he despised—a traitor, a coward, a failure. The ordeal was forcing him to confront his deepest self-hatred by showing him twisted versions of his worst fears about himself.
(This is about self-loathing,) Elena realized with crystalline clarity. (The ordeal seems to show us what we hate most about ourselves, feeds on our inner demons and self-doubt.)
The crimson energy pulsed hungrily with Andreas's despair, a predator feasting on his weakness. Elena felt the space itself drinking in his anguish, swelling with his self-hatred.
The memory continued its twisted narrative. He watched himself—a version of himself with cold, calculating eyes—unlock the fortress gates for the Aurianis forces. The Andreas in the memory smiled as enemy soldiers poured through, laughing as his comrades were cut down.
"Traitor!" The voice belonged to Sir Hamilton, his former captain, as he fell with an Aurianis spear through his chest. "You condemned us all!"
The memory shifted violently, throwing Andreas into another scene. He was in Prince Lucian's private study, kneeling before his liege lord. But in this distorted version, the Prince's face was twisted with contempt and disgust.
"You failed me, Andreas," Prince Lucian spat, his voice dripping with venom. "I trusted you with the most important mission, and you betrayed everything we fought for."
Elena felt Andreas's devastation like a physical blow to her chest. The way he worshipped his Prince, the absolute faith he had in Lucian's righteousness—it was almost painful to witness. (He truly believes in him,) she thought. (Just like I believe in Elias.)
But beneath that observation, her mind was already calculating. Andreas's loyalty ran deep, deeper than she'd initially realized. That kind of devotion could be... useful.
The memory showed Prince Lucian personally signing execution orders for Andreas's family. "Let them all hang," the Prince said with a cruel smile. "The sins of the son shall be visited upon the parents and sister."
"YOU'RE LYING!" Andreas screamed, falling to his knees. "Prince Lucian would never—he's honorable!"
As the crimson memories reached their crescendo, Andreas collapsed completely. The weight of the distorted images—his family's supposed shame, his prince's imagined betrayal, his comrades' accusations—crushed down on him like a physical force. His breathing became ragged, his hands shaking uncontrollably.
Elena watched in fascination as his despair reached a dangerous peak. Through their emotional connection, she could feel his thoughts spiraling into darkness. (There's no point anymore,) his mind whispered. (Everyone I ever loved is dead because of me. Everyone I ever served thinks I'm a traitor. What's the point of living when you've destroyed everything you've ever touched?)
The crimson energy throbbed, savoring its nearing feast. Elena's alarm spiked—this was more than torment; it craved annihilation. With chilling clarity, Andreas drew his sword, its blade catching the red glow as he turned it inward. His eyes were hollow, hope already gone.
"I should have died with them," he said, his voice hollow and distant. "I should have died at Eisenwall. At least then I would have had honor. At least then my family could have been proud of me."
Elena moved without thinking, her training taking over as she lunged forward. Her hand clamped down on his wrist with iron strength, redirecting the blade away from his heart just as he began to push forward.
"No!" she said sharply, her voice cutting through the crimson haze like a whip crack. "That's exactly what it wants!"
Andreas struggled weakly against her grip, but his strength was sapped by despair. "What does it matter? I failed everyone who ever trusted me. My family died in shame because of me. Even the prince—" His voice cracked. "Even Prince Lucian thinks I'm worthless. Better to end it now than live with this knowledge."
"Those were lies!" Elena said, pouring genuine urgency into her voice. She could feel the ordeal feeding on his suicidal despair, growing stronger with each moment he contemplated ending his life. The crimson light pulsed eagerly, like a heartbeat quickening with anticipation. "Don't you see? The ordeal showed you distortions to make you hate yourself so much you'd give up entirely!"
"How can you know that?" Andreas asked, his voice barely a whisper. But his grip on the sword loosened slightly.
Elena's mind raced. This was a crucial moment—she needed to save him not just for her plans, but because she was beginning to understand how to defeat the ordeal itself. The space around them seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see if its trap would succeed.
"Because I'm about to face the same thing," she said. "And I need you to survive."
The crimson space shifted with a sound like breaking glass—SHATTER!—as Elena's memories took center stage. Unlike Andreas's distorted visions, these were crystal clear, unaltered truth.
The space showed her as a child in the training chambers. She watched herself—eight years old—efficiently snapping another child's neck with clinical precision, her young face empty of emotion.
(I remember that day,) Elena thought with chilling clarity. (The adults told us to kill each other and I was the last one standing.)
As she watched her younger self work with mechanical precision, Elena felt something she had buried so deep she'd almost forgotten it existed—disgust. Not at the act itself, but at how easily it had come to her, how naturally she had embraced the darkness.
(This ordeal isn't showing me distorted memories,) she realized. (It's showing me the truth I've always tried to ignore. Andreas sees lies about himself, but I'm seeing who I really was—who I really am.)
But outwardly, she let herself react with visible horror and shame. She allowed tears to well up in her eyes, her hands trembling as she watched her younger self kill without mercy.
"Please, no," she whispered, her voice breaking perfectly. "That's not... I never wanted to..."
(Since childhood, I was always the best,) her inner voice continued remorselessly. (The fastest to learn, the most efficient killer, the one who never questioned orders. They called me their masterpiece.)
The memory shifted to show her first meeting with Elias. The truth was stark—she had been assigned to watch the king's concubine and their newborn, initially seeing him as just another target to monitor. But then came the moment that changed everything: seeing him broken and bleeding after an assassination attempt, how something maternal and fierce had stirred in her chest.
(He was so small,) she remembered, the emotion bleeding through despite her attempts to control it. (Barely older than Harry and Sera when I first found them. For the first time since I was a child myself, I felt the need to protect.)
She filled her mind with this memory—not of the calculating prince who had brought Eisenwall to ruins, but of the injured boy who had unknowingly awakened something human in her. She flooded her heart with genuine devotion, the fierce love of a mother for her wounded son, mixed with the loyalty of a knight to her liege.
(My beautiful boy,) she thought with fierce tenderness. (They think he's dead now, but I know better. Death itself couldn't claim him—it only made him stronger, angrier. The ghost that wears his face now burns with righteous fury, and I will follow him to the ends of the earth.)
(Feel this, Andreas,) she projected through their connection, letting the raw emotion wash over him. (Feel how much I love him, how desperately I want to protect him. Let it call to that knight's honor you can't quite abandon.)
The memory shifted again, and Elena's breath caught. Here was her time with Allison—the truth she cherished most.
Elena watched herself meeting Allison for the first time, seeing the exact moment when the ice around her heart had begun to crack. How Allison's genuine kindness had confused her, how she had initially tried to catalog it as weakness to exploit, and how she had failed.
(I was supposed to be untouchable,) Elena remembered, letting genuine tears fall. (Allison was meant to be just another assignment. But she saw something in me that I'd forgotten existed.)
"She was my friend," Elena cried, her voice raw with anguish. "The only real friend I ever had. I loved her, I swear I loved her!"
(And that love made me soft,) her inner voice continued. (Made me hesitate, made me hope for redemption. Until they killed her.)
The memory shifted to its cruelest revelation—the moment Elena received the bloody pieces of Harry and Sera's fingers. The truth hit her like a physical blow.
(I remember opening that letter,) Elena thought as she screamed outwardly in denial. (The two little fingers, still so small. Harry's pinky finger with that tiny scar from when he tried to help me cook, Sera's finger with the freckle she always said looked like a star.)
"Harry and Sera were everything to me!" she sobbed. "I would have died to protect them!"
The memory showed the truth—how she had found them as starving orphans while serving as Allison's maid, how their innocent trust had cracked something open in her chest. They had been her practice at being human.
(They were supposed to be safe,) she remembered with bitter anguish. (Hidden away while I served Elias at the border. I thought the First Prince didn't know about them, thought I had been careful enough. But love makes you careless, makes you think you can protect what matters when you're nothing but a weapon.)
And there it was—the deepest cut of her self-hatred. She despised herself not for caring about Harry and Sera, but for being naive enough to think she could love without consequence. Her affection for them had given her enemies the perfect weapon against her.
(I hate that I let them become my weakness,) she acknowledged with brutal honesty. (I hate that my love for two innocent children gave the First Prince the power to make me betray the person I cared about most. Love didn't make me human—it made me a fool.)
The memory twisted the knife deeper, showing her the moment she had prepared the poison for Elias's wine. Her hands had shaken—not with fear, but with self-loathing. She had chosen her siblings over her prince, and part of her would always hate herself for that moment of human weakness.
(I became everything I once despised,) she thought as tears streamed down her face. (A tool to be manipulated by my own emotions. The perfect killer, undone by the hearts of two children.)
Andreas, watching her apparent breakdown, felt her emotions crash over him in waves. Despite his own pain, something protective stirred within him. The way she spoke of her siblings, the genuine anguish in her voice—it reminded him of how he had felt about his own family.
(She's been used,) he thought slowly. (Just like I was. Someone took her love and turned it against her.)
But what he couldn't see was how Elena was carefully modulating which emotions to let him feel—emphasizing her maternal love for Elias and her grief over the children, while burying the deeper currents of self-hatred and the cold satisfaction she felt at how her performance was affecting him.
As Elena continued her performance, she felt the ordeal feeding on both their self-hatred, the crimson light pulsing with each wave of despair and self-loathing that washed over them. But she was beginning to understand the pattern, the key to victory.
(The ordeal wants us to choose—to embrace either self-loathing or denial, she realized. But the riddle said to find our own truth. What if my truth is that I don't have to choose between versions of myself? What if I can be both killer and lover without hating either?)
She could see the path now, not just to survival, but to victory. The ordeal fed on hatred—hatred of others, but especially hatred of oneself. It wanted them to despise who they were, to reject parts of themselves until they were left broken and incomplete.
(But what if the answer is integration instead of rejection?) she thought with growing confidence. (What if the key is to accept every part of yourself, even the contradictory pieces?)
"Andreas," she said suddenly, reaching out to him with trembling fingers. "I think I understand what this is."
He looked at her through his own tears, hope flickering in his eyes like a candle flame in the wind. "What do you mean?"
"The ordeal feeds on self-hatred," she said, her voice gaining strength as the understanding solidified. "It shows us our worst fears about ourselves and waits for us to either accept them as our only truth or destroy ourselves denying them. But there's a third option."
"Which is?" Andreas asked, leaning forward with desperate attention.
"Accept that we're complex. You were controlled, but that doesn't make you a traitor. You failed to save everyone, but that doesn't make you worthless. I'm a killer, but I'm also capable of love. These aren't contradictions—they're just human."
Andreas stared at her as understanding dawned. "You're saying we stop hating ourselves for being... complicated?"
"Exactly." Elena smiled, and for once it was almost entirely genuine. "The ordeal wants you to hate the man who was controlled, who couldn't save everyone. But what if your truth is that being imperfect doesn't make you worthless?"
She watched as Andreas struggled with the concept, his face cycling through pain, confusion, and finally something that might have been hope.
"My truth..." Andreas said slowly, the words coming with difficulty. "My truth is that I served with honor, even if I was used. I loved my family, and they loved me. I may have failed, but I never stopped trying to do what was right."
The crimson light flared, then began to fade as his words rang with growing conviction.
"And my truth," Elena said, "is that I can be both darkness and light. I can kill for love and love without weakness. I don't have to hate any version of myself."
The crimson space around them began to dissolve, the oppressive weight of self-loathing finally lifting. But Andreas was looking at her now with something new in his eyes—not just gratitude, but a dawning respect. She had shown him a way forward when he had been ready to give up entirely.
(She saved me,) he thought with growing wonder. (When I was about to end it all, she showed me another path.)
"Thank you," Andreas said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "You saved me from that darkness. When I was about to... when I almost..." He couldn't finish the sentence, but she could feel his gratitude washing over her in waves.
Elena smiled, the expression both tender and calculating. "We saved each other," she said. "That's what makes us strong."
Andreas nodded slowly, something fundamental shifting in how he looked at her. The woman who had seemed like just another complication in his life was revealing herself to be something far more significant. She had wisdom he lacked, strength he needed, and most importantly—she had seen him at his lowest moment and chosen to help rather than abandon him.
(This is enough,) Elena thought with dark satisfaction. (Not an instant transformation, but the foundation is laid. He's beginning to see me not just as someone to protect, but as someone worth aiding.)
The irony was exquisite. Branded a traitor, the knight now stood ready to serve the very bastard prince who ruined him. Stripped of everything by their schemes, he clung to the lie that she—one of his destroyers—was his salvation.
As Elena savored victory, the ordeal's memories gnawed at her—not lies, but brutal truths. The love for Elias, grief for Allison, protectiveness toward Harry and Sera—all real. She had simply turned them into weapons, as she'd been taught to do with everything.
(This is who I truly am,) she acknowledged with something approaching peace. (Not the broken victim Andreas sees, not the cold killer I once was, but the perfect synthesis of both. A monster who loves, a killer who grieves, a weapon with a heart that beats for very specific people—and who has learned to stop hating herself for being all of these things at once.)
As the crimson space faded, Elena allowed herself a rare triumph. She had entered torn by self-hatred and contradiction; she left whole—sharpened—and with a knight bound by devotion. The ordeal of anger was done, but greater trials awaited. And when they came, Elena would be ready, armed with clarity and a follower who would march into hell believing it was redemption.
[Synchronisation rate with unit 'Elena Milford' increased by 20.]