When the five doors rose from the glassy floor of the chamber, Lys felt her chest tighten. Her rune glowed with a sharp, silver light, the mark resembling a crescent bow strung and ready. The Helm's words echoed in her skull even after Carlos vanished through his door:
"The Citadel does not test groups. It tests souls. Choose your path. Walk it alone."
She stood for a moment, still as a statue, then reached forward. The door opened with no sound, and in the blink of an eye, the others were gone.
She was alone.
The air inside was cold, damp, and thick with shadows. The ground under her boots was soft earth, and the faint scent of pine lingered in the air. She recognized it instantly.
This was the forest of her childhood.
A forest she had sworn never to return to.
The trees loomed high and dark, their branches tangled like prison bars. An owl cried in the distance, and the underbrush rustled with unseen movement. Every instinct told her this wasn't real, just another illusion crafted by the Helm—but the weight in her chest said otherwise.
Her bow was already in her hand when the first voice reached her.
"Lys."
She spun, arrow nocked.
Her brother stood in the clearing.
He was older now than when she had last seen him, his eyes harder, but the face was unmistakable. She had left him behind years ago when she fled their homeland, unable to bear the wars, the endless hunting, the choices forced upon her.
"You abandoned us," he said flatly. "You left me to die."
The words struck harder than any blade.
"This isn't real," she whispered. "You're not him."
The figure smiled bitterly. "Not real? Or simply the truth you've run from?"
The shadows thickened, taking form. One by one, faces she knew and had failed began to appear—comrades, villagers, even strangers she hadn't saved on hunts gone wrong. Each one stepped forward, weapons drawn, eyes filled with accusation.
"You could have saved me.""You left me behind.""You chose yourself over all of us."
The guilt that Lys carried every day, usually buried under iron control, rose now like a tide. She staggered back, bow trembling in her hands.
Then the Helm's command cut through the chaos:
"Face the shadows of your past. Only by striking them down can you move forward."
The first figure lunged. Instinct took over. Lys loosed her arrow, piercing through the phantom's chest. It shattered into ash, vanishing in an instant.
More came. She fired, each arrow swift, precise, and unerring. The clearing filled with the sounds of her bowstring snapping taut, of shadows dissolving into dust. Yet no matter how many she felled, more rose, circling her like wolves.
Her arms ached, her quiver grew lighter, and still they came.
At last, only her brother remained.
He stepped forward, his expression unreadable. Unlike the others, he didn't attack. He simply stood there, watching her, waiting.
Her bow trembled in her grip. She could shoot. She had the skill. But could she?
"I didn't mean to leave you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I thought—I thought if I ran far enough, I'd forget the screams. I never stopped thinking about you. I never stopped regretting it."
Tears stung her eyes, but her brother's shade did not soften.
"You can't kill me," he said. "Because I am part of you."
The truth struck deeper than any blade. Her bow lowered, her arms shaking. She couldn't erase the past. She couldn't undo the choices. But maybe… she didn't have to.
Slowly, Lys let the bowstring slacken. She set the weapon down, her hands open.
"I can't change what I've done," she said, her voice steady now. "But I can choose what I do next. I won't run anymore. I'll carry the weight, and I'll fight with it—not against it."
Her brother's shadow studied her in silence. Then, at last, it nodded. The darkness dissolved, his form breaking into a thousand motes of silver light.
The Helm's voice whispered through the trees:
"Acceptance. You have faced the Trial of Shadows."
A crystal formed in her hands, faintly glowing with silver fire. She pressed it to her chest, and the weight of guilt transformed—no longer chains dragging her down, but armor that steadied her.
When she opened her eyes again, she was back in the chamber of five doors. Her bow was still in her hand, her body whole. Across the chamber, she saw one of the doors flare faintly—Carlos had returned already, waiting silently.
Lys didn't meet his eyes. Not yet.
She simply tightened her grip on the bow, drew a deep breath, and waited for the others.