Chapter 2 — Trial and Shadows
The catacombs beneath Eldenvar were a labyrinth of shadows and whispers. Cold stone walls stretched endlessly, etched with centuries-old sigils that shimmered faintly in the dim lantern light. Lucien D'Arques moved cautiously, each footstep echoing across the vaulted chambers like a drumbeat of his own tension. The ember beneath his skin throbbed, restless and impatient, as if it already sensed the trial ahead and the danger it would bring. The faint smell of damp earth and mold filled the air, mingling with the metallic tang of the ember's heat.
"This way," the shadow whispered, its voice curling around him like smoke, soft yet unnerving. Lucien followed, gripping his dagger tightly, heart hammering against his ribs. The tunnel narrowed, forcing him to squeeze through jagged rock. Water pooled in uneven depressions, reflecting flickering shadows that danced and twisted as though alive. Each movement made him wary; one misstep could alert the unseen dangers lurking in the depths. A sudden draft made the flame of his lantern flicker, casting strange shapes across the walls that sent a shiver down his spine.
Ahead, the chamber opened into a wide hall. At its center, a shallow basin of black water reflected a single obsidian pillar, engraved with the same sigils Lucien had glimpsed on the monolith above. Hovering above the pillar, a swirl of dark flame twisted like a living creature, its edges flickering with anticipation, throwing ghostly reflections onto the walls.
"The trial begins," the shadow said. "Touch the ember within yourself. Let it awaken—but beware. The flame tests more than your body—it tests your mind, your resolve, and your courage."
Lucien's fingers trembled as they hovered over the scar on his forearm. The ember pulsed violently, heat lancing through his veins, almost demanding acknowledgment. Images flashed before his eyes: walls of fire, screaming faces, whispers in ancient tongues, and fleeting visions of people he had never met. A cold sweat broke across his brow. Fear and exhilaration intertwined in a way that made it hard to breathe.
"I… I can't," he muttered, voice shaking. The ember responded with a sharp, almost scolding pulse, as if mocking his hesitation.
"Do not fear it," the shadow urged. "Embrace it, or you will not survive."
Clenching his jaw, Lucien allowed the fire to merge with him. Heat surged through his chest, searing, exhilarating, and terrifying all at once. The chamber seemed to tilt, the walls bending slightly, shadows twisting into grotesque shapes. Tendrils of smoke rose from the darkness, forming faces of those executed by the Empire, reaching for him with silent screams. The ember flared, shaping into a protective shield. Lucien swung his dagger, flames following his movements, striking the apparitions and turning them to cinders.
Every motion summoned more shadows, faster, more aggressive. Sweat ran down his brow, stinging his eyes, but the ember pulsed, whispering guidance he barely understood. Focus, intention, control—he repeated the mantra silently, forcing each movement to be deliberate. Misstep, and the flames could consume him entirely. His muscles burned with exertion, every fiber screaming in protest, yet he forced himself forward, relying on instinct as much as skill.
Hours—or perhaps minutes, as time lost all meaning—passed. Finally, the last apparition dissolved into nothingness. The hall fell silent, an eerie calm settling over the chamber. Lucien sank to his knees, trembling, gasping for breath. The ember calmed, warmth lingering under his skin, almost like a quiet heartbeat.
"You have passed the first trial," said the shadow, stepping closer. "But each use comes with a cost. Your power grows, and so does its hunger. The Ashborne are watching. Never forget that."
"I will be ready for them," Lucien said, eyes narrowing, determination hardening.
"The trial is only the beginning," the shadow said. "Darkness gathers in Eldenvar. Allies and enemies are not always what they seem. And the flame… it never forgets."
Outside, the rain-soaked cobblestones reflected the pale dawn light. Lucien emerged from the catacombs, exhausted but alert. The ember pulsed beneath his skin—a warning, a call, a restless hunger. Shadows moved in the streets, unnoticed by the few early risers. The smell of wet stone and city smoke mingled with the lingering scent of fire from the catacombs. Among the shifting silhouettes, a figure lingered: a young rogue, eyes sharp and calculating, observing him from a distance.
The ember flickered unpredictably, small sparks dancing along his forearm. "Interesting… You're not like the others," the rogue said, stepping closer, voice low and measured.
"Who are you?" Lucien asked, hand tightening on his dagger, muscles tensed like a coiled spring.
"Someone who knows a little about survival… and a lot about what you carry. That ember—it's dangerous. And it's noticed."
Movement drew his attention. Figures clad in black lurked along rooftops and alleys—the Ashborne, silent and predatory, eyes fixed on him. The rogue tensed, producing a short blade, ready to act.
The ember responded instinctively. Small flames danced along Lucien's forearm, sending heat toward the nearest figure. Dizziness and weakness struck him, a reminder that every use of this power demanded a toll. Yet the ember's guidance was subtle, urging him to remain steady, to fight without panic.
"Follow me," the rogue urged, darting toward a narrow alleyway. Lucien stumbled to keep pace, weaving through the streets as the Ashborne agents descended, leaving behind sigils burned into the cobblestones—a warning, a tracker, and a threat.
They reached a hidden courtyard, shielded by crumbling walls, where Lucien leaned against a pillar, chest heaving.
"You're stronger than I expected," the rogue said, eyes assessing him carefully. "But the ember… it's hungry. It's watching you as closely as they are."
Clenching his fists, embers flickering faintly around his forearm, Lucien whispered, "Then I'll make sure I'm ready. Whatever comes, I won't let them take me without a fight."
From the shadows, a low, distant voice seemed to echo his resolve. The city above was just as dangerous as the catacombs below. Survival required more than skill—it demanded cunning, control, and the courage to face the fire within.
The ember pulsed once more, a quiet, insistent warning: the true trials were only beginning, and Eldenvar would test him in ways he had yet to imagine.