Aelric stood beneath a sky that was not his own.
Where once the constellations had danced with familiar grace, now a veiled expanse loomed above him, heavy with shimmering motes that did not twinkle but pulsed—slow, deliberate, like the heartbeat of something ancient and waiting. The earth beneath his boots was not stone, not sand, not soil, but a strange mosaic of crystal and ash, each step echoing softly through a silence that felt both sacred and stifling.
He had crossed the Gate of Silent Fire, left behind the mirrored sky and its whispering riddles, and now wandered into the heart of the Trial's third and most enigmatic passage—The Crownless Path.
There was no road here. Only subtle impressions in the shimmering dust, left by footsteps not his own. They curved and twisted, vanished and returned, leading nowhere and everywhere at once. Aelric followed because he must, not because he understood. The Trial had stripped him bare of certainty.
Nyara padded beside him, her luminous fur dimmed beneath the weight of the realm. Even her celestial light—ever steady—flickered in places, snuffed out as if the air itself disapproved.
"Where are we?" he whispered, his voice thin in the stillness.
The feline spirit said nothing.
He had grown used to her silence in this place. Words here unraveled if you spoke them too plainly.
But the silence did not mean solitude.
He felt it—always—just out of sight, just behind his shoulder or buried within the cracks of his thoughts. A presence. A watching.
Not malicious, not even hostile.
Judging.
The Ghosts Without Crowns
He passed statues.
At first, they appeared like mere rock formations, worn down by time and the strange winds that never moved. But soon he saw the symmetry, the intention behind each face—elongated, weathered visages of men and women once great. Some had shattered crowns clutched in hand. Others bore weapons fused to their arms, as if melted by some celestial fire.
Aelric paused before one whose face was eerily familiar. Not a mirror of his own, but akin to it—the high cheekbones, the angular brow. A line of starlight ran from its left eye down to the jawline like a scar.
Beneath it, an inscription.
"He who sought to rule the stars, but forgot their song."
He touched the base, and visions rippled through him—not images, but memories not his own. A war among stars. A betrayal. A silence that followed.
He staggered back, clutching the amulet at his chest. The silver star at its center flared briefly, then dimmed.
Nyara let out a low growl—not warning, but mourning.
Aelric breathed deeply.
The Trial was showing him what had come before—those who walked this path, those who bore the title Starborn and failed.
The path was not a measure of strength, but of worth. Of wisdom. Of surrender.
The Forked Reflection
Hours passed. Or perhaps years. Time unspooled strangely here.
At last, the trail split. A gleaming corridor of crystal stretched left, warm and bright, while to the right, a narrow path of smoke and shadow slithered into darkness.
Before either could be taken, a shape stepped from the mist ahead.
Himself.
Or rather, something wearing his face—older, perhaps. Harder. This double bore a blade made of the same light as Aelric's, but the light was sharp, not kind. The eyes were not curious but cruel. The cloak he wore bore sigils Aelric had not yet learned, and upon his brow rested a broken circlet made of obsidian stars.
"Choose wisely," the echo said. "One path grants you your throne. The other—your truth."
"I don't seek a throne," Aelric said slowly.
The double smiled. "Then you will never have the strength to protect what matters."
"I don't want to protect through rule," Aelric replied. "Only through trust. Through light."
"Light burns, boy," the echo hissed. "And crowns weigh more than you know."
It stepped aside, vanishing between the forked paths.
Aelric stood in silence. Then, with breath held, he turned—not left, not right, but forward, into the space between. Into a third path that wasn't offered, but opened only through denial.
Nyara followed, her tail brushing the edge of both corridors.
And behind them, the echo smiled again—wider this time—and began to follow.
The Trial Within
The third path was narrow.
So narrow that Aelric had to turn sideways at times, scraping between walls of singing crystal. Whispers filled the narrow corridor—words he had spoken, doubts he had buried, fears he had pretended not to carry.
"You are not enough."
"They only follow you because of the light—not because of you."
"You will fall. Like the rest. Like your father."
Aelric closed his eyes, gritted his teeth.
"No," he murmured. "I walk not because I am sure—but because I must."
The corridor widened.
He emerged into a hall vast and hollow, a cathedral of fallen stars. Thousands of crystalline shards hovered above, forming shifting constellations that changed every time he blinked. Beneath them lay a dais carved from starsteel, glowing with ancient runes.
Upon it, an orb.
The heart of the Trial.
The Voice of the Crownless
When he touched it, the realm shattered.
He stood in darkness, vast and consuming.
But in that void, stars flickered to life—one by one—until he floated amidst galaxies uncounted. And then a voice, neither male nor female, old nor young, echoed through him.
"You seek no crown. Yet you walk the path of those who bore them."
"I seek understanding," Aelric said. "I seek to protect what I love."
"Then name what you love."
"Truth. Choice. Hope."
"And if they must war with one another?"
Aelric was silent.
"The Trial has shown you the past—the Starborn who ruled, who burned, who broke. Will you be different, or simply next?"
"I don't know," Aelric answered truthfully. "But I will try."
The stars dimmed.
And then flared—
—
A vision surged through him: Liora crying out in battle, Thalin facing down a host of void-touched beasts, the Spire in flames. Shadows rising in Ythar. The Heartstone flickering. A sky cracking above Eldoria.
Then a single tear in space—black, swirling. A gate. No—not a gate. A mouth.
And something waiting to devour.
Return from the Trial
Aelric awoke on stone.
The Trial was complete.
The realm faded behind him, replaced by the echoing chamber within the Spire's inner sanctum. Nyara sat beside him, calm now. Her light restored.
In his hand, a mark had appeared—burned into his palm like a comet's trail.
The Mark of the Crownless.
He had passed.
But not because he had proven himself strong.
Because he had accepted that he was not.
The Endless Road
Liora burst into the chamber minutes later, breath ragged.
"Aelric," she gasped, holding out a message-scroll, scorched and hastily sealed.
He broke it open.
His eyes widened.
A map.
Marked with a new gate.
A gate that was not on any chart—deep in the Sunken North, a place long thought cursed.
And written in blood-red ink were five words.
"The Maw of Ages opens."
Aelric looked up to Nyara.
"We're not done."
She nodded.
"No, Starborn. Your real journey has just begun."
~to be continued