The storm never came from the skies in Caerith.
It rose from the whispers behind marble columns.It grew in silence layered beneath pleasantries.And when it struck—it always chose the quiet ones first.
Three days had passed since Elira had risen from obscurity like a blade unsheathed.
In those three days, she had become a rumor.A walking contradiction.A girl who bled like a princess but moved like someone who had died and come back colder.
At dawn on the fourth day, the summons came.
A scroll wrapped in dark silk, sealed in wax with the crest of House Caelis. It bore no unnecessary flourish—just a single line:
"Elira Vellaria Caelis is to present herself at the Temple of Ash. No attendants. No witnesses."
Mira's hands trembled when she unrolled it. "The Temple of Ash... they're sending you there?"
Elira said nothing at first. Her gaze was on the window, watching as the pale sky shifted from slate to silver.
"They're testing you like they would test a traitor," Mira whispered. "Or worse—like they want to break you."
Elira folded the scroll, tucked it beneath her sleeve, and turned.
"Then I'll let them try."
She did not wear a gown that morning.No soft velvet, no pearl combs.Just a fitted tunic the color of dusk and boots meant for long, silent corridors.
A knife was hidden in her boot—not for defense, but because in Caerith, being unarmed was simply foolish.
She left without a word of farewell.
Mira watched her go with wide eyes and a heart that had already begun to fear the worst.
The Temple of Ash was not truly a temple.
It was older than the palace. Older than even the records of the royal bloodlines. A ruin buried beneath the mountain spine behind the eastern wing of Caerith. They called it a temple because it demanded sacrifice.
And no one left unchanged.
The walk was long. The descent longer.
Stairs carved from black stone wound downward through narrow spirals. Torches flickered with green flame. The air grew heavier with every step, thick with old magic and older judgment.
Elira counted her breaths.
At the base, a circular chamber waited. Cold. Vast. Empty—save for the man who stood in its center.
He wore the charcoal robe of the Trial Master, and nothing else adorned him—not rings, not chains, not rank. Only power.
A grimoire floated beside him, bound in iron, its pages sealed shut with rune marks that pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
He turned to face her.
"Elira Vellaria Caelis," he said, as if weighing each syllable. "Daughter of the Fourth Queen. Sister of the court's bright stars. Survivor of... nothing."
Elira inclined her head. "Trial Master."
His eyes were colorless. Unmoved.
"You have been summoned to undergo the Trial of Ash and Bone. Three phases. No interference. No privilege. No rescue."
"I understand."
"This trial is not ceremonial," he added, voice flat. "It was once reserved for exiles, for those marked by suspicion, treason, or forbidden bloodlines."
"Then it's appropriate," she said calmly. "I am all three."
A pause. Something passed behind the Master's gaze—surprise, perhaps, or interest.
"We begin," he said.
He raised a hand.
A circular glyph burned to life beneath her feet, etched with runes of the old tongue—symbols of binding, focus, and essence. The chamber shifted with an audible hum, the stone responding to ancient command.
"You will open your mana gates. Let the flow rise without obstruction. If you lie, the circle will rupture. If you resist, it will consume."
Elira stepped into the center.
The moment her foot crossed the glyph's edge, heat slammed into her chest like a hammer. Her bones vibrated. Her vision trembled.
Control. Hold. Focus.
She let the pain come—but didn't let it drown her.
Bit by bit, she exhaled.
The magic within her, long dormant, sluggish and stiff from disuse, uncoiled like a half-dead serpent waking to sunlight.
A faint crackle echoed through the room.
The circle flared bright crimson.
The Master narrowed his eyes.
"The flow is stable. Unexpectedly aligned. High resonance for an untrained candidate."
He didn't speak the rest, but Elira knew what he was thinking.
How?
She smiled faintly. But only inwardly.
Phase Two: The Control
With a flick of his hand, a pillar of flame erupted three meters away. It twisted upward like a serpent made of fire, lashing against invisible barriers.
"Control the blaze. No incantations. No catalysts. Raw will."
Elira stared at the fire.
It reminded her of the night her mother died. The red flickers beneath the silk sheets. The smell of blood and roses.
She stepped forward. Raised a hand.
At first, nothing happened.
The fire reared back, as if mocking her weakness.
Then—she breathed in, slower.
Not fear. Not force. Focus.
She drew the fire's attention, not with power—but with understanding.
The flames quieted.
Lowered.
Shrank.
Soon, the pillar was no taller than a candle.
Then—she closed her fist.
And it was gone.
The Master exhaled.
"You've been practicing."
"No," she replied. "But pain is a good teacher."
Phase Three: The Phantom Mirror
This time, there was no spoken command.No warning.
Only shadow.
It crashed down like a tidal wave, submerging the chamber in blackness. Even Elira's breath felt muffled, distant.
Then came the visions.
She stood in the center of the throne hall.A thousand faceless courtiers stared at her.
They laughed.
Threw stones.
Called her names—traitor, cursed, mistake.
She turned—and Mira was at her feet, bleeding from the mouth, eyes wide with betrayal.
Further back—her father turned his back on her, robe heavy with disappointment.
And beyond that, high above on the royal dais—
Caelum.
Not as she remembered him.
No warmth in his eyes.No fury either.
Just silence.
He watched her fall to her knees.
"Why?" she whispered.
"Because you believed," his voice echoed.
"And belief kills more than blades."
It wasn't real.She knew it wasn't.
But the pain felt real.And so did the memory.
This time…
She took a step forward.
…I will not be the one who bleeds first.
With a cry—not of fear, but defiance—Elira struck her palm to the ground. Mana surged, bright and hot. The illusion splintered.
The court shattered.
The faces faded.
And Caelum… dissolved like dust in light.
The chamber returned to normal.
Stone. Torches. Silence.
The Master watched her closely.
He opened the grimoire. A single page fluttered, then glowed.
He wrote.Signed.Stamped.
"You are qualified. Effective immediately."
"Your name will be recorded for the Aetherhold Delegation. No protest may overturn this."
Elira nodded once. "I expected no less."
She turned to leave.
But the Master called out softly.
"Child of ash…"
She paused.
"…there are many kinds of magic in this world. Power that kills, power that saves, and power that consumes."
"What do you seek?"
Elira didn't turn back.
"I seek the one that remembers."
"Because I have already forgotten too much."
That night, she sat at her desk.
The journal lay open before her, its pages nearly full now with sharp, controlled handwriting.
"Day 5: They tested me with fire and shadows.I passed. Not because I'm strong.But because I refuse to die the same way twice."
"The illusions tried to twist the past.I shattered them.Not for pride. But because truth deserves no mask."
"Caelum… if you too have returned,Then we are both walking on blades now."
She dipped her quill again. Wrote slower.
"But know this—"
"I will kneel for no one. Not even you."
Outside, the wind howled.
Far in the palace halls, the bells rang softly for sunset prayers.
But Elira did not pray.
Not anymore.