Landre woke before dawn, her fingers tracing the familiar wooden beams above her bed. The morning routine beckoned - a dance of chores she'd performed countless times before. In the kitchen, she found Mari already stoking the hearth's embers.
"Good morning, mother," Landre said, reaching for the porridge pot.
Mari's smile warmed the room more than the fire. "Did you sleep well?"
"Better than most nights." Landre paused, noticing movement outside. "Is that Vel already up?"
Through the window, she spotted her brother practicing forms with his wooden sword in the yard's early shadows. Strange - he usually needed several attempts to rouse him.
The family gathered as the porridge bubbled. Von discussed patrol schedules while Mari mended a torn sleeve. Landre watched Vel devour his portion with unusual vigor.
"Someone's hungry today," she teased.
"Training builds appetite," Vel replied between mouthfuls.
A sharp knock interrupted their meal. "Von? Landre here?"
The urgency in the guard's voice sent Landre's heart racing. Von opened the door to reveal one of his men, breathless and clutching a sealed letter bearing the Church's insignia.
"From Father Oswin himself," the guard announced.
Her hands shook as she took the letter. The Church's seal matched her amulet. Inside, elegant handwriting made her catch her breath.
"It's... it's a Consecration invitation," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "They want me to begin the trials."
Mari gasped. Von's face split into a proud grin. Vel leaned forward, eyes bright with interest.
"When?" Mari asked.
"Tomorrow." Landre's fingers traced the golden letterhead. "They say I'm to present myself at the first light."
The reality of what this meant - what she'd worked towards for so long - washed over her like summer rain.
"Can we come?" Vel's voice sparked with hope, his eyes bright with eagerness.
Landre gripped the letter tighter and met his gaze with gentle regret. "It's not that kind of event, Vel. The trials are sacred rituals, not performances. No observers are allowed."
Vel's enthusiasm drained away. His brows furrowed in his familiar way - lips tight, eyes distant - looking less like her young brother and more like a contemplative sage.
Mari reached over to squeeze his shoulder gently, but Vel didn't flinch or acknowledge it; he remained silent for a long moment before muttering under his breath. "But... it's such a big moment."
"It is," Landre said softly, meeting his eyes. She hated seeing him so defeated by something beyond her control. Her heart ached at his exclusion.
"I would love nothing more than to have you there," she whispered.
Vel glanced up, understanding but still visibly disappointed.
Vel straightened, shifting from dejection to a calculating curiosity that Landre couldn't read.
"But," he began, voice steady yet edged with his usual outside-the-box thinking, "what if it could be watched... from somewhere far away? Like the guard tower? Or the top of the wall?"
Everyone turned to him. Mari froze mid-stitch, needle hovering. Von tilted his head, puzzled, as if gauging Vel's sincerity.
Landre blinked at her brother, unsure of his desired answer. "Vel... the trials aren't exactly something you just 'watch' from afar," she said, her tone a mix of gentle amusement and confusion.
Von crossed his arms over his chest, finally breaking into a small chuckle. "Guard tower or wall? You planning on sneaking past priests now too?"
Mari smiled warmly but cautiously at Vel. "Your brother's just curious," she said, looking to Landre for support.
Landre leaned back, arms folded in her lap, studying her brother's face with bemused curiosity.
Her smile wavered as reality set in. Hands trembling in her lap, her confidence felt thin. Years of prayers loomed like an insurmountable peak.
She gazed at the blurred script of the letter, doubt creeping in. What if she wasn't ready? What if she failed Shizka's trials? The thought chilled her.
Looking to her family for support, she found Mari's warm smile steadying her fears. "You've prepared for this every day," Mari said softly. "If anyone is ready for Shizka's light, it's you."
Von leaned back, pride evident. "This is your moment," he stated with conviction. "No one deserves it more."
Finally, she met Vel's earnest gaze, his earlier playfulness replaced by intensity that eased her heart. "You've got this," he said calmly, surprising Landre.
Hearing those words from her little brother loosened the knot in her chest. She managed a faint smile and nodded back at him.
Maybe... just maybe... they were right.
The morning air held a chill as Landre adjusted her ceremonial dress, now feeling heavier than yesterday's fitting. She kept her hands clasped to still their trembling. Mari walked beside her, a reassuring presence amid her inner turmoil.
Vel bounded ahead, his energy at odds with the solemn occasion. His occasional backward glances and crooked smiles stirred a peculiar warmth in her stomach.
Approaching the church square, Landre slowed. Her eyes widened at the elegant carriages, their lacquered surfaces gleaming in the pale sun. The door emblems represented various Church of Aeonalus sects. Restless horses stood in polished harnesses, shifting with quiet clinks.
Her throat constricted. High priests—not mere local clergy. This was far more momentous than expected.
"They've really pulled out all the stops for you," Vel said with exaggerated awe, hands on his hips as he stared up at one particularly grand carriage.
Mari placed a hand on Landre's shoulder, squeezing gently but firmly. "Don't let it overwhelm you," she said softly. "It only means they see something special in you."
When they reached the foot of the cathedral steps, Mari turned to face Landre fully. "We'll be waiting at home when this is over," she said warmly but with an underlying edge of reassurance that seemed more for herself than for Landre.
Vel flashed a grin and saluted mockingly before darting away. Mari offered Landre one last encouraging look and stepped back with a nod.
Taking a deep breath, Landre ascended alone. Each step felt monumental as she approached the imposing doors—not just for their weight and craftsmanship, but because they were opening just for her.
Dawn's light filtered through stained glass, scattering across the cathedral's cobblestones. Landre clutched her ceremonial dress outside the entrance. The invitation had specified 'first light'—as if Shizka herself watched this moment unfold.
She breathed deep and pushed the doors, which opened easily. Inside, voices and footsteps mingled with incense in the air.
This day belonged to her.
Father Oswin emerged from a side aisle, robes swishing, his calm demeanor barely concealing excitement. He bowed slightly.
"Landre," he said quietly. "Come with me."
Landre trailed behind him through the rows of pews and towering pillars to an archway adorned with the gods' symbols. On the other side was a chamber that matched the grandeur of the entrance hall.
Her breath caught.
The sanctuary stretched skyward, its ceiling lost among drapes and frescoes. At one end, robed figures stood on a raised dais, their forms gleaming in the ethereal light. Though distant, their authority was clear.
Father Oswin pointed to a crimson carpet at the room's center.
"Stand here," he said firmly.
Landre stepped onto the plush surface, her body tense. She kept her eyes down before forcing herself to look up at the waiting figures above.
A deep bell rang out, its commanding tone silencing all movement in the sanctuary. The sound pierced the air like divine law. Landre felt it vibrate in her chest, as if Shizka herself had stilled her heart.
"The initiate stands present," a voice announced from above, slow and deliberate. The words echoed across the chamber, filling every corner with their weight. "Let the consecration of Landre Novalance commence."
The rustling began immediately—a faint scuffle of robes and footsteps as those scattered throughout the room moved hurriedly into their designated seats. Landre dared not look around, but she could feel the shifting energy around her, an organized chaos funneling itself into order.
Then... silence.
It wasn't an ordinary quiet but something profound—an absolute absence of sound that bore down on her shoulders with tangible weight. It was a silence that acknowledged the gravity of what was about to unfold, forcing every errant thought from her mind.
Her hands trembled slightly at her sides despite her efforts to steady them. She clasped them together once more, interlocking fingers tightly until they felt like they might bruise.
The six figures above sat unmoving in their elevated positions on the dais. Their presence loomed large even without movement or speech—each a representative of a god in the Aeonian Pantheon. Their shimmering robes seemed alive under the soft ethereal glow illuminating them from above, giving no clue which among them might speak first.
One figure rose, his shimmering robes parting as he stepped to the platform's edge. His presence commanded attention, his voice ringing with unadorned authority.
"Step forward, child."
Landre's legs felt leaden, but she forced herself forward across the circle. Her heart hammered as each step echoed through the sacred silence.
The figure studied her with an intensity that made it difficult to hold his gaze. Still, Landre straightened her posture and lifted her chin slightly—not out of defiance but a deep-seated determination not to falter.
"Landre Novalance," he continued, his voice resonating through the chamber like rolling thunder contained within iron walls. "Is it true you claim to have Shizka's blessing?"
For a moment, words escaped her entirely. The question hung in the air like a weight pressing down on her shoulders. She clenched her hands tightly before releasing them again and finally nodded.
"Yes," she said, her voice softer than she intended but firm nonetheless. "It is true."
No one on the dais responded. Instead, they shifted minutely in their seats, sharing wordless glances.
After what felt like an eternity but was likely mere seconds, he inclined his head slightly—a motion that neither confirmed nor dismissed anything about her statement.
"Then today shall mark the beginning of your journey."
The words landed with finality, devoid of malice but carrying a certainty that set forces in motion beyond Landre's grasp.
The Priest extended one hand toward her—not invitingly but as though framing an unseen truth between them.
"You will face three trials under Shizka's domain: Faith, Purity, and Light," he explained with deliberate clarity. "Each trial tests not only your resolve but also your alignment with Shizka's divine essence."
His gaze never wavered from hers as he continued speaking, layering weight upon every syllable spoken: "These are not tests of strength nor intellect alone—they are reflections of your soul itself under divine scrutiny."
A robed figure bearing Shizka's golden sigil rose and ascended the dais with fluid grace. His presence drew Landre's attention, her pulse quickening as he approached the platform's center.
He faced her, speaking with quiet authority. "The first trial shall now begin."
Two attendants emerged from the shadows carrying a cloth-covered object. They placed the tall, square frame before Landre and vanished silently.
The cloth fell away to reveal a gold-framed mirror. Its surface caught the cathedral light with an unsettling vitality—its crystalline depth both alluring and disquieting.
The priest turned slightly to the audience from sides of Landre, raising his hand for attention. His measured words resonated throughout the vast space.
"Faith is not measured by words alone nor by deeds visible to mortal eyes." He paused briefly, letting his gaze sweep across those gathered. "It is tested when one faces what lies beyond certainty—when belief stands unshaken before doubt itself."
Landre felt her breath catch as he shifted focus back to her.
"This mirror," he said, gesturing with an open palm, "reveals truths hidden within your heart." He stepped closer, his piercing gaze fixed on her. "Your reflection will test not just your beliefs, but your faith in Shizka's guidance."
Her fingers twitched against the hem of her dress as she fought to steady herself under his penetrating gaze. She nodded once, too stiffly to convey confidence but enough to acknowledge his words nonetheless.
"Step forward," he commanded gently but firmly.
She obeyed on legs that felt like lead yet somehow carried her closer until she stood directly before the mirror's gilded frame.
"Place your hand upon it," came his next instruction.
Hesitation flickered briefly within her chest but didn't linger long enough to take root. She reached out slowly and pressed her palm against the cool glass surface...
The mirror liquefied beneath Landre's palm, rippling outward and warping her reflection. She jerked back, but the surface continued its eerie dance.
Within the gilded frame, her image distorted and stretched. The glass deepened into a portal, and as her reflection vanished, her chest constricted.
What emerged made her blood run cold.
A Wulfang.
Its bone mane bristled under the cathedral light, glowing eyes piercing through her. Landre stumbled back, gripping her dress like an anchor against the terror rising in her chest.
This was no ordinary beast, but the symbol of all she'd lost—her home, Oakhaven's peace, her fragile safety. Fear incarnate, ripping open wounds barely healed.
The Wulfang stepped through the mirror's shimmering barrier into reality, the gilded frame remaining pristine behind it as if this were natural.
Landre stood frozen as it approached, massive paws silent on the stone floor. Its presence smothered her with dread.
And then... it spoke.
The Wulfang's form loomed in front of her, shadows stretching unnaturally as its glowing eyes bore into hers. It was no longer just a reflection—it was a presence, a weight pressing into her ribs, clawing at the weak spots in her soul.
"Where was your goddess when we destroyed your home?"
Landre's breath trembled, but she did not step back. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
"Shizka does not abandon us," she said, voice steadier than she felt. "She guides us through the dark."
The Wulfang's form rippled, its mane shifting like liquid shadow.
"Guidance?" It scoffed, stepping closer, its claws barely making a sound against the stone floor. "Was it guidance when they screamed for help and none came? Was it light that burned your village to the ground?"
Landre flinched at the words, the memories clawing their way to the surface—Oakhaven in flames, the suffocating stench of smoke, Clara's outstretched hand going limp. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat.
"Their lives weren't for nothing," she whispered. Her chest ached, but her voice did not break. "We carry them forward. Their sacrifices matter because we refuse to forget."
The Wulfang began to circle her, its shadow slithering across the floor like living tendrils.
"And yet you kneel in borrowed faith, in a city that does not want you." Its voice curled around her, cold as the grave. "You are here by pity, an outsider. Where is faith's purpose when you have nothing left to claim as your own?"
Landre exhaled sharply, lifting her chin despite the tremor in her limbs.
"Faith isn't about what I have." Her voice cut through the darkness. "It's about what I hold on to, even when everything else is gone."
The Wulfang stopped circling. The shadows around it flickered violently, as if struggling to hold their form. But still, it pressed on, voice lowering to something deeper, more insidious.
"And what did faith do for Clara?"
Landre's heart clenched, her breath catching in her throat.
"She lies beneath the soil, forgotten. No divine hand reached for her. No miracle came." The Wulfang tilted its massive head. "What justice do the gods offer in prayers that go unanswered?"
Landre's lips parted, but no words came.
For the first time, she felt herself wavering.
The doubts were there—they had always been there, buried beneath duty and resolve. But now, spoken aloud, given form, they threatened to consume her whole.
Clara had died. And nothing—not faith, not prayers, not hope—had saved her.
The shadows pressed closer, the mirror's frame groaning under unseen weight. The Wulfang loomed over her now, voice a whisper that crawled under her skin.
"What worth is your life among so many lost?"
The words stabbed deep. The question she had never dared to ask herself. Her throat tightened. Her fingers trembled.
But then—
She breathed.
And she answered.
"I live." The words slipped out quietly at first, but the moment she spoke them, something in her steadied.
She took a step forward.
"I live because I was given another chance."
Another step.
"Not for myself. But for those who didn't get theirs."
Her voice grew stronger, lifting above the cold whisper of the shadows.
The Wulfang recoiled.
The entire chamber shuddered.
Cracks splintered through the reflection like glass fracturing under pressure. Light poured through the breaks, golden and blinding, shattering the illusion.
The Wulfang let out a final, guttural snarl before disintegrating into nothingness—its form unraveled into threads of darkness, swallowed by the brilliance that now engulfed the mirror.
Then—silence.
Landre stood alone before the mirror, its surface now perfectly still, reflecting only her own image.
The silence that followed was deafening, a void where even breath seemed forbidden. Landre's chest rose and fell, each inhalation steadying the tempest within her. The mirror, its surface now calm, reflecting only her pale face.
The High Priest of Shizka studied her, his face neutral save for a glint of reverent wonder in his eyes. He rose with careful grace from his seat, like a ripple disturbing calm water.
Before he could speak, another priest jerked up from the dais, his heavy robes swaying as he stepped forward with a discontented scowl.
"You faced an illusion crafted by divine design," he said, voice firm but not unkind. "But tell me this: If what emerged from that mirror had been real—a beast of flesh and fury capable of tearing you apart—if it had struck you down on this very spot..." He gestured sharply to the crimson circle beneath her feet. "Would your faith still stand?"
The question hung in the air like a blade poised to fall.
Landre's fingers twitched briefly against her side as she searched herself for an answer—not one rehearsed or given out of obligation but something true. Her lips parted slightly before closing again as she took a moment longer to let the weight of his words settle fully within her.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet but unwavering.
"Faith is not a shield that guards us from harm." She lifted her gaze to meet his directly despite how it made her pulse quicken. "It is what keeps us standing when harm comes."
Her words echoed softly through the chamber before fading into nothingness.
The priest pressed his lips thin, considering, then simply nodded and sat down.
A soft hum pulled Landre's gaze to the mirror. Its golden frame now glowed with gentle warmth, its surface rippling once like disturbed water before going still.
The High Priest's voice broke through at last.
"The first trial has been completed," he declared solemnly, letting each word resonate fully within those gathered.
Landre exhaled slowly as tension drained from her shoulders, though she knew this was only one step in what lay ahead.
Landre's breathing calmed as the High Priest sat, robes rustling in the chamber. The dais fell quiet except for whispered exchanges among its occupants, their faces neutral despite gestures suggesting deeper thought. One priest consulted another near a scroll, while another reclined with narrowed eyes.
Time passed slowly. Landre remained motionless, her pulse now steady. She touched her dress idly, fighting the urge to fidget beneath their gaze. Behind her, the audience whispered like leaves in wind, careful not to disturb the sacred moment.
Finally, a priest stood and walked deliberately to the dais edge, his golden sigil catching the light as he paused.
"The second trial shall now begin," he declared firmly, his voice resonating across the chamber with authority that silenced even the faintest murmur.
He paused then, allowing a beat to pass before continuing with deliberate clarity:
"Purity."
The word hung heavy in the air, each syllable carrying weight that pressed against Landre's chest.
"Purity is not merely absence of sin or flaw," he began, gesturing subtly toward Landre and then sweeping outward as if addressing both her and those gathered behind her. "It is alignment—complete harmony between one's thoughts, actions, and intentions with divine will."
The High Priest gestured, and attendants sprang into motion. Two emerged from the shadows, wheeling a draped object forward with quiet precision.
They unveiled an immense hourglass that towered over Landre, its frame gleaming like a mirror. Light scattered through the glass, casting colorful patterns below. Within, white and dark grains of sand intermingled, suspended.
The attendants gripped its gilded frame and rotated it with effort. It locked into place with a click, and the sand began its descent—each grain falling with unnatural slowness.
More attendants approached the cathedral windows at the High Priest's signal. They pulled thick ropes in unison, drawing heavy curtains that blocked the dying sunlight. Only wall-mounted lanterns remained, their dim glow constricting the space.
"Step forward," the priest commanded.
Though her throat tightened, Landre moved closer to the towering timepiece. At its base, she noticed an orb large enough to fill her hand, its surface glowing with an inner light even in the shadows.
"Place your hand upon it," came another command from above her.
Landre hesitated only briefly before reaching out with deliberate care. Her fingers hovered over it for just a breath before making contact...
Warmth pulsed beneath Landre's palm as she touched the orb. She flinched at its sudden life, watching as its glow intensified into swirling, pale hues like liquid light in glass. Her breath caught when the illumination spilled out, casting patterns on the stone floor.
Then came the sound.
A soft, cascading whisper like grains slipping through narrow spaces. She glanced down sharply and saw it—the sand.
From within the hourglass, white and dark grains spilled downward, toward the bottom chamber then outward, pouring through an unseen breach directly at her feet. Landre took a reflexive step back, gripping her dress tightly to steady herself. The sand continued to flow unnaturally, defying reason as it pooled into a mound before her.
And then—it moved.
The sand convulsed, dark and light strands weaving through it like sinew knitting bone. Each grain moved deliberately, forming into human shape.
Landre's heart raced as limbs materialized—fingers emerging from dust, arms stretching from grainy shoulders. A head formed next, features rising as if sculpted by an unseen hand.
When it finished, Landre's stomach dropped.
Trinon stood before her.
His likeness was flawless yet impossibly wrong—the texture of his skin still carried the granular sheen of sand while his eyes burned unnaturally bright against their darkened sockets. His robes hung loose around him as if they too were born from that same eerie cascade of grains moments earlier.
But it was unmistakably him.
Her knees felt weak beneath her as she tried to swallow past the lump forming in her throat. Her hands clenched instinctively at her sides—not in preparation for combat but simply to keep herself from shaking further under his gaze.
"You..." she whispered hoarsely before stopping herself short.
"Hello, Landre."
The voice slid across the chamber like oil on water, smooth and cold. Trinon's figure tilted its head, its grainy features shifting subtly with each movement, as if barely holding together. The flicker in his eyes danced with malice, and the air seemed to grow heavier around her.
"You've walked so close to the edge," it began, its tone a mockery of tenderness. "How does it feel to have tasted darkness?"
Landre's breath hitched. Her fists tightened at her sides, nails pressing into her palms until they stung.
"I didn't—" she started but faltered as his form stepped closer.
"Didn't you?" The question was laced with venom. "You welcomed its whisper when the cliff called. Tell me... did you fight it? Or did it release you when your usefulness ended?"
The words struck deep, an ache twisting in her chest. She took a shaky step back, feeling the weight of his accusations coil around her heart like vines tightening their grip.
"Even corruption finds you unremarkable," he sneered, circling her now like a predator stalking wounded prey.
Landre's voice rose, steady but strained. "I didn't fall because I wanted to give up—I climbed back because I chose to live!"
Trinon stopped abruptly, his shadowed gaze locking onto hers. For a fleeting moment, silence filled the space between them before he spoke again—softly this time but no less cutting.
"Why pursue sainthood then?" He leaned forward slightly, grains cascading from his shoulders like sand spilling from a broken vessel. "To atone? Your family is whole; they need no salvation from you."
She clenched her teeth but said nothing as he pressed further.
"You stayed here in safety while others returned to rebuild what was lost," he continued mercilessly. "Or is it pride that drives you—a peasant girl yearning for the throne of light?"
The weight of his words coiled around her, each syllable pressing into her chest like a brand. Landre tried to steady herself, but her breath came short. This wasn't just a test—it was a dissecting blade, stripping her bare, exposing every wound she thought she had stitched closed.
"And what of your prayers?" Trinon's form loomed closer now, his eyes twin embers that seemed to burn through her. "Do they cleanse your family's sins?"
The sand at his feet twisted and churned, shifting like a storm trapped within itself.
"That little boy—your brother—" Trinon leaned forward, voice like ice creeping into her bones. "Who defies all gods."
Landre froze entirely at this claim—her composure splintering for just an instant beneath confusion and disbelief she could not hide.
What...?
Landre's breath trembled, but she steadied herself, planting her feet firmly on the cold stone floor. Her hands unclenched, falling to her sides. She took in a slow, deliberate breath, forcing her voice to remain calm.
"Doubt does not weaken purity," she began, her words steady despite the weight pressing against her chest. "It defines it."
Trinon's shadowy form tilted its head slightly, grains shifting as though questioning her resolve.
"Purity is not blind perfection," Landre continued, lifting her chin higher. "It is choosing to believe in spite of doubt—to stay true when every whisper tells you otherwise. To stumble and still stand again."
The figure paused in its circling, the storm of sand around it stilling for a brief moment.
"I don't deny my flaws," she said, her voice gaining strength. "I accept them. I carry them because they remind me of where I've fallen—and how I've climbed back."
Her gaze did not waver as she stared into the burning sockets of Trinon's likeness.
"And you..." She stepped forward now, closing the distance between them even as her heart raced in defiance of his presence. "You were hurt—abandoned by silence when you sought answers."
For a flicker of a moment, his form seemed to falter. The embers within his eyes dimmed ever so slightly.
"I don't hate you," Landre whispered now, soft yet resolute. "For what you did or who you were. I see your anger—I feel it—but that anger is born from pain." Her hand reached out slowly toward him but stopped short just above his grainy shoulder.
Her hand trembled above his grainy shoulder as the embers in Trinon's eyes flickered again. She drew a steadying breath, his accusations still sharp against her chest.
"I forgive you," she said softly, the words carrying both weight and warmth. They hung in the air between them, fragile yet resolute. Her gaze never left his, even as her voice softened further. "Not for what you did to me or my family—but because you deserve release from this pain."
Trinon froze, his grainy form motionless, eyes dimming as his head dipped slightly. He jerked toward the hourglass.
Landre watched as it began to glow, its light pulsing softly. The upper sand whirled into a vortex, dark grains pouring down to leave only white sand floating above.
Trinon retreated silently, his shadowy form dissolving like ash in wind.
Landre watched him disintegrate as he moved toward the hourglass, its serene light growing stronger while drawing each fragment into its base.
His form crumbled to dust and vanished into the pull. A hum filled the chamber, then faded to silence broken only by Landre's breath.
The hourglass stood alone—pristine white sand above, darkness below, their boundary both stark and complete.
Landre breathed deeply, steadying herself after the ordeal. Her fingers flexed as she fought to recover from Trinon's cruel presence.
"The second trial is complete."
She turned to find the High Priest on the dais, his robed figure dark against the dim light. He waved, and the chamber's curtains drew back. Sunlight flooded in, chasing away the shadows.
The hourglass remained, its chambers still divided between light and dark sand. The chamber transformed as stained glass cast colorful patterns across stone floors and walls.
Landre squinted at the brightness. As warmth touched her face, tension left her shoulders. The air felt lighter now, charged with renewed energy.
"You have submerged in darkness," the High Priest continued solemnly, "yet emerged with conviction unwavering. But one more challenge awaits you on this path."
Landre squared her shoulders and faced him, her weary legs betraying the trials' toll. She met his gaze with a small nod, that familiar spark of resilience—the one that had weathered Trinon's cruelty—burning bright within her.
"You will have time to recover your strength," the priest assured her, gesturing for attendants to approach. "When you are ready, the final trial shall begin."
Robed attendant offered Landre two wooden cups of fountain water. She took them, feeling their coolness against her hands.
The first drink spread warmth through her body from within. The second brought a cooling freshness, like a meadow breeze.
She returned the cups with quiet thanks, noting a nod as they stepped away.
Standing tall, she breathed deep and looked to the chamber entrance. Despite her unease about the final trial ahead, her heart remained steady. She would meet this last challenge with the same strength that had sustained her.
Landre watched attendants roll away the massive hourglass, its weight leaving grooves in the crimson carpet. Above, six High Priests sat elevated, their golden masks gleaming as they gestured and whispered among themselves. Though their words were unclear, their judgment weighed heavy on her chest.
She closed her eyes and breathed deep, using the cool air to push away thoughts of Trinon's accusations. Robes rustled as the High Priest of Shizka stood, his white and gold vestments bright in the afternoon light, and the others grew quiet as he moved to speak.
"Your resolve has been tested twice now," his voice carried clearly through the chamber. "But the final trial—The Trial of Light—shall determine if you are truly worthy to walk this path."
Landre's heart quickened, but she kept her posture straight as she listened.
"Each of us," he gestured to his fellow priests, "shall present our own challenge. For light does not exist in isolation—it touches all aspects of divinity."
The other High Priests rose as one, their golden masks gleaming as they stepped forward to join their colleague. Landre felt the weight of their combined scrutiny as the High Priest of Shizka continued.
"Through these challenges, we shall see if Shizka's grace truly flows through you—if you can channel her divine light in service to all."
The High Priest of Ignis moved ahead, his golden mask catching the chamber's dancing lights. His crimson and gold robes swayed as he gestured to a waiting attendant.
The attendant rushed over with a pedestal bearing a carved brazier. Inside, flames shifted from orange to white, moving with eerie purpose.
The High Priest's voice resonated, steady and commanding. "To transcend your past self, you must leave something behind. Step forward and cast into the flames that which no longer serves you."
Landre hesitated but forced her legs to carry her toward the pedestal. The heat from the brazier licked at her skin—not scorching but enough to stir unease deep within her chest. She stared into its depths, watching as the flames began to twist and contort.
From the writhing flames emerged three shapes: her amulet with its braided cord swirling like smoke, her tattered Ossuary clothes still whole despite the fire, and her book, its leather cover defying the heat.
Her breath hitched as she understood.
The amulet embodied her bond with Vel. The clothes held memories of her trials—both despair and triumph. And the book captured her faith and dreams on every page.
Her fingers twitched involuntarily at her sides as she weighed them in her mind.
Which would she relinquish?
She clenched her fists tightly against the surge of emotions rising within. It wasn't merely about parting with an object—it felt like choosing between parts of herself that could not be severed without consequence.
The silence stretched heavy around Landre until she found herself whispering through gritted teeth: "I cannot cast any of these away."
As if in response to her words—or perhaps despite them—the three items dissolved back into flame without ceremony. The brazier dimmed slowly until only faint wisps of smoke curled upward from its center.
The High Priest remained motionless for a long moment before inclining his head slightly—a gesture more contemplative than approving—before stepping back toward his seat.
An attendant approached once more to retrieve the now-empty brazier while leaving behind only the pedestal for what was yet to come.
The High Priestess of Tyr approached, her amethyst and obsidian robes flowing with each step. She gestured to an attendant, who brought forward a crystal ball on velvet, its surface catching light from the stained glass above.
After placing it on the pedestal, the attendant vanished as the High Priestess asked.
"Which one is the real you?" Her voice held gentle authority.
Landre moved closer. The crystal pulsed purple, light forming three images:
First, herself in white and gold robes, hands glowing as she blessed kneeling supplicants—a Saint.
Second, a child huddled among forest roots, crying—lost and alone.
Third, herself kneeling amid carnage, head bowed, reaching for distant hope—a failure.
Each vision resonated deeply within her. Saint, lost child, failure—all felt true yet incomplete.
"Which one is real?" the High Priestess pressed.
"One is my future," Landre replied steadily. "One is who I was."
She studied the kneeling figure before continuing: "And one...is who I am."
Meeting the High Priestess's gaze, she declared, "I am all of these. None exist without shaping me into what I am now—and what I may become."
The crystal darkened, its images fading. The High Priestess nodded slightly and returned to her seat as attendants prepared for the next trial.
The attendants cleared the crystal and cushion while Landre watched it vanish into shadow, her chest tight from her declaration. A clay pot replaced it, holding a withered plant with brown-edged leaves drooping over its rim.
The High Priest of Jules approached in deep green and brown robes that rustled softly. Their vine-carved mask caught the dim light as they spoke with gentle gravity:
"Will you nurture what cannot bear fruit?"
Landre studied the dying plant, her fingers twitching. She moved closer, inhaling the mix of soil and decay that anchored her to this moment.
Her thoughts churned as she stared at the withering life within the pot. What is it to nurture something without promise? To give when nothing is returned?
Landre inhaled deeply, allowing herself to confront these doubts openly—her breath shuddering ever so slightly as she exhaled again.
Finally, she spoke—softly at first but with each word growing steadier:
"Faith... extends beyond immediate rewards."
Her fingers brushed lightly against one of the brittle leaves as if offering comfort not just to it but also herself.
The High Priest of Jules nodded, their mask tilting downward. The plant trembled at Landre's touch as a soft glow rippled through its roots. Lifeless leaves straightened, turning vivid green as vitality returned.
She withdrew her hand, watching the transformation in awe. The clay pot glowed, renewed. Above, the High Priest retreated silently to their council seat, robes brushing stone.
An attendant bowed, collected the revived plant with reverence, and vanished into the shadows.
Landre released a breath, momentarily relieved. Though her burden lightened, she knew three trials awaited. Her eyes lifted to the seated High Priests.
Attendants prepared the pedestal, placing two carved wooden heads facing opposite directions, their features frozen in thought.
The High Priest of Morya stood, their storm-cloud robes gleaming with gold thread in the overhead light. They gestured to Landre.
"Can you bring harmony where none exists?"
She approached carefully until she stood before the heads. They turned toward her with wooden groans, revealing endless black eyes. Their voices crashed like thunder:
"You are wrong!" accused one.
"And you are blind!" shot back the other.
Their argument exploded into chaos, filling the chamber.
Landre flinched at the wooden heads' clashing voices hammering her temples, their harsh tones reminding her of thunderstorms that used to frighten her as a child.
"You see only the surface!"
"And you twist the truth to fit your ignorance!"
Their barbs echoed off stone walls, making her ears ring. Though instinct urged her to silence them, years of listening to village disputes had taught her to look deeper. She saw beneath their anger—a need to be understood, like children fighting for attention.
"Why do you argue?" she asked firmly, channeling the gentle authority she'd learned from watching the village elders mediate conflicts.
"Because they are wrong," snapped the left head, its wooden features contorting.
"Because they refuse to listen," retorted the right, its endless black eyes flashing.
Landre knelt between them, touching the cool pedestal. The familiar sensation grounded her, like touching the worn leather of her practice book. "Then let me listen."
They paused before continuing, their wooden features softening slightly.
"I am reason! I see what can be proven!" declared the left, voice ringing with scholarly pride.
"I am intuition! I know what the soul feels true!" countered the right, speaking with passionate conviction.
Landre considered these opposing yet linked forces, remembering how her own journey to faith had required both careful study and heartfelt belief. "You both claim truth. But doesn't truth need both perspectives?"
They hesitated, their eternal black eyes studying her.
"Reason brings clarity, but needs intuition's insight," she told the left head, her voice gentle but firm. To the right: "Intuition brings understanding, but needs reason's foundation."
After a tense silence, the left head spoke softly: "Reason must hear intuition."
"And intuition must trust reason," the right agreed, its harsh tone mellowing.
Landre rose as tension dissolved into quiet understanding, feeling the sacred weight of the moment settle around her like a prayer shawl.
The two heads ceased their movement, their wooden features falling still. Whatever force had animated them was now gone, leaving only the silence that lingered in the wake of their discord. Landre took a step back as attendants approached, lifting the lifeless carvings with care before retreating into the shadows.
The High Priest of Morya descended gracefully from his place, robes shifting like a storm calming after its rage. His departure marked the end of his trial, and as he returned to his seat on the dais, another figure rose in his stead.
The High Priestess of Calyphe moved with an elegance that felt untethered to this plane. Her robes shimmered with deep blues and silvers that seemed to ripple like galaxies contained within fabric. The mask she wore reflected no single shape; it bent light itself, refracting shifting patterns across its surface that danced unpredictably.
She stopped at the edge of the platform, her presence commanding yet otherworldly. When she spoke, her voice carried not as sound but as thought woven into air—a presence within Landre's mind more than her ears.
"Is it better to save one and let many suffer, or to let one suffer for the good of all?"
Landre's chest tightened at the question's simplicity—a simplicity that veiled its profound cruelty. She could feel every eye in the chamber upon her as she stood before this trial's new weight. But none pressed heavier than her own thoughts.
Her fingers curled instinctively at her sides. This was not a question seeking logic nor morality; there was no solution hidden between its lines. She understood that much already.
Landre drew a steadying breath through her nose and let it out slowly through parted lips before speaking—not rushed nor hesitant but deliberate:
"Neither choice will erase suffering."
Her voice did not waver despite how tightly she held herself against what followed next:
"But I will carry whichever choice is made."
The chamber remained utterly silent—not in judgment but in recognition—as though it waited for more that would never come.
Landre didn't justify further. She didn't argue which answer was 'better' because neither was right nor wrong alone—they simply were.
The High Priest approached with measured steps, his staff tapping softly on stone. His white and gold-trimmed robes caught the light as he faced Landre. The chamber fell impossibly quiet.
Though hidden behind a ray-etched mask, his gaze cut deep. His presence bore down like solid sunlight.
"If you were told you failed," he said with steady clarity, "would you still walk this path?"
Landre stilled. The question shook her foundations. Failure had never entered her mind on this journey to sainthood. Each prayer and kindness had led here. The possibility of failing...
Her mouth opened soundlessly. Doubt crept in as her chest constricted.
Before she could respond, he delivered another blow:
"If your family and the Church were in conflict, which would you choose?"
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She blinked hard, facing what seemed impossible - two pillars of her life opposed.
Her family - their shared meals, her brother's grip when scared, her mother's guidance...
And Shizka - the light that led her forward, teachings woven into her being, devotion since childhood.
Her fingers twitched, seeking anchor in emptiness.
The priest waited, his patience stretching time itself.
Landre stood rigid, fists clenched and shaking. The priest's questions hovered like storm clouds, crushing her chest with each breath. Her mouth opened soundlessly. No quick prayer would save her.
Shizka's light... guide me.
Her eyes fell to the worn stone floor. Could she forsake the Church if they rejected her? Abandon her lifelong foundation?
Memories flooded her—evening prayers in golden light, communal hymns—alongside Shizka's blessing: that divine warmth coursing through her. A gift no council could take.
She raised her head to meet the priest's mask, newfound steadiness calming her tremors.
"If the Church denies me," she said firmly, "I'll still follow Shizka. Her blessing proves my faith—regardless of those claiming to speak for Her."
The chamber's silence held whispers she could almost hear. She swallowed hard.
The second answer felt like stepping into darkness. Behind closed eyes, she saw them—Vel's curious grin, Mari's gentle humming, Von's protective vigil after Oakhaven.
Head bowed, she spoke with quiet resignation.
"And if I must choose..."
She inhaled sharply.
"I will choose my family."
Murmurs erupted as masked figures above conferred urgently. Some debated, others stiffened with judgment or interest.
Landre endured their scrutiny, suffocating but unbroken.
The High Priest retreated to his seat, his staff's echo fading. The chamber's silence pressed down on Landre as she stood alone, fighting to still her trembling hands.
Above, six priests sat on the dais, their distinct robes and domain-marked masks representing the Aeonian Pantheon's pillars of authority. They watched her without emotion.
She clenched her fists against rising uncertainty. Their whispered deliberations stretched endlessly, each minute heavy with unspoken judgment. She struggled to breathe steadily, holding despair at bay.
Her mind raced through her trial testimony, questioning every response. Had she revealed too much? Shown weakness?
The priests rose together, moving to a towering platform that demanded reverence. Landre straightened under their collective stare, finding no comfort in their attention.
Three deep chimes rang through the sacred hall's stones, then silence ruled again.
"Landre Novalance,"
Her name struck sharply against her ears—carried neither by malice nor warmth but something infinitely heavier: finality itself.
"You have proven your resolve through trial."
Her heart skipped—not from relief or fear—but because even hope dared not breathe here.
"You have shown strength of faith, purity of soul."
A flicker of light flared faintly within—but dimmed just as swiftly as it came.
"And yet..."
That pause felt endless—a chasm threatening to swallow everything she'd ever believed herself to be.
"You are unfit for the light."
The High Priest continued, his voice final.
"Your devotion wavers. You have spoken of duty, but your heart belongs elsewhere. When asked whether you would serve the Church above all else, you hesitated. When told that faith requires sacrifice, you did not yield. Your convictions remain bound to the mortal ties of your past."
He exhaled through his nose, his lined face betraying neither anger nor sympathy.
"Thus, by the laws of Shizka's clergy, you are denied ascension into sainthood. Rise, and depart in peace."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Landre's ears rang. The words—so absolute, so final—thudded against her chest, sinking deep into the marrow of her bones. The vast chamber, with its towering pillars and radiant windows, suddenly felt crushingly small.
The priests on the dais remained still, their golden masks reflecting the dwindling daylight filtering through the stained glass. Their judgment had been passed. There was nothing left to say.
A cold numbness spread through her limbs. The warmth of Shizka's presence, which had carried her through every trial, felt distant now, slipping from her grasp like sand through open fingers.
Failed.
After everything—after the mirror, the hourglass, the choices, the sacrifice—she had failed.
The attendants shifted at the edges of the chamber, waiting for her to move. Somewhere behind her, the faint rustle of robes indicated the silent expectation of those gathered to witness the consecration. A finality settled over the room, pressing down like the weight of a closing door.
She should leave. That was the path laid before her.
But Landre did not move.
Her breath came shallow, uneven, as her fingers curled into fists. Something clawed at her insides—not despair, not grief, but something deeper. Something raw.
The High Priest exhaled, shifting his staff as if preparing to proceed with the next formalities.
It was over.
A sharp tremor ran through Landre's spine.
"No."
The word did not leave her lips, but it echoed within her.
Her hands trembled. Her throat tightened.
They were wrong.
Her vision blurred at the edges as she slowly, slowly, lifted her gaze from the floor. The silence stretched—unnatural, suffocating. Every movement, every breath in the room had stilled.
Landre clenched her jaw. She refused to let it end like this.
And then—
She spoke.
"'Light does not demand worship. It only asks to be carried.'"
A few priests turned their heads.
"'To heal is to understand suffering, not to ignore it.'"
The whispers grew louder.
The air shifted.
Landre lifted her head, her eyes burning with an intensity that made even the highest-ranking clergy uneasy.
"Shizka's teachings do not call for blind faith. They ask for faith that understands, that questions, that chooses."
Her voice did not waver.
"If my heart is with my family—if my devotion extends not only to the Church but to those I cherish—does that make me unworthy of the light?"
She took a step forward.
"If my faith in Shizka is strong, but my love for others remains stronger, is that a flaw? Or is that what the light truly means?"
Landre's voice resonated through the chamber, unbroken by the rising murmurs around her. Each word she spoke carved through the air like a chisel against stone, deliberate and unwavering.
"'A heart that follows without question is not faith, but obedience.'"
"'The Light does not belong to the strong alone. It shines for the weary, the lost, the broken.'"
She stood taller now, shoulders squared against the weight of judgment pressing down from all sides. Her words carried an undeniable clarity that dared to defy dismissal.
"'A Saint is not one who stands above others, but one who walks beside them.'"
"'Shizka's Twelfth Revelation: 'To fail is not to fall from the Light, but to find it.'"
The stillness that followed each phrase was louder than any outcry could have been. The teachings she recited weren't vague interpretations; they were etched into doctrine itself. Words that no priest in this hall could deny.
The hall fell deathly silent.
A flicker of uncertainty crossed the High Priest's face.
And then—the air trembled.
A warmth unlike any candle or lantern filled the chamber. Soft at first, like the gentle glow of dawn. Then, brighter. The murmur of the priests turned into gasps. The High Priest's eyes widened.
A golden light burst forth from Landre's body.
It was not fire. It was not magic summoned by incantations. It was pure, radiant light—warm, holy, alive.
The light wrapped around her like a second skin, illuminating every word carved into the scriptures lining the hall.
A sharp gasp came from one of the older priests. "This is...!"
A younger cleric dropped to his knees, trembling. "A direct manifestation of divine acknowledgment...! But we—" His words died in his throat.
The High Priest of Shizka stood motionless. The golden mask hid his expression, but his silence spoke louder than words. The chamber remained thick with tension, the weight of divine contradiction pressing upon every soul present.
Landre stood at the center of it all, bathed in golden light—Shizka's mark still glowing upon her skin. A silent declaration that could not be ignored.
Yet no one moved.
The High Priest of Ignis was the first to break the silence. His voice, always measured, now carried an edge of unease.
"The trials exist for a reason. If we discard our own decrees because of divine interference, what precedent does that set?"
"You would call divine will 'interference'?" The High Priest of Morya's voice was sharp, cutting through the stillness like a blade.
The High Priest of Jules exhaled, fingers tapping lightly against the armrest of his seat. His gaze flickered between Landre and the others before settling on Shizka's High Priest.
"She was denied by our judgment. And yet, Shizka herself has spoken differently." A pause, weighted with the gravity of the moment. "We have two verdicts. One mortal. One divine. What happens now?"
The High Priestess of Calyphe, who had been silent until now, leaned forward. Her masked face tilted downward, as if studying the golden light surrounding Landre.
"Perhaps the error lies not with the girl, but with us."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber.
The High Priest of Shizka finally spoke. His voice was quiet—dangerously so. "Are you suggesting the trials are flawed?"
High Priestess of Calyphe did not flinch. "I am suggesting that we did not ask the right questions."
The High Priestess of Tyr, ever the skeptic, let out a slow breath. Her hand tightened around the edge of her seat.
"And what of tradition? If faith is to be questioned, then what remains sacred?"
The High Priest of Morya scoffed, shaking his head. "Faith that cannot withstand questioning is not faith at all. It is blind obedience."
Another pause.
The High Priest of Shizka turned to Landre. For the first time since the ceremony began, his mask betrayed emotion—just the faintest tilt of the head, as if he was seeing her differently now.
"Landre Novalance," he said at last, his voice carrying none of the previous finality. "You have walked the trials and faced rejection. Now, even in denial, you stand unshaken. If we deny what is before us, we deny the light itself."
A brief silence ensued.
Then, he spoke the words that would change everything.
"By divine will, you are consecrated."
The chamber erupted into murmurs—some in awe, some in dismay. But none dared challenge it now. The decree had been made.
A sigh of relief escaped Landre, one she hadn't known she'd trapped within.
The sound of footsteps.
Measured. Deliberate.
A figure clad in ceremonial white and gold descended the marble steps from the dais where the High Priests sat. His robes, lined with the embroidered sigils of Shizka, billowed faintly with each step. Age creased his face, yet his eyes held clarity, a depth of knowing beyond the weight of years.
He did not speak immediately. He approached Landre, stopping just before the edge of her light. The glow reflected in his gaze—solemn, reverent.
The Priest—the one who moments ago sat in judgment—lowered his head in acknowledgment, pressing his palm to his chest in the sacred gesture of welcome. When he spoke, his voice was calm, yet it carried across the hall with effortless clarity.
"Shizka's Light does not waver. It does not err."
His eyes lifted, meeting Landre's directly. There was no doubt in them. No hesitation.
"You have been tested in ways even we did not foresee, and still, the Light has chosen you."
He rose to his feet, standing before her.
"Landre Novalance," he continued, voice deep with meaning, "In the presence of the Divine, we welcome you into the Sect of Shizka, not as a mere acolyte, but as one who has walked the path of the Light and been found worthy."