The door to Trial Three groaned open like the yawning mouth of some ancient beast. Cold air whooshed out from within, carrying the scent of metal, ink, and something unsettlingly sweet—like rotting fruit drenched in perfume.
Vivienne clutched Verena's sleeve. "Um… this feels cursed."
"That's because it probably is," Verena replied, her voice as dry as ever. "Trial Three. The 'Inner Archive.' If I remember the lore dump correctly, this is where contestants are tested by the echoes of the past. Basically, trauma with a budget."
"Sounds fun," Isolde muttered. "Lead the way, oh queen of emotional baggage."
"Gladly," Verena deadpanned, stepping inside.
The moment the three crossed the threshold, the world twisted.
The floor became paper, the walls shelves stacked to infinity. Inky constellations hovered midair like spinning thought bubbles, and between every aisle wandered spectral figures—students, warriors, monsters—all half-formed memories repeating loops like broken puppets.
