When Ari opened her eyes, the light of the Orb still echoed behind her lids.
Her body felt whole but weightless, drifting between silence and tension. A breath later, she stood alone in a space that wasn't a forest or field, but a library.
Endless shelves stretched in every direction, filled with scrolls, tomes, etched stone tablets, and relics preserved under glass. The air buzzed with ancient energy. Every step she took echoed like it mattered.
She looked down. Her relic, the black needle-staff, was already in her hand. It felt heavier than usual. Not in weight, but in expectation.
Ari turned in a slow circle. There was no exit, no guide, no direction. Just knowledge pressing in from all sides.
Then a voice, low and carved from centuries, filled the space.
"Ari. Scholar. Watcher. You seek to wield a will born of prophecy and principle. But understanding requires more than focus."
She turned. A figure emerged from between shelves.
Tarchon the Elder.
He was dressed in a robe of deep indigo trimmed in copper. His eyes were like darkened mirrors.
He carried a scroll in one hand and a curved dagger in the other. Not for violence. For ritual. Every motion he made felt like the continuation of a long tradition.
"You carry my relic, but you do not yet carry my clarity," he said. "You fear being wrong more than you seek to be right."
Ari frowned. Her pulse quickened, but she held her voice steady. "I've trained. I've studied. I know what I'm doing."
"Knowledge without belief is hollow."
He motioned, and the floor fell away.
She dropped into blackness, weightless and formless. Her mind screamed, but her body didn't respond. Then she hit stone.
A ring of fire surrounded her. At its edges stood ten masked figures, silent, judging. Each wore a robe of a different color, their faces obscured by carved wooden masks, blank except for faint etchings of symbols she almost recognized.
"This is the Senate of Oaths," Tarchon said from above, now standing at the edge of the ring. "Each mask represents a truth you've hidden. One must be faced. One must be accepted. One must be destroyed."
Ari's throat tightened. The air felt thin. Her relic pulsed faintly in her hand, not guiding her, just present. Watching.
The first figure stepped forward, holding a small book. A replica of her childhood journal. The pages turned themselves. One passage glowed:
I don't want to lead. I want to watch, record, understand. Leaders make mistakes. Get people killed.
Her breath caught. She remembered writing that, hiding under her blanket, the air thick with fear after a field instructor's death. She remembered the feeling of helplessness, and the bitter comfort of the page.
The figure raised its mask. It was her own face, younger, eyes puffy with tears.
Tarchon's voice echoed. "Is this truth still yours?"
Ari stepped forward slowly. Her heart thudded against her ribs. She looked the girl in the eye.
"I was scared," she whispered. "And I still am sometimes. But I've learned that watching isn't always enough. Sometimes recording the truth means standing in front of it."
The girl smiled faintly. Then bowed. The journal crumbled into ash.
The next figure approached. It held a bloodied knife. The scent of iron hit Ari's senses like a slap. Her stomach turned. She knew this one immediately.
That mission. The hostage. The countdown.
She'd killed a man before she joined Eldhollow. She did not have a choice. It was self-defense.
"I remember," she said aloud. Her voice cracked.
The masked figure extended the blade.
Ari reached for it with trembling fingers. It burned when she touched it. Not fire. Guilt.
"I did what I had to do," she said. Louder this time. "I won't forget it. I don't want to. But I won't regret it, either."
The blade dissolved. The mask shattered.
The third figure stepped forward.
It held her relic. The same black needle-staff. Identical in every detail.
Tarchon spoke again. "And what of this? You use it like a scalpel. But what is it for?"
Ari stared at it. Her reflection shimmered on its surface.
She had treated it like a tool. Like a weapon of precision. But it was more than that. It didn't just pierce. It inscribed. It traced paths and stories.
"It's a record," she said, slowly at first. Then with more certainty. "Not just a weapon. It writes history, in blood or ink. And it demands that history be true."
The staff glowed faintly. Her own version pulsed in agreement. The masked figure nodded once. Then dissolved into light.
The fire around the ring dimmed. The stone floor warmed beneath her feet.
Tarchon appeared in full before her now, not above, not distant. His eyes were still unreadable, but his presence had softened.
"You have begun to see," he said. "Precision is not just skill. It is conviction. Insight without courage is hollow."
He raised the scroll in his hand. It unfurled and wrapped itself around her staff. Symbols bloomed across its surface, Etruscan characters pulsing with light. They didn't just glow. They sang. A soft, harmonic resonance that Ari felt in her bones.
"Etrusca Disciplina," Tarchon intoned. "Not gifted. Passed. To those who see beyond what is."
Her hands tingled. The needle-staff felt different now. Balanced. Alive. Not an extension of herself, but a partner for her.
Tarchon bowed once. A gesture of deep respect.
"Remember, Ari: Judgment is not cruelty. Knowledge is not safety. Understanding is not peace. But all are sacred."
The chamber blurred. The fire vanished. The floor beneath her dissolved into golden mist.
When Ari opened her eyes, she was back in the chamber.
The Legend Orb pulsed slowly. No one spoke.
She stood, then sat down at the edge of the room. Her heart still beat fast. Her throat was dry.
She wiped her eyes before anyone could see. Not because she was ashamed, but because she knew what came next.
Another would be called.
And now she understood what they were walking into.
Not trials of strength.
But of truth.