The forest had changed.
Where once there had been the subdued rhythm of nature — rustling leaves, distant wind, and the faint hum of unseen qi — now there was only a stillness so complete that Kahel wondered if sound itself had been stripped from the world. Even the flame within his chest, that quiet pulse of heat and memory, had gone silent. Not extinguished, but resting. Watching.
He walked slowly through the Proving Garden, unsure of direction but unwilling to stop. Each step took him deeper into the strange realm, though the landscape barely seemed to shift. The trees remained tall and knotted, their bark lined with cracks that whispered of ancient seals and rituals long forgotten. Moss clung to everything, even the air, it seemed.
Despite the physical fatigue setting into his bones, Kahel felt lighter than he had any right to. Something inside him had shifted since the fight — not just his strength, but something deeper. A loosened thread in his mind. He had not learned his opponent's name. He hadn't asked. He only remembered the fear in the boy's eyes, the way his own flame had devoured the serpentine qi like hunger swallowing guilt.
He passed through a grove where the grass was silver-blue, and the light came from above but cast no shadow. He found a stream that shimmered with spiritual energy, its flow unnaturally slow, as though time hesitated to move here.
He knelt beside it to drink.
And then the world vanished.
He was standing in Darnell.
But it was not the village he had left behind — not quite. The crooked fences, the cracked stone paths, the sagging buildings… they were all there, but muted somehow. Every surface too clean, every color too vivid. It was Darnell as remembered in dreams — a memory worn thin by grief and guilt.
The house where his mother had died loomed just ahead. Its roof was blackened, its walls scorched and crumbling. Ash coated the path leading to the door, but the door itself stood open, inviting.
Kahel felt his body move forward before his mind agreed.
And then she was there.
Standing in the doorway.
His mother.
Younger than she had been when she died, but unmistakable. Her hair was braided the way she used to wear it when working in the garden, tied with a faded blue ribbon. Her eyes were gentle, her posture straight. She smiled softly — then spoke his name.
"Kahel."
He stopped walking.
She stepped forward, her feet silent on the ash-covered path. "Why did you let me die?"
His breath caught. "I didn't—"
"You didn't try," she said. Her voice held no anger, only quiet finality. "You watched. You screamed. But you didn't save me."
He shook his head, blinking rapidly. "I was a child. I couldn't—"
"You still are."
Her skin began to change. The soft glow of life faded. Burn marks spread like spider cracks across her arms, her cheeks. Her hair blackened. Smoke curled from her robes, though no fire burned. Her eyes dimmed into sockets of charcoal.
"You let me burn," she said again, her voice now a low whisper, as though rising from the rubble of her own grave.
Kahel fell to his knees.
"No," he whispered, his throat dry. "No… this isn't real."
But a deeper voice answered from behind him.
"No," it said, "but it could be."
He turned.
Another figure stood just beyond the ruined gate — taller than him by a head, clad in black robes edged with crimson. A flame-like sigil, unfamiliar yet intimately known, burned across the figure's chest. His hair was longer, his stance prouder, his presence heavier.
It was Kahel.
But older.
And different.
Golden eyes regarded him with an expression not of hatred, but of disappointment.
"She's only the beginning," the older Kahel said. "You'll carry this with you until it becomes part of you. Until it shapes you. Or you burn it away."
"What are you?" Kahel asked, struggling to his feet.
"A shadow. A potential. A warning."
The reflection stepped closer, raising a hand. The Ashen Flame burst into life across his arm — but it was colder than Kahel's ever felt it. Denser. Like the void given form.
"You'll become me," the older self said, "or you'll die before your name is ever remembered."
The burning form of his mother crumbled into ash. The wind swept the remains through his fingers.
Kahel screamed and lunged, his own flame bursting from his palm — not for power, not for survival.
For defiance.
Their flames met, and the dream fractured like glass.
Kahel awoke on damp moss, gasping for breath.
His robes clung to his body, soaked with sweat. His fingers trembled, his chest burned — not with injury, but with memory.
The stream still flowed beside him, unbothered by his suffering. Its surface was smooth again, its water clear. His reflection stared back, younger than he had felt just moments before.
The forest was quiet once more.
But different.
The trees around him were scorched.
Leaves had curled in on themselves.
Something in the Garden had responded to what it had shown him.
He stood slowly, the pain in his knees ignored. He wiped his face with the edge of his sleeve, but the burning in his chest remained.
The Garden wasn't testing his strength anymore.
It was testing his mind.
And it knew where to strike.
Hours passed in silence.
The deeper he traveled, the stranger the terrain became. Trees gave way to columns of living stone, their surfaces inscribed with symbols that moved when not observed directly. Lanterns hung in midair, unlit, spinning slowly on unseen currents. Spirit beasts watched him from high ledges, but none approached.
They smelled the flame, perhaps.
Or sensed the storm coiling within.
Near dusk, Kahel came upon a clearing. At its center stood a ruined arch, half-crushed by a fallen tree. Beneath it, in the grass, rested a scroll bound in red silk.
Not his.
The seal of Ethereal Bloom Valley glowed faintly across the binding, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Kahel hesitated, then stepped forward.
Just before he reached it, a voice whispered behind him.
"Don't."
He turned fast, hand raised — flame already coiling along his palm.
Lyren stood beneath the trees, her robes torn, blood staining her sleeve. Her eyes were steady.
"You shouldn't touch that," she said.
Something about her voice was off. Too flat. Too still.
"Lyren?" he asked.
She smiled faintly, but did not move.
"You're not real."
Her image flickered like smoke. "Correct."
The illusion unraveled before his eyes, her form dissolving into silver threads that coiled around the scroll.
Kahel stepped back, but it was too late.
The scroll burst open in midair, its silk bindings ripping away.
Runes exploded outward, wrapping around him like chains made of light.
The world vanished again.
He landed on a circular platform of jade, suspended in an endless white void. There was no sky, no sound, no wind — only stillness, complete and absolute.
In the center of the platform sat an old man in plain robes, cross-legged, eyes closed.
After a moment, the man opened one eye.
"You carry something ancient," he said.
Kahel said nothing, waiting.
"Three trials await you," the man continued. "One for the body, one for the mind, and one for the soul. If you survive, the Garden will acknowledge you."
Kahel finally found his voice. "And if I don't?"
The old man smiled.
"Then you will remain here. In some form. As all failures do."
The floor beneath them shifted with a deep groan, as though the jade itself had inhaled.
Then it cracked.
Kahel stepped back just in time to see a fissure tear open in the platform, spilling light and shadow in equal measure. From that rift rose a creature unlike any he had seen — its form skeletal and tall, clad in smoke and bone, its eyes glowing with molten hatred. Its claws were long, curved like crescent moons, and its mouth opened in a voiceless howl that made the platform tremble.
The old man vanished without another word.
Kahel was alone.
He didn't reach for the flame immediately. His feet slid apart, lowering his center of gravity. He watched the creature as it slunk forward — not clumsily, but with a predator's patience.
This wasn't a beast born of nature. It was a construct of intent, designed to hunt the weaknesses of the unworthy.
Only once the creature leapt — all claws and fury — did Kahel reach inside himself.
The Ashen Flame answered.
Not with rage.
Not with vengeance.
But with certainty.
It emerged not as a blazing inferno, but as a silent coil of pale fire that wrapped around his limbs and spine like a cloak made of breath. It didn't scream or crackle. It pulsed like a second heart.
Kahel met the beast midair.
Their clash split the platform with thunder, but the void beyond made no sound.
The trial had begun — not of strength alone, but of everything Kahel was still afraid to face.