The heat was wrong.
Ignis had always burned with life—wild, radiant, overflowing. This heat was hollow, brittle, clinging to the skin like memory instead of flame.
Lyra stood amid the ruins.
Towering spires lay shattered across the plaza, their once-golden surfaces blackened and split. Rivers of cooled magma cut through the streets like scars that would never heal. Ash drifted endlessly from a sky cracked with dying embers.
Her home.
Or a cruel echo of it.
"You remember this," the other Lyra said.
She stood across the plaza, wings folded neatly behind her back, Phoenix Flame burning low and controlled around her—too controlled. Her eyes were older. Sharper. Untouched by doubt.
Lyra forced herself to breathe. "This isn't real."
The reflection tilted her head, almost gently. "It doesn't have to be real to hurt."
The ground trembled.
From the far end of the plaza, silhouettes emerged—citizens of Ignis, their forms flickering like dying flames. They did not scream. They did not cry.
They simply watched.
Lyra's chest tightened. "Stop."
The reflection's gaze followed hers. "You left them."
"I was a baby," Lyra snapped. "I had no choice."
"Didn't you?" the other Lyra asked softly.
The words struck harder than any blade.
The Phoenix Flame within Lyra surged instinctively, flaring crimson-gold as she stepped forward. "I survived. I grew stronger. I'll protect everyone this time."
The reflection's smile faded.
"And yet," she said, "you're still afraid."
The ash thickened, swirling violently. The figures in the plaza began to crumble, collapsing into piles of cinders that scattered at Lyra's feet.
Each step she took forward made the ground crack further.
"You think power will save them," the reflection continued, her voice calm, relentless. "You think becoming stronger will erase this."
She raised a hand.
The sky tore open.
A colossal shadow passed overhead, blotting out what little light remained. Dark aether rippled through the air, cold and suffocating.
Lyra's heart skipped.
"No," she whispered.
A presence descended—not fully formed, not whole—but unmistakable.
Nyx Tenebris.
Not the goddess.
Not yet.
A towering silhouette of darkness and fractured flame, eyes glowing with a cruel, distant awareness.
"You feel it," the reflection said. "Even now."
Lyra's knees trembled. Her Phoenix Flame flickered, struggling to maintain its rhythm.
"This is a lie," Lyra said through clenched teeth. "You're trying to break me."
The reflection stepped closer, her feet never touching the ground. "I'm showing you the path you're already walking."
The shadow above shifted.
In the darkness, Lyra saw flashes—visions bleeding through the illusion.
Her friends screaming. Orion falling. Fire turning against her. Ignis burning again—this time by her own hand.
"Enough!" Lyra cried.
She thrust her hands forward, Phoenix Flame erupting outward in a blazing wave meant to consume the illusion entirely.
The fire roared.
And then—
It parted.
The flames curved away from the reflection, bending as if obeying another will.
Lyra froze.
The reflection's eyes glowed brighter. "Your flame listens to you," she said. "And right now—you doubt yourself."
The Phoenix Flame stuttered.
For the first time since she could remember, Lyra felt it hesitate.
Her breath came fast. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. The plaza seemed to close in, ash pressing against her skin like a weight.
If she failed here…
If she broke…
The shadow above pulsed, drawing closer.
"Stop," Lyra whispered—not to the illusion, but to herself.
She lowered her hands.
The fire dimmed—not extinguished, not suppressed—but steady.
Controlled.
"I am afraid," Lyra said quietly.
The reflection paused.
"I lost my home. I lost my people. I don't remember their faces—but I carry their ashes with me every day."
The ash around her stirred, lifting gently into the air.
Lyra met the reflection's gaze, her eyes burning—not wildly, not desperately—but with quiet resolve.
"But fear doesn't own my flame," she continued. "And guilt doesn't define my future."
The Phoenix Flame answered.
Not with an explosion.
With warmth.
It spread through her veins in a calm, steady pulse—synchronized with her heartbeat. The fire did not lash out at the illusion.
It illuminated it.
The reflection staggered.
For the first time, cracks appeared across her form—thin fractures of light splitting through the false perfection.
"You can't erase me," the reflection said, her voice no longer certain.
"I don't need to," Lyra replied. "You're part of me."
She took a step forward.
Then another.
The shadow above recoiled, its form unraveling as the plaza began to dissolve—stone turning to light, ash lifting and dispersing like smoke at dawn.
The reflection looked at her one last time.
Not with hatred.
With understanding.
Then she shattered into embers.
---
Lyra gasped.
She stood once more at the river's edge.
Her knees buckled—but she did not fall.
The River of Illusions rippled violently, its glassy surface fracturing where her reflection should have been.
Across the basin, faint pulses of light flickered—signs that others were still trapped.
Lyra steadied herself, Phoenix Flame burning low and constant.
The trial wasn't over.
But she had passed her first truth.
And the river knew it.