"Every step into honesty is a step out of survival."
The path out of the Platform of Declaration narrowed again, but this time the squeezing wasn't physical. It was the feeling of moving from wide sky into a hallway of thought—like the Vale wanted Aarav to notice his own mind brushing against the world's edges.
The ground shimmered subtly beneath their feet.
Not light.
Memory.
Each step left a faint echo, like footprints made of resonance rather than dust.
Meera noticed first.
She bent, touched the ground, and frowned.
"Aarav. The path is reacting only to your footsteps."
Arin inhaled sharply.
"This is the Corridor of Burdens."
Aarav stopped mid-step.
"Burden? As in… weight?"
Arin nodded solemnly.
"Not physical weight. Responsibility. Influence. The consequences of your existence the Court just showed."
Aarav felt cold pressure gather beneath his ribs.
Older Aarav's voice shook.
"This was one of the hardest places. It forces you to carry what the world hands you, not what you pick up willingly."
Amar crossed his arms.
"And what does Aarav have to do? Lift something? Fight something?"
"No," the King said.
"He must walk."
Aarav exhaled.
"That's it?"
"That's everything," the King replied.
They moved forward.
The path opened into a long, sunken corridor edged with dark stone walls.
Along those walls floated faint shapes—silhouettes of people, places, choices.
Some bright.
Some dim.
Some trembling.
Aarav stared at them.
"What are those?"
Arin answered quietly:
"Your burdens."
The corridor reacted the moment he stepped inside.
The ground brightened under his footstep—first white-gold, then dimming into a muted gray. A gentle pressure snapped into place across his shoulders, down his spine, into the back of his skull.
Aarav winced.
"It's… heavy."
Meera stepped toward him, but the King held up a hand.
"No one can walk beside him.
Not here."
Meera's jaw clenched, but she stopped.
Aarav inhaled and looked ahead.
Then he walked.
With every step, shapes along the walls flared:
A child crying beneath a fractured sky.
A village half swallowed by stormlight.
A lone figure kneeling over an altar.
A battle he had not yet fought.
A choice he had not yet made.
Each image pressed more weight onto him.
Aarav gritted his teeth.
"I don't even know these people," he whispered.
"That's the point," older Aarav said from behind him, voice shaking.
"Influence isn't just about the people you save.
It's about the ones bound to feel you."
Aarav took another step—
and the weight doubled.
His breath hitched.
His knees buckled.
He barely caught himself.
Meera's hand flew to her mouth, helpless.
Arin whispered:
"The corridor is measuring what he can carry… without breaking."
Aarav forced himself upright.
He walked again.
Another flare of visions:
A storm breaking open above a plain.
A stranger shouting his name.
Someone reaching for him as if he were the last anchor left.
A shadow rising behind him, shaped like regret.
A group of people whispering about him in fear, or awe, or both.
Aarav pressed forward.
Every step felt like dragging the world with him.
His pulse pounded.
His breath burned.
But he kept going.
Older Aarav flinched with every movement.
"I fell here," he whispered.
"The corridor made me collapse.
It convinced me I wasn't allowed to carry anything.
It left me empty."
Aarav didn't answer.
He couldn't.
The weight was immense now—
past body,
past bone,
past breath.
His thoughts felt sluggish.
His chest trembled with each inhale.
Meera shouted from the entrance:
"Aarav! You don't have to prove strength! Just stop—stop pushing—"
But the King shook his head.
"If he stops, the corridor will not release him."
Aarav closed his eyes.
His legs shook.
His spine felt like it would split.
He whispered, voice breaking:
"I… can't do all this.
Not alone."
The corridor shifted.
Not light.
Not sound.
_Meaning._
The weight increased—
Aarav collapsed to one knee.
The boy screamed his name.
Meera tried to run forward—
Amar held her back with both arms.
Arin covered his mouth in horror.
Older Aarav folded to the ground, trembling.
The King didn't move.
Aarav forced his head up.
The corridor seemed to darken.
The burdens on the walls pulsed—
louder, closer, sharper.
He whispered, barely audible:
"I can't carry all of you."
The corridor paused.
Silence.
Stillness.
Then—
Aarav took a shaking breath and forced out the rest:
"And I'm not supposed to."
Light cracked through the burden-shapes.
Aarav lifted his head.
"I can hold responsibility.
I can face consequences.
I can take on weight.
But I can't—
I won't—
pretend I can hold the whole world."
His voice wavered.
"I don't need to be everything.
I don't want to.
I won't let you make me."
The corridor trembled.
The burdens on the walls flickered—
shrinking, shifting, reshaping.
Aarav pushed himself upright, trembling.
"I will carry my part," he whispered.
"No more.
No less."
The corridor exhaled.
The weight vanished.
A shockwave of air rushed down the stone walls.
The burdens dissolved into light.
Only one silhouette remained—
a faint shape of Aarav himself, reaching upward.
The path ahead opened.
Aarav staggered forward as Meera finally reached him, arms wrapping around his shoulders before he could fall.
"You stubborn fool," she whispered.
"You scared us."
Aarav leaned into her, exhausted.
"I scared myself."
The King stepped forward.
"The corridor was not designed for power," he said.
"It was designed for honesty."
Aarav nodded weakly.
"So… did I pass?"
The King gave the smallest smile.
"You survived.
That is enough."
Arin exhaled sharply, relief shaking his hands.
Older Aarav wiped his eyes.
The boy hugged Aarav's leg.
Amar looked almost proud.
Aarav breathed—slow, steady.
And he stepped toward it, knowing the world had just stripped away every illusion of being limitless.
He had limits.
And that was his strength.
"He walked without bracing, and the ground welcomed the change."