The ground vanished.
Salemadon fell.
No wind. No sound. Just endless darkness swallowing him whole.
He reached for Pahtem instinctively—but there was nothing.
No Threads.
No glow.
No response.
For the first time since the journey began, Salemadon was alone.
He hit the ground hard.
Stone cracked beneath his back, pain ripping the air from his lungs. He rolled to his side, coughing, his hands shaking as he pushed himself up.
"Pahtem?" he whispered.
Silence answered.
The space around him slowly revealed itself—a vast circular chamber carved from black stone. No doors. No paths. Only symbols etched deep into the walls, old and unfamiliar.
This was not a shared Trial.
This was his.
THE VOICE WITHOUT FORM
A presence filled the chamber—not loud, not threatening, but heavy.
"You passed the echoes," the voice said.
"Now face yourself."
Salemadon turned, searching for its source. "Show yourself."
"There is nothing to show."
The symbols on the wall began to glow.
The floor shifted.
The chamber changed.
THE FIRST REFLECTION
Salemadon stood in a familiar place.
Bali Kumbat.
The air smelled of earth and smoke. He could hear distant drums, laughter, voices from long ago. He turned slowly, heart pounding.
People walked past him—but none saw him.
He watched a younger version of himself standing near the fire. Smaller. Uncertain. Silent.
A moment he had tried to forget.
"You stayed quiet," the voice said. "Why?"
Salemadon clenched his fists. "I was afraid."
The scene shifted.
He saw a choice he had not taken. A word he had not spoken. A moment where courage had been possible—but fear won.
The younger Salemadon lowered his head.
The weight crushed his chest.
"I thought silence would protect others," Salemadon said quietly. "It didn't."
The image shattered.
THE SECOND REFLECTION
Darkness rushed in again.
Then—
Blood.
Ash.
Ruined stone.
Salemadon staggered as another vision formed. This time, he recognized nothing—and everything.
A battlefield.
Threadbearers lay broken across the ground. The sky was torn open. Shadows devoured light itself.
And at the center—
Himself.
Older. Hardened. His eyes empty.
That version of Salemadon raised Pahtem high—and struck down figures who begged, who cried, who trusted him.
"No," Salemadon whispered. "That's not me."
"Not yet," the voice replied.
The future-Salemadon turned slowly, staring directly at him.
"You chose survival over balance," the reflection said coldly. "You chose victory over mercy."
Salemadon shook his head violently. "I would never—"
"You already have," the reflection interrupted. "In smaller ways."
The battlefield collapsed inward.
THE CHOICE WITHOUT ESCAPE
The chamber returned—but smaller now. Closer. Suffocating.
Pahtem appeared before Salemadon, suspended in the air.
Cracked.
Unstable.
"This Trial does not ask if you can win," the voice said.
"It asks what you will sacrifice."
The walls split into two massive doors.
One burned with power—raw, blinding, overwhelming.
The other was dim, cracked, uncertain.
Words carved themselves above them.
POWER WITHOUT LIMIT.
BALANCE WITH CONSEQUENCE.
Salemadon's breathing grew shallow.
"Power keeps people alive," he said. "It ends threats."
"And creates new ones."
He stepped toward the second door.
The floor trembled.
Pain lanced through his body, dropping him to one knee.
"Balance will cost you," the voice warned.
"You will fail. You will lose. You will suffer."
Salemadon looked at Pahtem.
Then forward.
"I already have," he said.
He reached for the second door.
THE BREAKING POINT
The moment he touched it, agony exploded.
Not physical.
Emotional.
Memories flooded him—every doubt, every fear, every moment he questioned his worth. Every voice that told him he was not enough.
Salemadon screamed.
His knees hit the ground.
The chamber began to collapse.
"Accept power," the voice urged.
"End the pain."
Salemadon lifted his head slowly, tears burning his eyes.
"If I accept power without balance," he said hoarsely, "I become what I fear."
Pahtem pulsed weakly.
He reached for it—not to command, but to steady.
"I choose restraint," Salemadon whispered. "Even if it breaks me."
THE SILENCE AFTER
Everything stopped.
The pain vanished.
The chamber stilled.
Pahtem reformed—stronger, steadier, its glow calm and controlled.
"Trial complete," the voice said at last.
The doors dissolved.
Light poured in.
RETURN
Salemadon collapsed forward—
—and was caught.
Althara gasped as he reappeared on the platform. Brughan stumbled back in shock.
"He's alive," Brughan breathed.
Salemadon opened his eyes slowly.
He felt different.
Not stronger.
Clearer.
"What did you see?" Althara asked quietly.
Salemadon sat up, gripping Pahtem.
"Myself," he said. "And who I refuse to become."
The platform rumbled.
Ahead of them, the path forward opened—leading into darkness far deeper than before.
And from it came a sound.
Footsteps.
Heavy.
Deliberate.
Not a Trial.
Not an echo.
Something waiting.
Cliffhanger
A figure stepped into the light.
Not shadow.
Not memory.
Alive.
And watching Salemadon with knowing eyes.
"So," the figure said, voice calm and dangerous.
"You survived the Trial meant to end you."
Pahtem pulsed.
The real conflict had begun.