The wind howled like a living thing across the golden dunes of Velmara. Sand, fine and sharp as powdered glass, danced in the air, biting into skin and cloth alike. Asari walked at a steady pace, his black robes flapping around his legs, glaive strapped to his back. Behind him, Aicha rode quietly in a hover-chair shaped like a crescent blade—something he'd crafted for her using the remnants of the beasts he'd killed.
"I didn't expect this place to be so vast," she said, shielding her eyes against the sun. "The air here... it smells like secrets."
Asari didn't reply. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, where a ripple in the sky hinted at a structure or something else hidden behind the curtain of heat and mirage.
The continent of Velmara was unlike Dummer. It was alive in a different way. Less crowded, less thick with people and rules, but more ancient, more feral. Its sands spoke in whispers only those who had known blood and silence could hear.
They had traveled for two days since the Trial of Gluttony. Since then, Asari's connection with the Stone had gone quiet—not silent, but no longer screaming. It waited inside him now, content, watching. Its hunger no longer tore at his insides every second. But it was still there. Always.
"We'll rest before nightfall," he said at last, eyes narrowing on a jagged set of rocks that jutted from the desert floor like black teeth. "There."
Aicha nodded, trusting him without hesitation.
As they reached the outcrop, Asari's steps slowed. The air here shifted strangely. A presence tickled the edge of his awareness—not hostile, but observant. He placed Aicha in the shade and turned to scan the surroundings.
"Something's watching us."
"I know," Aicha whispered, her eyes scanning the sands. "I felt it too."
Moments later, the sands rippled. Not from wind. Something moved beneath the surface. A shadow darted across the edge of their vision, too fast to fully see, but large. Asari stepped forward, glaive in hand, his muscles tensing.
It rose from the sand in silence—like a mirage coalescing into reality.
A figure cloaked in desert wraps, face hidden beneath layers of veil and crystal lenses. It stood motionless, a curved blade at its side and a spear slung across its back. But what drew Asari's attention was not the weapon—it was the medallion hanging from its neck, etched with a symbol he recognized.
The symbol of Velmara's Trials.
"You've drawn the attention of the desert," the figure spoke, voice layered and echoing, neither male nor female. "The Trial of Hunger has ended. The next awaits you."
Asari didn't lower his weapon. "We didn't come looking for trials."
"Trials come to those the land deems worthy," the figure said. "You've stepped into the eye of something older than gluttony. Older than Velmara's sand."
Aicha's gaze sharpened. "What kind of trial?"
The figure pointed toward the horizon, where a mirage flickered. Slowly, the heat shimmer parted to reveal something: a colossal ribcage—white bones half-buried in sand, stretching for what seemed like miles.
"The Trial of Memory," the figure said. "Within the Bones of Velhkar."
Before either of them could respond, the figure vanished—melting back into the sand, leaving only footprints that quickly filled with dust.
Asari looked to the ribcage in the distance. "Looks like we don't get to rest after all."
Aicha's voice was quiet. "Trial of Memory... Do you think it'll make us relive our past?"
"Most likely."
They reached the edge of the ribcage by dusk. The bones were massive, each as tall as a tower, weathered by centuries but still intact. The entrance to the Trial was a hollowed skull the size of a mansion. Ancient runes were etched into the bone, glowing faintly with violet light.
Asari felt the Stone of Gluttony stir slightly in his chest—as if it recognized something.
Aicha hesitated. "Are you ready for what it'll show us?"
He didn't answer immediately. Then he said, "No. But I'll go in anyway."
She gave a soft smile. "That's just like you."
They crossed the threshold together, stepping into the maw of memory. Inside, the light shifted. The air grew cold, damp with forgotten emotion. Whispers filled the cavernous bones—not of ghosts, but of moments. Laughter. Cries. Betrayals.
Suddenly, Asari stopped.
A shadow formed ahead. Slowly, it took shape—a figure. Female. Familiar.
His mother.
He froze. His breath caught.
She looked as she did when he was a child—stern, proud, distant.
"Asari," the memory whispered. "You disappoint me."
He stepped back, eyes narrowing. The illusion flickered—but it struck true. The wound hadn't healed. Not really.
Aicha reached for his hand, her touch grounding.
"You're not alone," she said. "Not this time."
Asari straightened. The bones echoed with the sound of his heartbeat. Whatever the Trial of Memory had planned, he would endure it. Not for the past.
For the future.