Elior stood barefoot in a circle of stone.
Above him: a sigil carved into the ceiling, glowing softly.
Before him: six others.
Different faces. Different ages.
Same mark—First Ring or higher.
Mira's voice echoed through the chamber:
"You've passed the Threshold.
But surviving the flame was just the beginning.
Now we see who belongs."
The initiates looked around, tension in the air like static.
A girl with silver hair stared at Elior too long.
A tall boy cracked his knuckles, eyes half-closed but calculating.
No names were exchanged.
Not yet.
Mira spoke again.
"This test isn't about power.
It's about control.
You'll each face your flame—again.
But this time… it fights back."
A low door opened behind her.
One by one, they were called in.
Screams echoed from behind the door. Some loud. Some cut off.
Then—
"Elior."
He entered.
The room was circular. Empty—except for himself.
Or rather… another version of him.
Identical in form. But the eyes were wrong.
Dark. Hollow.
Wearing his fears like armor.
The copy stepped forward.
"I'm the you who breaks under pressure."
It raised a hand. Flame licked the edges of its fingers.
"I'm the one who never deserved the power."
The fight was not physical.
Every move the copy made twisted Elior's thoughts—
every flame a memory, every strike a doubt.
His legs faltered. Chest tightened.
What if they're right?
What if this power was a mistake?
Then—
The rings on his palm spun.
And from deep within: clarity.
"Flame reveals.
But it doesn't define."
He moved.
Sidestepped the blast.
Raised his hand.
And bent the fire mid-air—back into the shadow's heart.
Silence.
The room faded. The shadow vanished.
When he stepped out, Mira met his eyes.
"You bent it intentionally this time," she said.
He nodded.
"You're learning."
Only four initiates emerged.
Three were missing.
No one spoke of them.
That night, Elior sat alone in a quiet stone chamber, tracing the rings on his hand.
Not just symbols now.
But promises.