The city of Izerra rose like a crown carved into the spine of the world
Built into the jagged cliffs of the Tyrant's Teeth mountain range, its obsidian walls shimmered under sunlight, and its gates forged from aura-infused steel only opened once a year, during the High Convergence.
But today, they opened for one.
Thalen stood at the threshold, cloaked against the snow, sword on his back, aura buried deep in his bones.
He had no escort, only a letter bearing the seal of the Tyrant Throne.
At his side, a raven perched silent, black as shadow. It had met him two days ago in the forest pass and had followed without a sound.
He suspected it was no ordinary bird.
A City Without Equals
The moment he entered Izerra, he felt it.
Pressure.
Not from the guards lining the walls or the distant buzz of market life, but from the land itself. Every stone was woven with aura, every lantern thrummed faintly with stored energy. The people walked with reverence. They bowed not to nobles or priests but to the palace carved into the mountain's heart.
That was where the First Tyrant lived.
That was where Thalen was being summoned.
The Pillars of Origin
He was met at the gates by a woman named Eris, her hair bound in golden rings, her eyes the color of dried blood.
She said nothing at first, only walked.
He followed her through the Pillars of Origin nine spires representing each of the SSS Heroes, their banners fluttering above statues of steel and stone.
"I thought there were ten Tyrant Spirit wielders," Thalen said.
Eris finally spoke. "There are. The Tenth is not represented."
"Why?"
"Because he needs no monument."
They climbed marble steps, past weeping fountains and burning braziers. The closer they drew to the summit, the heavier Thalen's aura felt.
His own power recoiled, like a flame before a bonfire.
The Throne Without a King
The inner sanctum of the Tyrant's Peak was silent. No throne. No guards. Just a wide, circular chamber etched with runes that pulsed softly underfoot.
And in the center stood a man.
Hair silver, not from age, but from aura overload. His robes were plain. His arms bare, revealing lattice scars signs of channeling power beyond mortal limits.
This was The First Tyrant.
He turned slowly, his gaze locking with Thalen's.
"You brought the shard," he said.
Thalen nodded, reaching into his satchel. "Yes. From Jastel's Ridge."
The Tyrant examined it in his palm. "These are not relics. They are bait. Threads meant to pull people toward artificial power."
"Who planted it?"
"A remnant. Someone who believes they can create a Tyrant without spirit."
Thalen hesitated. "And you summoned me… why?"
The Tyrant looked up, and for a moment, Thalen saw something ancient in those eyes.
"Because the world is remembering fire. And when it does, it always reaches for tyrants."
Trial of Mirrors
Without warning, the Tyrant threw the shard to the center of the room. It shattered and aura exploded outward.
Thalen drew his blade instinctively, but the room had changed. He stood now in a mirror realm a place of flickering visions. Dozens of versions of himself surrounded him. Some bloody. Some broken. Some laughing.
A test.
Of will.
He charged the nearest illusion. It crumbled.
Another raised a blade faster than him.
They clashed.
Pain lanced through his shoulder.
Thalen gritted his teeth. The Ember aura within him flared, but not enough.
He was outnumbered, outmatched by himself.
Until he remembered Ragan's words.
"Aura doesn't grow in the absence of struggle. It grows when you suffer through it."
Thalen took a breath.
Let them strike.
Let them wound.
Each blow hurt. But each flame that followed burned hotter.
When the last illusion fell, he stood alone bloodied, but upright.
The mirror realm faded.
The Tyrant watched him from across the chamber.
"You are not yet ready," he said.
"I didn't expect to be," Thalen replied.
"But you passed."
A Name Etched in Ash
"You'll return to the Bastion," the Tyrant said. "There will be more missions. More trials. And in time… the exam."
"The Tyrant Spirit Exam?"
The Tyrant turned away, lifting a hand. A circle of flame appeared thin and white, not hot, but heavy with meaning.
"When you face that test, it won't ask for strength. It will ask for purpose."
Thalen felt the truth of it in his bones.
"Your blade may one day be legendary," the Tyrant said, "but your soul must forge it first."
Then, without ceremony, he vanished in a breath of flame.
Only the raven remained perched now on the altar.
Watching.
Waiting.