Kieran stumbled forward as the gate slammed shut behind him, sealing him in darkness. The humid suffocation of the molten chamber was gone, but the chill that replaced it wasn't a reprieve. It was sharper than the frost before, a blade of cold that cut straight into his bones and dampened the sweat still clinging to his skin.
He fell against the nearest wall, his trembling hand breaking through a thin crust of frost that coated the surface. Every inch of him hurt. His burned shoulder throbbed mercilessly, the blistered skin chafing against his shirt, but the claw wound on his arm was worse. His sleeve was soaked again with blood, the fabric sticking unpleasantly to his skin. Every heartbeat felt like a hammer driving nails into his flesh, and his vision swam, tilting with each shallow, rattling breath.
For a fleeting moment, his mind toyed with the idea of stopping. Just sitting down on the icy floor, closing his eyes, and letting the trials win. The cold didn't feel so bad anymore—not compared to the searing pain of his wounds or the molten heat that had threatened to consume him just moments ago. Maybe he could rest here, just for a moment.
But no. He couldn't allow himself that luxury. He didn't know what lay ahead, but he knew that stopping was surrender. There was no rescue waiting for him. No hands would pull him out of this nightmare. He had to rise.
A deep breath. Then another. He used the wall to steady himself, his fingers brushing against the ridges of ice. It was strange. The frost here looked different, more erratic. Its patterns weren't neat or symmetrical but jagged, spiraling outward as though they'd grown in a frenzy. It reminded him of his magic somehow, the way ice had burst out of him back on the bridge, wild and uncontrollable, answering his desperation.
The figure by the frozen lake flickered through his mind again. Calm. Precise. Their power had been a tool, honed and wielded with purpose. But not his. Not yet.
He pressed onward, his steps uneven as he limped into the passage ahead. Darkness pressed in around him, broken only by faint, intermittent glimmers of light that pulsed along the walls. The deeper he went, the more the light grew, casting the twisted patterns of ice in an eerie bluish glow. The air grew colder, numbing the tips of his fingers and biting at his exposed face.
Then he heard it.
A faint, rhythmic sound, like a heartbeat. Slow, deliberate, and almost primal. It grew louder with each step, resonating through the icy walls and humming in his chest. Kieran's tension spiked. He had learned to hate that sound. The obelisk in the frost chamber, the pillar in the molten trial—both had emitted that same rhythmic thrum, as if the trials themselves were alive, pulsing with anticipation.
The corridor opened into a massive cavern, its scale almost incomprehensible. The walls stretched into a distance he couldn't see, curving upward to form an arched ceiling that shimmered faintly with luminescent frost. Spires of jagged ice erupted from the floor, some as tall as towers, others broken and splintered into an icy graveyard. At the center of it all stood an obelisk, taller and darker than the last, wreathed in a faint, malevolent glow. Its surface was crisscrossed with familiar runes, though this time they pulsed with a sickly green light rather than blue or gold.
And below it was the abyss.
The ice spire jutted up from a pit that seemed bottomless, a gaping void so dark it threatened to swallow Kieran's mind as he looked into it. The edges of the pit were lined with frost, their patterns spiraling inward like hungry claws. The obelisk stood at the center, suspended over the darkness by shards of ice that formed a twisting, precarious bridge.
The heartbeat-like thrum grew louder as Kieran stepped closer, vibrating through the ground and into his weakened legs. He paused at the precipice, swallowing hard. His grip on the frost-covered wall tightened. Whatever this trial was, he could feel its malice, its cruel ingenuity. It wanted him to fail.
His muscles trembled beneath him, and exhaustion clawed at his resolve. The burns on his shoulder seemed to flare in sync with the obelisk's pulsing rhythm, and his claw wound felt too hot, the edges raw from the endless irritation. How much further could his body go? How long before one step was one too many?
"This is what they wanted," he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse. "To break me. To prove I wasn't good enough." His heavy breaths formed visible clouds in the icy air. "I won't give them the satisfaction."
He forced his foot onto the first shard of the bridge and didn't look down. The ice groaned under his weight, cracks spidering outward with every step. He gritted his teeth and pressed forward, his knees threatening to buckle with each movement.
Halfway across, the air changed. The cold, biting chill deepened, coiling into something unnatural. He felt it before he saw it, a whispering presence that made his heart lurch. He froze in place, his boots slipping slightly on the icy bridge, and turned his head toward the pulsating abyss below.
The shadows moved.
No. Not shadows. Figures. Faint, ghostly outlines writhed within the void, their forms flickering like dying flames. Some were indistinguishable, mere abstracts of limbs and light, but others… others were horrifyingly clear. Twisted bodies like nothing Kieran had seen before, with elongated limbs that bent in wrong directions, faces frozen in expressions of silent torment, hands clawing upward as if begging to be freed.
Kieran's breath hitched. The figures were rising, their ghostly shapes beginning to coalesce and gain substance as they clawed their way up, drawn toward him by the faint glow of the obelisk. His feet began to move before his mind caught up, a surge of panic driving him forward with reckless speed. Ice cracked beneath him, sending jagged splinters falling into the abyss, but he didn't stop.
The first apparition broke free from the void just as Kieran reached the obelisk's base. It lunged toward him, its form insubstantial but its impact very real. He barely managed to dodge as its claw-like hand slashed through the air, the movement sending a sharp gust of icy wind that burned his exposed skin.
He turned to face it, trying to summon the cold energy from within himself. His hands shook as frost began to pool at his fingertips, sluggish and unresponsive. The apparition lunged again, and Kieran threw himself to the side, landing hard against the icy ground. Pain shot through his burned shoulder, and a fresh tear opened in the wound on his arm as he skidded to a stop.
He screamed through clenched teeth, his vision flashing white from the pain. He couldn't do this. He was too beaten, too raw, too exhausted. But as the specters rose and the obelisk's hum grew louder, he realized there was no choice.
The figure from the frozen lake came back to him, not as an image but as a voice. Quiet. Steady. It wasn't words, but it might as well have been. It urged him to reach deeper—not into the chaotic well of ice magic that surged in moments of desperation, but into something quieter. Something that waited, patient and untouched.
Kieran's breathing slowed. He closed his eyes, his trembling hands pressing against the frigid surface of the bridge as the cold began to answer his call. It surged outward this time, not in wild spikes or desperate bursts, but in deliberate, controlled tendrils. The frost formed a circle around him, its jagged edges sharpening as if to warn the approaching specters.
When he opened his eyes, his vision was sharper than before. His body still ached, every nerve screaming in protest, but something had shifted. Grounded himself in that instinct, Kieran raised his frost-coated hands as the first specter lunged again.
This time, he was ready.
His trial had just begun.