The gates closed behind them with a thud like a tomb being sealed. The sound echoed through the dry air as though it had been waiting for centuries to be heard again. Ahead, the long corridor leading into the Jackal's fortress stretched out like a throat carved in ivory and obsidian, lit by torches whose flames burned blue and silent.
Haraza stepped forward first, every sense sharpened. Behind him, the others followed—Lirien with her bow half-raised, Ryve cloaked in restless fire, Brannock already cracking his knuckles in anticipation, Harael's gaze flickering with quiet flame, and Caela whispering to shadows that answered her with cryptic murmurs.
("This is a death trap,") Caela said calmly, her eyes scanning the walls, which were etched with shifting mosaics. ("But not a quick one.")
Haraza smirked faintly. ("He's not the kind to kill you right away. The Jackal prefers theater.")
Brannock grunted. ("Hope he prefers dying.")
They advanced down the hallway, and after several minutes, the corridor opened into a vast chamber. The floor was a perfect circle, and the ceiling soared into a dome covered in constellations that spun slowly like a celestial clock. At its center stood a single figure, lounging on a throne made entirely of scavenged relics—blades of fallen kings, rusted crowns, fractured idols.
He wore a cloak woven from broken mirrorglass and rings upon every finger. His eyes gleamed gold beneath a porcelain half-mask shaped like a jackal's skull.
("Welcome,") said the Gilded Jackal, his voice smooth as silk dipped in venom. ("I was hoping you'd arrive soon, Thorn.")
Haraza's hand hovered near his sword. ("Then you know who I am.")
The Jackal smiled. ("Oh yes. Haraza Genso. Bearer of the Origin Glyph. He who split the sky in Varrakar. He who stood against the Grieving Choir. The Thorn, sharpest among the shattered.")
He leaned forward, eyes dancing. ("And you've brought guests.")
Ryve scowled. ("We're not here for flattery.")
("No,") the Jackal replied. ("You're here for this.")
He snapped his fingers. A hidden panel opened beside his throne, and a pedestal rose bearing a circlet of ancient design. Vines carved from emerald twisted around its form. The Verdant Crown shimmered with raw ley-energy, vibrating against the air.
("The Crown of Dominion,") Lirien murmured.
("More than that,") Harael said, his voice hushed. ("That artifact can amplify Glyph resonance. If Haraza wears it—he can awaken others.")
The Jackal spread his arms. ("And yet, here it lies, guarded not by swords but by terms.")
Haraza took a step forward. ("What's the price?")
The Jackal's grin widened. ("A game.")
Brannock groaned. ("Of course.")
("A test," the Jackal said, rising. "A single night beneath my roof. Six trials. Pass them, and the crown is yours. Fail... and become a part of my collection.")
He gestured to the far wall.
There, displayed in transparent crystal, were humanoid figures frozen in poses of agony and surprise. Their eyes blinked slowly—alive, aware.
("I don't deal in death,") the Jackal said, almost piously. ("I deal in permanence.")
Haraza glanced at the others. Ryve met his gaze and nodded.
("We accept.")
The first trial was one of sound.
The chamber they entered shimmered with silence. In the center stood a chime made of bones and silver thread. On the far side, a doorway glowed faintly.
("One may pass if the chord remains true.")
A voice echoed through the room:
Haraza frowned. ("Any false note ends the trial.")
Lirien stepped forward and drew her bow. ("Let me.")
She drew an arrow from her quiver and played it gently across the chimes like a bow on a violin. A clear, melancholic note rang out.
As she continued, the chimes shifted—adjusting to her movement, demanding precision.
Haraza watched closely as Lirien's breath matched the music. A moment's hesitation would be fatal.
But she was flawless.
The melody ended.
The door opened.
One trial passed.
The second trial was one of memory.
Each of them was separated by walls of mist, confronted by their past.
Ryve stood once more in the ruins of her village, watching the day her home was swallowed by a Rift fissure. Her hands shook. She was thirteen again.
A child's voice behind her whispered, "If you had acted faster, we wouldn't have died."
She turned and saw her younger brother, hollow-eyed, consumed by glyphfire.
("You're not real,") she said.
("Real enough to haunt you.")
Ryve stepped toward the image and placed her hand against his chest.
("I'll carry you,") she said softly. ("But you don't get to control me.")
He vanished.
The mist faded.
Another trial passed.
Haraza faced no illusion. Instead, he stood in a circle of floating shards—each showing a different choice he had made. A friend he couldn't save. A town he couldn't reach in time. A pact he had broken for the greater good.
The shards spun faster, voices overlapping, accusing.
(You are no hero.)
(You are a man with blood on his hands.)
(You break everything you touch.)
Haraza let them speak.
And when the time came, he spoke back.
("I'm not a hero,") he said, voice calm. ("But I'm what this world has. And I won't stop until I've carved a better one.")
The shards shattered.
Trial passed.
The third was a test of choice.
They entered a hall with three doors. Above each door was a symbol.
The first: a sword.
The second: a flame.
The third: an eye.
No instructions were given.
Caela whispered to the dream around her, letting the echoes reply.
("It's not about what lies beyond,") she said. ("It's about who opens it.")
She stepped to the third door—the eye—and placed her palm against it.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the door opened.
And behind it—was nothing.
The Jackal's voice rang out from nowhere.
("Sometimes the right choice is the one that shows you nothing... and still you walk.")
Trial passed.
The final trials came swiftly—each tailored to their strengths and fears. Brannock broke a golem made of shifting guilt. Harael deciphered a living riddle that tried to rewrite itself in his mind. They fought specters, solved paradoxes, faced versions of themselves twisted by power.
And at last, bloodied but victorious, they returned to the throne chamber.
The Jackal stood, slow-clapping.
("In all my years,") he said, ("I have never seen six walk through all six trials unbroken.")
He gestured to the pedestal.
("The Crown is yours, Thorn.")
Haraza approached.
As he reached for it, the Jackal's voice softened.
("Tell me something before you take it.")
Haraza paused.
("If you awaken all twelve Glyphs—what then?")
Haraza looked down at the crown.
("I bring them together.")
The Jackal tilted his head. ("For what purpose?")
Haraza placed the crown in his satchel.
("To end the world,") he said.
The Jackal blinked.
("And start a better one.")
As they left the fortress, the desert winds rose behind them, swirling into a spiral of sand and song. The horizon burned red with coming twilight.
And far beyond, in the fractured sky above the continent's heart, the Rift widened another inch.