Elior looked up at the obsidian path, stones floating in impossible balance, twisting like a dark river leading into the heart of the Crucible tower. Each step was a challenge—the stones weren't steady. They shifted with the slightest touch, like the tower itself was alive and testing him. The air was thick, heavy with ash and heat that seemed to pulse with every beat of his heart.
Seraphis limped beside him, flames licking his battered fur, his breathing ragged but steady. "I don't like this place," he growled low, eyes scanning the dark spaces between stones. "It's like the tower's trying to crush us."
Elior didn't answer. His grip tightened on the staff, fragments of memory glowing faintly, like tiny stars caught in his hands. His muscles screamed in protest, but every pain was a reminder — not a weakness. He stepped onto the first stone.
The surface rippled beneath his boots—like water made of glass. It shimmered, then cracked. A jagged fissure snaked across the stone, threatening to split it in two. Elior lunged forward, barely catching his balance. Below, black nothingness yawned wide.
"Careful!" Seraphis hissed, claws scraping against stone.
Elior didn't look back. The tower's heartbeat was louder now—a low, grinding thrum that seemed to shake his bones. He leapt onto the next stone, his staff slicing the air, releasing a thin ribbon of golden light that wrapped around the path ahead, stabilizing the shifting stones just enough for them to hold.
The air flickered.
A shadow tore through it.
From the darkness between stones, sharp shards of obsidian sprung to life, twisting and snapping like jaws. They lunged at Elior, fast—too fast.
Elior dropped into a roll, narrowly avoiding a jagged spike that crashed where he'd been. He swung the staff in a wide arc, the golden blade of memory energy slicing through the shards. They shattered into black dust, but more came.
Seraphis snarled and leapt forward, claws burning blue-white, ripping through the shadow-spikes like a comet cutting the night. Flames followed his strikes, but the tower absorbed the heat—darkness regrew immediately where the embers died.
"We have to keep moving," Elior said between breaths.
The stones twisted beneath them, rising and falling like waves on a stormy sea. Each step was a battle against the tower itself. Behind them, the obsidian path began to dissolve into ash and shadow, a slow retreat that left no room to stop.
Suddenly, a voice echoed.
Cold.
Familiar.
"Do you think the tower will save you?"
Elior's eyes snapped up.
From above, a figure dropped like a falling star—a woman forged of smoke and flame. Her eyes burned gold, her smile sharp as a blade.
"Seraphis," Elior growled, raising the staff.
The woman landed with a crack that shook the stones. Around her, shadows swirled into weapons—spears of dark flame, whips of smoke that hissed like vipers.
Seraphis growled, flames brightening.
"I'll hold her," he said. "You climb."
"No way," Elior said. "We face her together."
The woman laughed, a sound that split the air.
"Together? How touching."
In a blur, she lashed out with a whip of smoke, slicing at Seraphis's throat.
Seraphis dodged but caught the tip. Flames roared and flared, burning brighter, casting flickering shadows on the cracked stones.
Elior charged.
The staff spun, fragments of light whipping around him like a cyclone.
He struck out with a blade of Arien's laughter, sharp and bright.
The woman blocked, her hand a shield of smoke and flame.
They clashed.
Light and shadow crackled, sparks flying like shooting stars.
Her eyes narrowed.
"You wield memory," she said. "But memory is fragile."
Elior's breath came fast.
He swung again, harder, harder.
His memories flashed: the boy wanting to be strong, the river under the mountain, Arien's smile—each one a burning pulse.
The staff flared gold, and the woman staggered.
Seraphis roared, claws blazing, and lunged.
She twisted, melting into smoke.
Seraphis crashed into empty air.
Elior hissed, spinning, but the woman was already behind him, whip snapping.
He blocked with his staff, pain flaring in his side where the smoke grazed him.
"Not enough," she whispered.
Elior gritted his teeth.
The tower pulsed.
The ground shook.
From the stones beneath, dozens of shadow-forms exploded upward—warriors from ash and dark flame, their eyes glowing red-hot.
More enemies.
The battle wasn't just against her anymore.
It was against the Crucible itself.
Elior spun, sending memory-fragments flying—each a comet aimed at the ash-warriors. They shattered, but they kept coming, endless, like tides.
He ducked a flaming spear, twisted, and drove the staff through a shadow beast's chest. It hissed, dissolving into smoke and ash.
Seraphis howled, burning brighter, slashing through the crowd, but even his flames seemed swallowed by the tower.
Elior's breath was ragged.
Every strike drained him, every dodge left him more hollow.
But he moved—no hesitation.
The tower tested him with every pulse.
He slashed, blocked, jumped.
The sky above cracked open, raining ember-shards.
A massive ash-storm whipped around them, throwing dust and flame like knives.
Elior's vision blurred.
He shook it off.
The woman returned—her form twisting between smoke and fire, faster, more vicious.
She lashed out with a spear of molten ash, aimed straight at Elior's heart.
He raised the staff.
The memory blade met the spear.
The impact sent shockwaves tearing through the air.
Elior was thrown back, skidding on cracked stone.
Pain exploded in his arm.
He gritted his teeth and rose, staff glowing dim.
Seraphis snarled, staggering.
Elior's voice was low.
"We have to break her."
The woman smiled—cold and cruel.
"You cannot break the Crucible."
Elior's eyes flicked upward.
The tower.
The obsidian stones glowing like coals.
He understood.
Not just her.
The tower was alive.
It was feeding on them.
The fight wasn't just physical.
It was inside their minds.
Inside their souls.
Elior closed his eyes for a breath.
The staff pulsed.
He reached inside himself.
Not for power.
For memory.
The golden light around the staff brightened.
He drew out his pain, his loss.
Arien's smile.
The river.
The mountain.
The moments he wanted to forget.
He wrapped them tight around the staff.
The tower trembled.
The ash storm howled.
The woman screamed, a sound full of rage and fear.
Elior's staff burst into a golden storm.
He charged forward.
The memory blade spun like a star, cutting through shadow and ash.
The shadow warriors screamed as the memories tore through them—fragments of Elior's life breaking the dark.
Seraphis roared and leapt into the heart of the battle, claws blazing.
The woman tried to escape, but the storm caught her.
She writhed in golden light.
Her smoke form cracked.
She screamed, her voice shattering like glass.
Elior pressed the attack.
With a final, desperate strike, he drove the staff through her heart of shadow.
She exploded into ashes that scattered on the wind.
The tower groaned.
The stones beneath Elior's feet steadied.
The obsidian path glowed solid, steady.
Seraphis limped over, panting.
"That was…" he gasped.
"Not the end," Elior said, catching his breath.
"More trials come."
Together, they climbed higher.
The air grew thinner, hotter.
The tower pulsed stronger, like a beast waking.
At the top, a massive door waited—black as night, etched with glowing runes.
Elior approached.
The staff hummed in his hand.
He pressed a fragment of memory—his mother's hands—against the door.
The runes flared.
The door shuddered.
It opened.
Inside, darkness breathed.
A single figure waited.
No chains.
No ash.
Just a man.
Older than time.
Eyes like molten gold.
A smile that cut like a blade.
"Welcome, Elior."
Elior stepped inside.
This was the heart of the Crucible.
The final trial.
The moment that would decide everything.
The man's voice was low, slow.
"You carry the past. You carry the pain."
He gestured.
The room exploded.
Shadows.
Light.
Visions.
Elior saw his failures—Arien's fall, the broken village, his father's silence.
They attacked—ghosts from memory.
But this time, Elior stood his ground.
The staff blazed.
He spun, slicing through doubt and regret.
Each strike was a story.
Each blow a choice.
The man watched, calm.
"Do you understand now?"
Elior's voice was steady.
"Memory isn't a chain. It's a sword."
The man smiled wider.
"Then wield it."
The Crucible shook.
The tower groaned.
Light and shadow collided in a storm.
Elior's staff roared with power—light bursting from every fragment.
He charged.
Clashed.
Fought with everything left.
The final strike was a comet of golden light.
It hit the man's chest.
He staggered.
Then smiled.
The Crucible cracked.
The tower began to crumble.
Elior grabbed Seraphis.
"We go. Now."
They ran.
Stones shattered beneath their feet.
Ash roared.
The tower fell apart around them.
But the path to freedom opened.
The gate to a new world.
Elior and Seraphis leapt.
The air burned with possibility.
With pain.
With memory.
They landed.
Breathing.
Alive.
The Crucible behind them, broken.
But the journey wasn't over.
Elior looked at the staff.
It glowed gold, steady now.
He whispered, "This is just the beginning."