Ren Zian stood at the edge of the Maw, the warmth of Maelin's memory still clinging to him like dying embers. The others gathered close, eyes searching his face for the man they knew before he descended. Something in him had changed—hardened and healed all at once.
Nyelle reached for his arm. "You saw her, didn't you?"
He nodded slowly. "I didn't just see her. I lived her death."
A hush fell. The Dreamwraith behind them let out a sorrowful hum, as if mourning a goddess lost long ago.
Eira pressed her hand to his chest. "Your heartbeat... it's slower."
"It'll never beat the same," he said softly. "But I remember now. That pain... it's mine."
Before the others could speak, the skies above Harael rumbled—black clouds spiraling in a vortex of divine rage. A figure stepped forward from the spiraling storm, garbed in flowing robes of crimson and gold, eyes glinting like sunlit obsidian.
"The Seventh Trial approaches," the stranger boomed. "And it will not wait for your grief to settle."
"Who are you?" Arin asked, stepping in front of Ren.
"I am Vaelar, Warden of the Seventh Flame. My task is to test the memory you've gained... and rip it apart if it's not truly yours."
Ren's jaw clenched. "I won't fail her again."
Vaelar raised a hand, and the world cracked open.
They stood now in a ruined temple, split down the center by a fault of lightning and time. Statues of faceless angels wept streams of molten light. The test had begun.
"You will walk this place," Vaelar said, "and face three doors. One will show you a love unearned, one a betrayal unfinished, and one… your fate if you had never been reborn."
"And what's the trial?" Ren asked.
"To choose none of them."
The doors shimmered into existence, flanked by thorns of glass.
Lyra whispered, "It's a trick. All three are illusions meant to break you."
Ren approached the first door. Inside, he saw a world where he and Lyra had lived together—married, peaceful, a cottage by the sea. Children ran across the shore.
He could almost hear them laugh. He took a step forward—
—and stopped.
"It's not real," he whispered. "That happiness never came without sacrifice."
He turned to the second door.
Inside, Arin stood in the rain, sword drawn against Ren's back. He was weeping, lips moving, but no sound reached. It was the moment Ren had almost died—the betrayal that never completed.
Ren's heart ached, but he stepped back. "That was never your fault, Arin."
Then the third door.
He saw himself—a version without power, without the gods' interference. He was alone, begging on the streets. Forgotten.
He turned his back to it.
"I choose none," he said aloud.
Vaelar's laughter echoed through the ruins. "Then you pass."
The doors shattered. Light returned.
Vaelar vanished.
Ren turned to his companions. "Let's move. We don't stop until the Seventh Pact is ours."
Nyelle raised an eyebrow. "And what price will this one demand?"
He didn't answer. But he clutched Maelin's ring tighter.