The enclave's leader, who introduced herself as Lysara, wasted no time in testing Azaelith's resolve. She led her to a large cavern where the rebels trained, sparring with wooden swords and practicing magic.
"You want to lead us?" Lysara said. "Then show us what you're made of."
Azaelith squared her shoulders. "What do you have in mind?"
Lysara smirked. "A trial. Survive it, and we'll talk."
The trial was brutal. Azaelith was led to a pit where she faced off against a monstrous beast—a creature born of magic and nightmares. Its claws were as long as swords, its eyes glowing with a feral intelligence.
The rebels gathered around the pit, watching in tense silence. Azaelith felt the weight of their expectations, but she refused to let fear take hold.
The battle was fierce. The beast lunged at her, its movements swift and deadly. Azaelith drew on the power of the Devil's Mark, her red eyes blazing as she dodged and countered. Her strikes were precise, her movements fluid.
When the beast finally fell, its body collapsing in a heap, the cavern erupted in cheers. Azaelith stood over its lifeless form, her chest heaving with exertion. She had proven herself.
Lysara approached, her expression unreadable. "You've got skill," she admitted. "But skill alone won't be enough to take down the Ascendants."
Azaelith met her gaze. "Then we'll need to find something stronger."