The wind howled outside, rattling the windows of the ancient Oswin estate, casting eerie shadows that danced in the candlelight. I sat in the library once again, the same book on spatial magic open before me, though the words had begun to blur.
The Trial of the Founder loomed closer, a specter haunting every waking moment. Its shadow followed me wherever I went, twisting every conversation, every lesson, every thought. Even Cedric had grown more distant, his once commanding presence now muted by something he hadn't shared with me yet.
I closed the book, rubbing my temples. The weight of uncertainty crushed me—every path led to more confusion. The Voice, always lurking in the recesses of my mind, had woven threads of doubt so thick I couldn't tell where Aric began and I ended. I had lost so much already. What was real anymore?
"Alright, let's think." I muttered, though I wasn't sure for whose benefit—mine or the Voice's.
The truth was, I had no idea how I'd ended up here, in this world, in Aric's body. The early days, I had adjusted too quickly. That realization clawed at me, unsettling in its simplicity. Was that my doing—or someone else's? The Voice had erased parts of me, parts of Aric too. We were both fragmented, walking echoes.
But the strangest part? No one seemed to care. I was supposed to be the next Oswin heir, yet here I was, untrained, unprepared, and inexplicably weaker than the others. It didn't add up. Was this deliberate, orchestrated by some unseen hand?
'Maybe the Voice had been manipulating Aric long before I showed up,' I thought, the suspicion burning in my chest. 'But if that's true, why didn't Aric recognize it when we saw the figure in the void?'
I tried again, reaching out into the hollow spaces of my mind. "Hey, are you there?"
Silence. Again.
I clenched my fists, frustration boiling. My memories—pieces I should have known—slipped away, like grains of sand through my fingers. Was this all part of a greater game? Had I read about mana control, the intricacies of magic, only to forget them because of the Voice's interference?
"What the hell is going on?" My voice echoed through the empty library, swallowed by the silence. "Am I just a puppet, pulled by strings I can't see? Will I even remember this conversation tomorrow?"
The thought chilled me to my core. Was I losing myself, little by little, piece by piece? Would there be anything left by the time the Trial arrived?
The wind picked up outside, howling through the cracks in the window frame. The candles flickered violently, casting long, twisted shadows that seemed to stretch and writhe across the floor.
I stared at them, transfixed, as the shadows seemed to pulse in time with the erratic beating of my heart. Shapes formed in the darkness—indistinct, but familiar. Figures I couldn't place, memories I couldn't reach.
A knock on the library door interrupted my thoughts.
"Come in," I called, my voice carrying a trace of fatigue.
Lysandra entered, her dark cloak trailing behind her as she stepped into the room. Her eyes swept the scene, quickly noticing the stack of untouched books on the table. She gave a curt nod, her expression unreadable.
"You're letting your mind wander again," she said without preamble, crossing the room to stand beside the hearth. The flames cast an orange glow over her sharp features, making her look even more severe.
"I'm trying to focus," I replied, my tone sharper than intended. "But something feels off. Like I'm missing a piece of the puzzle."
Lysandra crossed her arms, her gaze steady. "You're not missing anything that training won't fix."
I sighed, frustration creeping in. "How can I face the Trial without any idea what's coming? My father has left me with no information. It's like he's withholding everything on purpose."
She stepped closer, her boots lightly clicking on the stone floor. "Maybe he is. But not because he doesn't trust you. Cedric sees things differently—he's not the kind of person to throw you into the fire without reason."
I shook my head. "It doesn't make sense. Everyone talks about the Trial as if it's this impossible task, but how am I supposed to prepare without knowing the details? What's the point?"
"Because the Trial isn't something you can prepare for with specifics," Lysandra's voice was firm but understanding. "It's a test of your will, not just your magic or strength."
I clenched my jaw, the word 'will' felt like a vague, hollow answer to something that demanded more. "But what about the Veil? The Wyrd? How can willpower be enough against those things?"
Lysandra studied me carefully, her voice lowering to almost a whisper. "The Trial doesn't just test your strength, Aric. It pushes you to confront yourself. Magic and combat can only take you so far. The real challenge is overcoming what's already inside you."
Her words felt like a weight settling on my chest. I'd seen the fringes of that truth in training—how tapping into mana was as much mental as physical. But this was different. The Trial seemed to be something I couldn't fully prepare for.
"And my father?" I pressed. "What is he waiting for?"
Lysandra's lips tightened, a brief shadow crossing her face. "He's waiting for you to be ready in ways that you can't see yet. This is more than just another challenge. It's a rite of passage for the Oswin line, and it'll take everything you've got. Even things you don't think you have."
The uncertainty, the fear of not being enough. My hands tightened into fists at my sides. "Then what am I supposed to do? Just hope I can handle whatever it throws at me?"
She smiled faintly, the firelight flickering in her eyes. "Not hope. Prepare. Trust the training and push yourself harder than ever before. Tomorrow at dawn, we'll continue. You'll need every ounce of your strength."
Her words echoed in the silence long after she left, the soft click of the door almost a mockery of the storm brewing inside me. The Trial wasn't just an ordeal; it was a reckoning. A test not only of my strength, but of everything I feared I couldn't be. And whatever I would find waiting on the other side of that mirror... it was already lurking somewhere inside me.
---
The Next Morning:
Lysandra's sword sliced the air, the sharp whistle of steel cutting through the quiet dawn. I barely managed to parry her strike, the clash of metal ringing out as I staggered back, the impact vibrating through my bones.
"Focus!" she barked, eyes blazing as she closed the distance again, her blade flashing toward me in a relentless assault. "Stop thinking. The Trial won't give you time for thought. It will rip you apart if you're not ready."
I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to meet her blows. Each strike felt heavier than the last, and not just because of the physical strain. There was something deeper pressing down on me—an invisible weight that grew with every passing second.
Her next strike came without warning, aimed straight at my chest. Instinctively, I twisted, the blade just grazing my side, a line of fire searing my skin. The pain was sharp, but I held my ground.
"Good," she said, her voice tight with approval. "But not enough."
She wasn't slowing down. If anything, she was speeding up, pushing me harder, faster. Sweat dripped from my brow, but I didn't stop. Couldn't stop. This wasn't just sparring. This was my preparation for the unknown, and Lysandra wasn't going to let me face it half-prepared.
"You think too much about what's ahead," she continued, her strikes coming quicker, more precise. "You have to rely on your instincts."
My instincts. I wasn't sure I had any left to trust. Years of training and knowledge were supposed to be enough, but right now, in the face of her unrelenting force, everything I thought I knew felt flimsy—like a shield made of paper.
Her next swing knocked the sword from my grip, sending it spinning across the dirt. I stumbled back, gasping for air, my body screaming for rest.
Lysandra lowered her sword, staring at me with a hard, assessing gaze.
"Pick it up," she commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument.
I hesitated, but only for a moment. I crossed the space between us, retrieving my weapon with shaking hands.
"You'll face more than just enemies in the Trial," she said, her voice quiet now, almost distant. "It's not just about surviving what's thrown at you. It's about confronting yourself—every failure, every fear. If you can't do that, no amount of training will save you."
The truth of her words cut deeper than any wound she could've inflicted. I had faced enemies before, battled against impossible odds. But facing myself? Facing the weight of my own expectations, my own failures? That was a fight I wasn't sure I knew how to win.
"Again," Lysandra ordered, raising her sword.
---
That night, I found myself staring into the reflection in my quarters—my own eyes staring back, but there was something unfamiliar in them. A shadow. Who am I really? A warrior? A failure? Something in between?
Lysandra's words lingered in my mind, sharp as the blade she wielded. The Trial would reveal everything I'd hidden from myself, every fear I refused to acknowledge. There would be no running from it, no escaping what lay within.
I gripped the hilt of my sword, feeling its weight, and wondered: when the time came, would I be strong enough to face the truth? Or would I fall, like so many before me?
Tomorrow, the training would continue, but tonight, it was just me—and the questions I didn't know how to answer.
...
The clash of swords echoed in Aric's mind, but it was not just the physical battle that wore him down. As the days of relentless training pressed forward, he realized something had slipped through his grasp. The cultist. Lyra. Elyndra. How had he forgotten about them? Again.
A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "Losing myself... I'll be a puppet soon enough."
He winced, not from Lysandra's strikes but from the sudden weight of guilt. Those encounters, those fleeting moments, seemed like echoes of a distant dream—blurred, almost forgotten. The deeper he delved into his role as the Oswin heir, the more fragmented those memories became.
Lyra, her bright, questioning eyes. Elyndra's cryptic warnings, her presence veiled in mystery. And the cultist… That twisted figure whose words still haunted the darkest corners of Aric's mind. How had these people—so vital to understanding his new reality—slipped away? His chest tightened. Was it the Voice's doing, or was he simply losing himself in the tides of expectation and fear?
In his heart, Aric knew he couldn't afford distractions, but these weren't just distractions. These were threads of a mystery too large for him to see in full, yet critical to unravel. Each name brought a new sense of urgency, a deeper fear of what he'd forgotten and why. The trial wasn't just testing his strength—it was pushing him to forget.
His breaths came shorter as he leaned against the cold stone wall of the estate's courtyard, the sound of Lysandra's sword drills fading behind him. Aric clutched his sword tightly, as if it could somehow anchor him to the reality he was trying to understand.
"Why am I forgetting them?" he muttered to himself. He could still picture the moments—Elyndra's cryptic warning as she spoke about the gods, Lyra's curiosity as she tried to piece together her own fragmented understanding of the world. And the cultist… what had he said? Something about the veil, about secrets buried deeper than Aric could see.
Yet now, those memories seemed fragile, like they were being deliberately pushed to the back of his mind. "Am I being led astray?" Aric murmured, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.
Lysandra had spoken of confronting himself. But how could he, when pieces of his life were being stripped away, forgotten? There had to be a reason, a purpose behind the haze settling over his mind. Could it be Cedric, his father? Or the relic? Perhaps the Voice, bending his perception and blurring what mattered most.
A sense of dread washed over him, stronger than the fear of the Trial itself. He was not just preparing to face the Founder's will. He was preparing to face whatever force was rewriting his mind, and whether he could resist its pull.
Aric took a steadying breath. No more forgetting. He'd failed to prioritize those pieces before, but not now. He would find the threads again—Lyra, Elyndra, the cultist. And when the time came, he would demand answers, no matter what forces sought to erase them from his memory.
For now, however, the Trial loomed. But Aric vowed: once it was over, he would hunt for what had been stolen from him. The past might be blurry, but the future wouldn't be.
He headed back to the training ground, mind sharper, determined. The time to confront the Trial and the veil of secrets was approaching.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Aric felt like more than just a hollow shell. He felt alive.
...