The chill of the night air hit Rylan the moment he stepped away from the fire, its sharpness seeping through his clothes as if the wildlands themselves were testing his resolve. He felt exposed, vulnerable. The trees loomed tall and twisted, their branches clawing at the sky, and the mist curled around his ankles like ghostly chains. With no sword and no cloak, he was stripped down to his instincts alone.
Rylan paused, listening as the sounds of the forest swelled around him—the distant howl of a wolf, the skittering of unseen creatures in the underbrush, and the occasional eerie rustle from above. He clenched his fists, steadying himself, and took a deep breath, his senses sharpening as he let go of the comforts of home and embraced the primal thrill of survival.
But he hadn't gone far when the first signs of his trial emerged.
A pair of eyes flashed in the darkness ahead, and a low growl cut through the quiet. Rylan halted, holding his breath as a large shadow moved, sleek and silent, from behind a cluster of trees. It was a lynx, its fur blending into the dim surroundings, muscles rippling under its coat. Its gaze fixed on him with an unnerving intensity, as if it was deciding whether he was prey.
Rylan knew better than to run; it would only trigger the predator's instincts. Instead, he stood his ground, slowly raising his hands in a gesture of calm, trying to project a confidence he barely felt.
"Easy there," he murmured, his voice low. "I'm not here to harm you."
The lynx's ears twitched, its body tense and poised to strike. For a tense moment, they held eye contact, and then—seemingly satisfied that he wasn't a threat—the creature huffed, stepping back into the shadows. Rylan released a slow breath, feeling a rush of gratitude for his training in Sunhold. He'd been taught to handle himself against predators, though nothing quite prepared him for the raw reality of facing them alone.
Yet the wildlands were not done testing him.
As he moved deeper into the woods, the terrain grew treacherous, the ground slick with moss and hidden roots that seemed to catch at his boots. The air was thick with fog, obscuring his view of the path ahead. Every few paces, a new sound would startle him—the snap of a branch, the hoot of an owl, the distant echo of a wolf's howl. He knew the shamans of Va'Korin were testing his ability to trust the land itself, to rely on the natural cues and rhythms he could barely interpret.
A sense of disorientation set in. He tried to recall his direction but realized he'd lost track of his bearings. Panic threatened to bubble up, but he forced it down, focusing on steadying his breath. He could not fail now, not when so much depended on him gaining the trust of the Va'Korin.
Then, a faint light appeared through the mist, flickering like a lone star in the depths of the forest. Drawn to it, Rylan picked his way carefully through the underbrush, his curiosity overcoming his caution. As he neared, he saw that the light was coming from a small, hidden glade surrounded by ancient stones etched with markings—glyphs that seemed to pulse with their own inner fire.
A figure knelt beside a low, flickering fire at the center of the stones, their face hidden beneath a hood, their hands moving in a rhythmic pattern over the flames. Rylan's breath caught; this had to be one of the Va'Korin shamans. He had heard tales of their magic, of how they could speak to the spirits of the land and call upon creatures older than human memory. But to see one here, in the flesh, was something else entirely.
"Come forward, Eryndorian," the shaman's voice drifted to him, soft yet commanding. "The wilds have already told me of your approach."
Swallowing his nerves, Rylan stepped forward, moving cautiously until he was within the circle of stones. The shaman's face remained in shadow, but he could feel their eyes on him, studying him as if looking past his flesh to something deeper within.
"You seek the blessing of Va'Korin?" the shaman asked, their voice a strange mixture of warmth and steel.
"Yes," Rylan replied, steadying his voice. "I come as a scout of Eryndor, in search of an alliance. Lady Aria herself sent me to prove our trust and honor in your lands."
The shaman tilted their head, a faint smile curving beneath the hood. "The trust of the Va'Korin is not easily won, and no words will sway our hearts. Actions alone speak here." They extended a hand, gesturing to a small pouch tied to their belt. "Drink this."
Rylan hesitated, his instincts screaming at him to be wary, but he forced himself to push past the fear. This was a trial; he'd known it from the moment he left the safety of Sunhold. He reached out, accepting the pouch and uncorking it. A strong, earthy scent wafted up from the dark liquid within, its bitter edge making his stomach turn.
He closed his eyes and drank.
The taste was foul, sharp and sour, with a burn that seemed to sear his throat. He forced it down, his body protesting, and a strange warmth spread through his veins. The edges of his vision blurred, and the sounds of the forest around him grew louder, clearer. Colors deepened, shadows danced, and he felt an unfamiliar energy pulse within him—a sensation both empowering and terrifying.
When he opened his eyes, the shaman was watching him, their gaze solemn. "The brew you drank connects you to the land," they said. "Now, the spirits of Va'Korin can judge you."
Rylan's vision shifted, the trees and stones taking on an almost ethereal glow. Shapes appeared in the shadows—wisps of light, twisting and coiling like smoke, each one carrying a different face, some human, some beast. They watched him with curious, unreadable expressions, voices whispering in a language he didn't recognize.
The shaman raised their hands, chanting in the old tongue, their voice low and melodic, each word resonating in Rylan's bones. The spirits drifted closer, their forms shifting, merging, becoming one entity—a large, powerful beast with the body of a stag, the claws of a bear, and eyes that seemed to see through to his very soul.
"Why do you seek the blessing of the Va'Korin?" the spirit's voice echoed in his mind, a deep, rumbling sound that felt like thunder.
Rylan steadied himself, looking into the creature's luminous eyes. "I seek it because our lands are threatened. Eryndor faces war with Drakkenfell, and if we stand alone, we may fall. We need the strength of Va'Korin to stand against the Empire."
The spirit tilted its head, the light of its gaze flickering. "And if the Va'Korin refuse? If we reject you?"
"Then I will still fight," Rylan said, his voice firm. "Whether I stand alone or with allies, I will protect my homeland. My purpose remains, with or without your aid."
The spirit studied him, the weight of its gaze pressing on him like a mountain. But then, slowly, it lowered its head, a hint of approval gleaming in its eyes.
"You speak with courage," it said. "But courage alone is not enough. We will grant you one final trial, Eryndorian. Only through this will you earn our blessing."
The spirit turned, gesturing with a flick of its antlered head to a shadowed path winding deeper into the forest. "Beyond this glade lies the Valley of Echoes. There, you must face the wraiths of your past, the memories that haunt you. Only when you overcome them will you be truly worthy."
Rylan felt a chill settle in his stomach. The Valley of Echoes was a place of legend—a realm where Va'Korin's shamans went to commune with the spirits of the departed, where the line between memory and reality blurred. The thought of facing it alone was daunting, but he knew there was no other choice.
He nodded, determination settling over him like armor. "I understand. I will not fail."
The spirit's gaze softened, and the shaman's voice drifted over him like a whisper. "Then go, Rylan of Tressam. If you are worthy, you will emerge as kin to the Va'Korin."
With one last look at the shaman and the spirit beast, Rylan turned, stepping onto the path. Shadows twisted around him as he moved deeper into the forest, the air thick with anticipation. He felt the weight of his past pressing close, memories surfacing unbidden—faces, moments, regrets he had long buried.
As he neared the Valley of Echoes, the silence grew absolute, pressing in on him until even the sound of his own breathing seemed to vanish. The trees parted, and he stepped into the valley—a place shrouded in mist, where strange shapes moved in the fog, their forms shifting and changing.
One by one, the phantoms of his past appeared—old friends lost, family members he'd failed to protect, moments of weakness and doubt. Each one confronted him, their voices accusing, their faces twisted with sorrow and disappointment. It was as if the forest itself was peeling back his defenses, laying his soul bare.
Rylan struggled against the weight of their words, the memories pressing down on him, threatening to drown him in regret. But he clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. These ghosts were a part of him, but they did not define him. He faced each one, acknowledging their pain and letting go of his own guilt, one memory at a time.
Finally, the last phantom faded, leaving him alone in the valley. He stood there, chest heaving, feeling strangely… lighter. As the mist began to clear, he sensed a presence behind him.
Turning, he saw the spirit beast watching him, a look of quiet respect in its luminous eyes.
"You have faced your past with courage," it said. "You are worthy, Rylan of Tressam."
The beast bowed its head, and a warm glow surrounded him, the land itself seeming to embrace him. He felt a surge of energy, a strange, grounding strength, as if he had become part of the wildlands.
When the light faded, he found himself back at the edge of the glade, the shaman standing before him.
"Welcome, Rylan," the shaman said, a hint of pride in their voice. "From this day forth, you are kin to Va'Korin."
Rylan bowed his head, gratitude swelling within him. He had passed the trial. And with the blessing of Va'Korin, he knew he would return to Eryndor not just as a scout but as a bridge between two worlds. The alliance had begun.