The air around Lyra and Alaric thickened as the skeletal hand of the hooded figure withdrew. The corridor behind them faded into darkness, leaving only the glowing glyphs on the Whispering Gate and the abyss that lay ahead.
"Step forward, and your fears will take shape" the figure intoned. "Only by facing them can you unlock the truth."
Lyra swallowed hard, her fingers curling into fists. She had faced countless dangers, but nothing terrified her more than what lurked within her own heart. Alaric nodded to her, his own resolve solidified. Together, they stepped into the unknown.
At once, the world around them twisted. They were no longer in the corridor but standing in a desolate battlefield under a blood-red sky. The air smelled of ash and sorrow. Broken weapons and shattered banners lay strewn across the land, and in the distance, ghostly figures clashed in silent combat.
Lyra gasped as she recognized the place—it was the village where she had lost everything.
"No" she whispered, staggering back. "This isn't real."
A figure emerged from the ruins, its face hidden beneath a tattered hood, just like the one that haunted her dreams. It raised a burning blade, pointing it directly at her.
"You failed us" the figure said, its voice layered with countless echoes.
Alaric turned, finding himself standing before his own nightmare—a ring of fallen comrades, their hollow eyes filled with unspoken accusations. He clenched his jaw, gripping his sword. "I will not be bound by my past."
The shadows closed in around them, pressing tighter. The trial had begun.
Lyra took a deep breath, stepping toward the phantom from her past. "I won't run anymore." She summoned her will, and the world trembled in response.
The battle for their souls had begun.