The Warlock tilted his head, studying Andrei. "Ah, the one who has lost his magic. You reek of desperation." His voice dripped with disdain. "But desperation can be useful."
"What's the price?" Mathea interjected, her tone sharp.
The Warlock chuckled, a low, menacing sound. "Not so fast. First, a test of loyalty and intent. If you truly wish to face Lord Anjo, you must prove you're ready to pay the ultimate price."
"And what does that mean?" Jea asked cautiously.
The Warlock raised a hand, and the room shifted. The walls seemed to dissolve, replaced by a swirling vortex of darkness. Shapes began to form—familiar faces twisted in agony, the echoes of screams reverberating in their ears.
"You must each confront the weight of your choices," the Warlock said. "Only those who overcome their guilt and fear can stand against Lord Anjo. Fail, and your souls will remain here, feeding my power."
Before they could react, the vortex consumed them, plunging them into their own trials once more—but this time, there would be no escape without sacrifice.
Andrei stood in a field of ash, the remains of his past glory scattered around him. Figures from his life appeared, their faces accusing. "You abandoned us," they said in unison. "You let power consume you, and when it was gone, so were we."
"I didn't abandon you!" Andrei shouted. "I lost everything trying to protect you!"
The figures loomed closer, their eyes glowing like the Warlock's. "Then prove it. What are you willing to give to regain what you've lost?"
Mathea found herself in the throne room of the Witch Kingdom, her father, King Rhyan, seated on his dark throne. "You think you can escape what you are?" he sneered. "You are a pawn, just like your mother was."
"I am nothing like you!" Mathea spat.
King Rhyan's laughter echoed, filling the space. "Then why do you carry the weight of my sins? Perhaps because you know deep down you're just like me."
Mathea's hands balled into fists. "I'll prove you wrong."
The trials would challenge them, forcing them to confront their deepest regrets and fears. But only those who emerged stronger would be deemed worthy to continue.
In the chamber, the Warlock waited, his expression unreadable as he watched their struggles unfold. "Let's see who survives the truth."
As the trials continued, each member of the group struggled with their darkest fears, their regrets, their broken pasts, but one stood apart from the others: Jea.
While the others fought their battles in isolation, Jea was still, her eyes closed, her hands clasped in front of her chest. Her breathing was slow, steady, the rhythm of a calm heart, her body radiating an aura of warmth. She could feel the pulse of the others' trials—feel the weight of their turmoil like a tangible presence in the air. She could see their struggles in the threads of magic that flowed around them. The swirling strands of power—some dark, some light, some broken—were woven with their fears, binding them to their pain and regret.
Jea's magic was never one of raw power. It was gentle, restorative. She could not destroy with her hands, but she could heal with her heart. She could see the strands of magic and how they pulsed with emotion, with brokenness. She had always been able to feel the fragility of the mind and soul, to understand that true healing came from within, but she had never known how deeply the others would need it.
And now, standing within the vortex of darkness, she knew it was her turn to heal.
Her hand extended toward Andrei first. She could see his thread—flickering, unstable—his past self unraveling before him, overwhelmed by loss. She reached out to him, her heart stretching toward his, a quiet whisper in the deep chaos. "Andrei," she murmured, her voice soft, yet unmistakably clear in his mind. "You are not defined by your mistakes. You are more than what you've lost."
The world around Andrei faltered, the vision of guilt and failure twisting in on itself. For a moment, the swirling darkness hesitated, as though uncertain whether to embrace him or let him go. Andrei's hand trembled, the echo of his trials still clutching at his chest, but Jea's magic was a warmth that seeped into his soul, knitting together the cracks that had formed over years of struggle.
Jea felt it—the thread of his despair slowly shifting, the pain that had been consuming him unraveling. She reached deeper into him, weaving the broken strands back together with her magic, tying them with threads of hope, acceptance, and strength.
Andrei's eyes shot open, his breath quick, but his face was no longer clouded by doubt. He stared at Jea, his expression softening. "You..." He struggled to find words. "How did you—?"
Jea smiled faintly, her own gaze unwavering as she turned her focus toward Mathea. "We are connected. All of us. You don't have to do this alone."
Next, she turned her attention to Mathea, who stood frozen in the shadow of her father's throne, haunted by the specter of King Rhyan. The dark, twisted thread of her magic trembled in front of Jea—conflicted, fractured by years of pain, self-doubt, and fear of her heritage. Mathea's past was a weight she could never fully escape, the harsh grip of her father's cruelty pulling at the very core of her being.
Jea extended her hand toward Mathea. "This isn't your burden to carry alone," Jea whispered, her voice soft but sure.
Mathea's breath hitched, her chest tightening as the shadows around her flickered. The vision of her father, of her kingdom, loomed larger, its voice louder. "You are my legacy. You are no different from me, Mathea. You'll never escape this."
But Jea's magic—gentle, yet strong—enfolded Mathea like a blanket, caressing her soul. Slowly, the dark thread around her unraveled, not by force, but by love and acceptance. Jea saw Mathea's true strength—not in her ability to run, but in her choice to rise, to break free. Jea whispered again, "You are not your father's shadow, Mathea. You are the light that chooses its own path."