Voryn, Keeper of the Pyric Balance, stepped forward, his fiery orange and red form flickering like living flame. The chamber seemed to warm with his presence, a dry heat radiating outward as the Sovereign's embers danced along his skin. Where Altaris's judgment had been cold and cutting, Voryn brought an intensity that burned with the force of a wildfire, consuming all in its path.
His voice rose to join the symphony of the Twelve, distinct yet seamlessly layered with the others. It was a growl that rumbled with primal energy, building in intensity with each word, demanding the attention of all who heard it. "Kosmo," he began, his tone sharp and deliberate, the warmth of his voice contrasting with the molten fire in his eyes.
"You fought like a flame, contained but alive," Voryn said, his words blazing through the silence left in Altaris's wake. "You burned with purpose, each strike fanning the flames of your resolve. And yet…" He paused, the flickering embers along his skin intensifying as his tone darkened. "Fire must consume to survive. Control is necessary, yes, but without ferocity, it is nothing but a flicker, easily snuffed out. You held back when the match demanded you to burn brighter."
Kosmo knelt before him, his head still bowed, his silence unbroken. The warmth of Voryn's critique pressed against him, a heat that felt both invigorating and stifling. His breaths remained steady, his body unmoving, but the faint tension in his shoulders betrayed the strain of enduring the Sovereign's scrutiny.
Voryn's fiery gaze turned to Alexander, and the intensity of his presence seemed to surge. The heat in the chamber became suffocating, the flickering embers along his form flaring as his molten tone grew heavier. "And you," he said, his voice a smoldering growl.
Alexander shifted uneasily, the abductees beside him instinctively leaning back as the Sovereign's gaze fell upon him. The young man holding the makeshift bandage to Alexander's brow winced as though Voryn's words were physically searing.
"You were a storm without purpose," Voryn declared, his tone rising like a wave of flame. "Wild, reckless, untamed. Chaos can be a weapon, Alexander, but only when wielded with intent. You fought as though your strength alone would ignite victory, but your strength is smoke—thin, fleeting, and choking all who rely on it. You lacked the ferocity to consume, the focus to direct your fire."
Alexander's face twisted with anger, his bloodied features betraying his disbelief. He struggled to straighten, his fists clenching against the stone floor, but the weight of Voryn's voice pinned him in place. His breaths came faster, his defiance flickering like a dying ember.
"You came into this chamber," Voryn continued, his tone growing sharper, "boasting as though you had already conquered. You claimed the right to be seen, to be heard, to be respected. But respect is not given freely. It is taken, forged in the fires of victory. And you, Alexander, have forged nothing. You are ash—a remnant of what might have been but never was."
The heat in the chamber grew unbearable, the intensity of Voryn's presence pressing down on everyone present. Kosmo's stillness remained unbroken, though the warmth seemed to seep into his very bones, testing his endurance. Alexander, by contrast, writhed beneath the Sovereign's judgment, his body trembling as the weight of Voryn's words burned away whatever remained of his earlier arrogance.
"Fire answers fire," Voryn said, his tone softening slightly but retaining its edge. "And Kosmo, your fire has answered. But it must burn brighter still. Contained flames have their place, but a controlled burn must still consume. Learn when to let the fire rage, or it will falter when you need it most."
Kosmo exhaled quietly, his head dipping slightly in acknowledgment. The Sovereign's critique was not unexpected, but the weight of his words left an indelible mark.
Voryn's gaze swept over the chamber, the flickering embers along his form casting dancing shadows across the walls. "The Valcrys demands fire," he concluded, his voice rumbling with finality. "Not smoke, not ash. Burn brightly, or be consumed."
The heat in the room began to fade as Voryn stepped back into the line of the Twelve. His fiery form dimmed slightly, the embers along his skin still flickering faintly but no longer dominating the chamber. Kosmo remained kneeling, his silence steady despite the weight of the Sovereign's expectations. Alexander slumped further, his defiance extinguished, his face a mask of humiliation and barely restrained rage.
The voices of the Twelve began to rise again, weaving seamlessly into the judgment of the next Sovereign. The faint warmth of Voryn's presence lingered in the air, a reminder of the consuming force of his critique.