Chapter 8:
The hermit's warning hung heavy over the group as night fell. Ashen sat cross-legged in the center of the hut, the relic before him glowing with a quiet intensity. Lira and Caelum kept watch by the entrance, their weapons close at hand.
The hermit stood across from Ashen, their sharp eyes unwavering. "To wield the relic's power, you must face the fragments of yourself you've buried—your fears, your failures, and your anger. The shadows within you are just as powerful as the light you once held."
Ashen's jaw tightened. "I've faced worse. Whatever this trial is, I'll endure it."
The hermit tilted their head. "Enduring it is not enough. You must embrace what you find—or it will consume you."
Before Ashen could respond, the hermit raised their hands, whispering an incantation. The air grew heavy, and the glow of the relic intensified, casting long, twisting shadows across the room.
The world around Ashen began to fade, the warmth of the fire and the presence of his companions slipping away.
---
When Ashen opened his eyes, he stood in a vast, desolate expanse. The ground beneath his feet was cracked and barren, and the sky above him churned with storm clouds that radiated an unnatural, sickly light.
A figure emerged from the distance, its form blurred and indistinct. As it drew closer, Ashen's breath caught.
It was him. Or rather, a twisted reflection of what he once was.
The figure wore golden armor that was tarnished and cracked, and its eyes burned with a malevolent fire. Its face was identical to Ashen's, but there was no warmth in its expression—only contempt.
"You think you can reclaim what you lost?" the reflection sneered, its voice dripping with venom. "You couldn't protect them then, and you can't protect them now."
Ashen's fists clenched. "I didn't come here to argue with a shadow."
The reflection laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "A shadow? Is that all you think I am? I'm the part of you that you've tried to bury—the rage, the guilt, the failure. You can't defeat me because I am you."
The ground trembled as the reflection raised its hand, summoning a massive blade wreathed in black fire. Without hesitation, it lunged at Ashen, the weapon slicing through the air with terrifying speed.
Ashen barely managed to dodge, the blade grazing his shoulder and leaving a searing pain in its wake. He drew his own sword, the familiar weight of it grounding him.
The reflection's attacks were relentless, each strike fueled by an overwhelming fury. Ashen fought back, their blades clashing in a cacophony of steel and flame.
"You've forgotten what it means to be a god!" the reflection snarled. "You let them fall, Azrael! You let *us* fall!"
Ashen's grip on his sword tightened. "I didn't choose to fall! Malthor betrayed us, and I—"
"And you failed," the reflection interrupted, its voice echoing like thunder. "You were supposed to be their savior, and you let them die. You let *her* die."
The words struck like a physical blow, and Ashen staggered. Images flashed through his mind—a city consumed by darkness, a woman's face lit by divine light, her expression filled with sorrow.
"No," he whispered, his voice trembling.
"Yes," the reflection hissed, pressing its advantage. "You couldn't save her, just like you won't save them now. You're weak. You're broken."
Ashen fell to his knees, the weight of his failures crashing down on him. The reflection loomed over him, its blade raised for the final strike.
"Admit it," it said, its voice softer now, almost gentle. "You were never worthy of the power you were given. And you never will be."
The words echoed in Ashen's mind, but as the reflection's blade descended, something deep within him stirred.
A memory.
Not of his failure, but of the moments before it. The faces of those he had fought for. The hope in their eyes. The belief that even in the darkest times, he could be their light.
"I may have failed," Ashen said, his voice steady. He raised his sword, catching the reflection's blade inches from his neck. "But failure doesn't define me. What matters is what I do now."
The reflection snarled, pressing down with all its strength, but Ashen held firm. A soft, golden light began to emanate from his sword, growing brighter with each passing second.
"I am Azrael," he said, his voice resonating with newfound strength. "I am the light that stands against the darkness. And I will not be broken."
The light surged, engulfing the reflection in a blinding wave. It screamed, its form dissolving into smoke and shadows.
When the light faded, Ashen stood alone, his sword glowing faintly in his hand. The barren expanse around him began to shift, the cracked ground blooming with grass and flowers, and the storm clouds dissipating into a clear, starry sky.
---
Ashen opened his eyes to find himself back in the hermit's hut. Lira and Caelum were watching him anxiously, and the hermit stood nearby, their expression unreadable.
"The trial is complete," the hermit said, their voice soft. "You have faced your shadow and emerged stronger."
Ashen looked down at the relic in his hand. It no longer pulsed faintly but shone with a steady, radiant light. He could feel its power flowing through him, stronger and more vibrant than before.
"I still have a long way to go," he said, his voice quiet but firm.
Lira smiled. "But you're one step closer."
Caelum nodded. "And we'll be with you every step of the way."
Ashen met their eyes, a flicker of gratitude stirring within him. For the first time in centuries, he felt the faintest glimmer of hope—not just for the world, but for himself.
Outside, the night was calm, the stars shining brightly above. But somewhere in the distance, a shadow stirred, its presence a reminder that the battle was far from over.