Alaric stood at the edge of the ruined battlefield, his breath ragged, his body trembling. The beasts had vanished into the void from which they came, leaving behind only the weight of what he had endured. The trial had tested him in ways he had never imagined, pushing him beyond fear, beyond reason. He had survived—but survival was not victory. It was merely a delay of the inevitable.
The path before him stretched into the unknown, its stones worn smooth by footsteps long forgotten. The voice that had guided him before had fallen silent, leaving only the howling wind as his companion. His body ached, his wounds stung, but there was no time to rest. He had no choice but to press forward.
As he walked, the air grew thick, the scent of scorched earth fading into something new—something ancient. The wind carried the scent of molten glass and smouldering embers, the whisper of fire meeting sand. It was an unnatural scent, heavy with power.
The path led him to a place that should not have existed.
A great furnace stood before him, its flames licking the sky like the tongues of hungry demons. The structure was immense, its walls forged from blackened stone, veins of molten gold pulsing through the cracks. The heat was unbearable, pressing against his skin, searing his lungs with every breath.
And then, from the depths of the flames, a figure emerged.
The man was impossibly old, his face carved with lines deeper than time itself. His eyes, twin orbs of molten gold, glowed with a light that was neither kind nor cruel—it was the light of knowledge, of truths that could shatter the mind. His robes shimmered like liquid fire, shifting between colours Alaric had no name for.
The Glassmaker.
Alaric felt his knees weaken. He had heard of this being in whispers and legends, but no tale had prepared him for the reality of his presence. This was no ordinary man—this was a force, an entity that existed beyond mortal comprehension.
"You have come far," the Glassmaker said, his voice like grinding stone, deep and unwavering. "But distance is not progress. Survival is not wisdom."
Alaric swallowed hard. "I—"
The glassmaker raised a hand, silencing him. "I know why you are here. But tell me, do you?"
The question was simple, but it carried a weight that threatened to crush him. Did he truly understand his purpose? Or had he been stumbling blindly, a pawn in a game he did not comprehend?
The Glassmaker stepped closer, his presence warping the very air around him. "You seek the truth. But truth is not given—it is forged. It is melted, shaped, and tempered. It must survive the fire before it can become clear."
With a wave of his hand, the glassmaker gestured toward the great furnace. Within its depths, something shimmered—a fragment of glass, glowing like a captured star. "Look upon it," the old man commanded.
Alaric hesitated but obeyed.
The moment his eyes met the glass, his mind was torn from his body.
He was no longer standing before the Glassmaker. He was somewhere else—somewhen else.
Visions struck like lightning, searing his soul.
A man, standing atop a broken tower, his hands covered in blood.
A child, screaming in the darkness, her eyes hollow, her voice lost to the void.
A battlefield, bodies upon bodies, the stench of death thick in the air.
And then—himself.
Alaric saw himself standing at the edge of an abyss, his reflection distorted in the glass beneath his feet. But the reflection was wrong. His eyes burnt with an unnatural fire. His hands trembled with the weight of something unseen. He was not himself. He was something else.
The vision shattered, and he was thrown back into reality, gasping, his heart pounding like a war drum.
The glassmaker watched him with knowing eyes.
"You have seen," he said. "Now, tell me—what have you learnt?"
Alaric struggled to find the words. His mind reeled from what he had witnessed, from the truths that had been forced upon him.
"The glass…" he whispered. "It shows what is hidden."
The glassmaker nodded. "Glass is fragile, yet it endures. It is formed through destruction—fire, heat, pressure. And only through this pain does it become clear."
Alaric clenched his fists. The meaning was clear. His journey was far from over. The flames that had tested him were only the beginning. There would be more trials, more suffering. But if he endured, if he survived the fire, he would emerge something new.
Something stronger.
The glassmaker turned, lifting the glowing fragment from the furnace with his bare hands. The heat did not burn him. "Take it," he commanded.
Alaric hesitated. The glass pulsed with power, with knowledge. He reached out, feeling its warmth against his skin. The moment his fingers closed around it, a sharp pain lanced through his palm. The glass was searing, branding itself into his flesh.
But he did not let go.
The pain was unbearable, but he held firm, his jaw clenched, his breath shallow. This was his trial. His test.
The fire did not consume him.
It transformed him.
When he finally pulled his hand away, the glass had changed. It was no longer a fragment—it was a symbol, etched into his skin, glowing with an inner light. A mark.
A mark of wisdom.
The glassmaker smiled, the first hint of warmth in his molten eyes. "You are ready for what comes next."
The air shifted. The furnace dimmed. The world around him blurred.
And then, he was alone.
The glassmaker was gone.
But his words remained.
Alaric looked at his hand, at the glowing mark seared into his flesh. The pain was fading, replaced by something else.
Resolve.
The path forward was uncertain. The trials ahead would be relentless. But he was no longer the man who had stumbled into the fla
mes.
He had been tempered.
And he would not break.