Episode 4 – Trial of Echoes
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The moon hung high over the Sanctum like a silver sentinel, cold and unmoving. The wind whispered across the marble walkways of the Inner Citadel, carrying with it the scent of burning incense and ancient magic. Torches lit without flame flickered with a pale blue hue, illuminating the carved runes on the walls—symbols of judgment, fate, and transcendence.
Zane stood still at the center of the trial chamber, the polished obsidian floor reflecting his tense posture and furrowed brows. Around him, eight other candidates waited in silence, spaced like points on a ritual circle. Some clutched grimoires, others bore enchanted weapons, and a few wore intricate ceremonial gear layered with talismans.
Zane had only the black coat they'd given him and the strange mark still lingering faintly on the back of his left hand—the sigil that had appeared when he first touched the Worldcore Shard. It pulsed once, faintly, as if responding to the charged air.
Sylfa stood on a raised platform above, flanked by High Magister Vaelik and the blindfolded Seeress Helryn, her silver-blind eyes unseeing yet all-knowing.
"Tonight," Sylfa announced, her voice a melody of command and mystery, "you face the Echoes of the World. Not illusions, not dreams—fragments of truth, from past, present, and what may yet be."
"The Trial of Echoes," Magister Vaelik continued, his voice like grinding stone, "will unearth who you are beneath your magic. Those who lie to themselves will be consumed. Those who run will vanish."
The floor began to glow. Circular patterns formed around each candidate, magical runes interlocking and shifting. Then the obsidian surface beneath them shimmered like rippling water and... fell away.
One by one, they dropped into the darkness below—no scream, no resistance, just faith or pride. Zane hesitated for a breath, staring into the abyss.
"Zane," Sylfa called gently, her tone warmer than before. "Whatever you see in there—don't look away."
He nodded, clenched his jaw, and jumped.
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He landed without impact.
The world around him shifted like a painting in water. Shapes bled into one another—ruined towers, battlefield skies, crumbling temples, children laughing in ghost towns. The air was thick with memory. He was in the Echo Chamber now, where time had no meaning.
He walked forward, footsteps silent. He could hear the voices of the world—echoes of betrayal, of love, of war. Somewhere, someone was begging for mercy. Somewhere else, someone laughed as they cast the final spell in a doomed war.
Then, the world settled.
He stood in a grand throne room of black marble and flickering golden flame. The walls were carved with sigils he did not understand but instinctively feared. Above, a massive stained-glass dome portrayed a sun being split down the middle.
On the throne sat a man.
Zane froze.
It was… himself.
Older. Taller. Eyes like molten gold. He wore dark robes and armor etched with glowing runes, and on his head sat a jagged crown made of bone and crystal. In one hand, he held a staff pulsing with forbidden energy. The other hand rested on the armrest where a chained, weeping god knelt.
"You've arrived," the future-Zane said, voice calm and resonant with impossible authority. "You always do."
Zane's breath caught. "What is this?"
The crowned version of him rose from the throne. "A truth. A possibility. A version of you born not from fear… but purpose."
The room trembled slightly with each step the future-Zane took. "The world is cruel, broken, and built on lies. I ended it. I rebuilt it in my image. The weak no longer suffer. The strong no longer rule unchecked."
"At what cost?" Zane asked, fists clenched.
"A small one. Freedom is an illusion. But order? Peace? That's real."
He gestured to the surrounding hall.
A thousand divine beings knelt—bound in shimmering chains of light, blindfolded, horned, winged, alien and holy.
"The gods knelt because I gave them no choice," the dark king said. "Because I became what no one else dared: the Architect of a new world."
Zane's knees trembled, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm not you."
The echo stepped closer. "Not yet."
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The vision cracked.
Zane staggered backward, falling to his hands as the world twisted, bleeding into a mist of light and pain. Whispers screamed in his ear. He clutched his head.
"You deny what you could become," a voice growled—deeper, primal, ancient.
It wasn't the king.
It was the thing inside him—the presence he'd felt since touching the Shard.
"Power craves shape. You are unformed. Soon… you will choose."
"I won't become that," Zane gasped. "No matter what happens."
The voice laughed. "Then fight destiny. But remember—every tyrant began as someone who thought they'd be different."
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When the light faded, Zane lay on cold stone.
Back in the real world.
His breathing was ragged. Sweat soaked his clothes. His muscles trembled like he'd fought a war.
Above him, Sylfa knelt. Her hands glowed as they hovered over his chest.
"Stay with me," she whispered, wiping blood from beneath his nose. "You made it back."
He blinked slowly, turning his head.
Of the nine who entered… only four remained.
Two others were lying unconscious nearby, twitching. One girl screamed in her sleep, curled into a ball. One boy stared blankly at nothing.
Magister Vaelik loomed above. "You have passed the Trial of Echoes."
His expression was grim.
"No celebration. No reward. Only revelation. You are not yet chosen. But you have not been broken."
Zane tried to sit up, and Sylfa helped him gently. He met her gaze—and saw a flicker of fear in her eyes.
"What did you see?" she whispered.
Zane shook his head, still haunted. "The worst version of me."
Sylfa looked away. "Then you're lucky."
"Why?"
"Some see worse… and don't want to leave."