Chapter 11: The Path of Remembrance
The silver trail beneath Mubali's feet shimmered with every step.
Each grain of dust seemed alive — whispering forgotten names, singing half-remembered songs, sighing like old winds trapped beneath the earth.
Above, the canopy of Alas Purwo twisted and blurred, as if the trees themselves bent closer to watch her passage.
There was no sound but the soft pulse of her own heartbeat, and the strange hum of ancient power awakening in the roots, the stones, the very air.
This was no ordinary path.
It was a corridor of memory, woven from the first dreams of the forest, leading into places even the oldest spirits dared not tread.
Ahead, mist gathered, thick and swirling, forming vague shapes — hands reaching, mouths moving in silent warnings.
Mubali tightened her grip on her spirit-blade — a dagger now alive with faint golden threads of Broken Light.
You chose this, a voice inside her whispered.
You cannot turn back now.
With a deep breath, she pressed forward.
The first gate appeared out of the mist — a massive arch of twisted vines and stone, its surface covered in glyphs that pulsed with slow, painful light.
Across the arch was carved a single word: REMEMBER.
As Mubali approached, the mist thickened, and with it came a sudden sharp ache — not in her body, but deep within her mind.
She staggered, clutched her head.
Images flooded her:
A small hut, burning.
A woman's scream, torn from her throat.
A pair of wide, terrified eyes — a child's — staring back at her.
She gasped.
These were not her memories.
Or were they?
The vines of the gate reached out, wrapping around her wrists, her ankles, pulling her closer.
She struggled.
The pain grew.
A voice, low and cruel, echoed from the mist:
"Face it. You are the daughter of ruin."
"Face it. You carry the blood of betrayal."
Mubali gritted her teeth.
"No," she growled.
"I am more than blood.
More than what was done to me."
The spirit-blade pulsed in her hand.
With a cry, she slashed through the vines.
Light flared.
The memories recoiled.
The gate cracked and shattered, falling away into dust.
Mubali staggered through, heart pounding, sweat soaking her skin.
One trial down.
Two more to go.
The second gate was stranger.
It was not built of stone or vine, but of mirrors — hundreds of them, standing in a circle, reflecting her from every angle.
Some mirrors showed her as she was now — scarred, determined.
Others twisted her reflection:
A child, sobbing in the rain.
A monster, eyes black with rage.
A queen, crowned with thorns.
At the center of the circle, a single mirror stood taller than the rest.
Within it, she saw not herself — but Wira, kneeling and weeping.
Behind him loomed a shadow — the Watcher she had defeated, reborn, reaching out with claws of darkness.
Mubali cried out.
"No!"
She rushed forward, but the mirrors shifted, blocking her path.
"You failed them," the reflections whispered.
"You will fail again."
"You are not strong enough."
She pressed her hands against the cold glass, fighting the rising tide of guilt and fear.
Her breath fogged the surface.
Her reflection glared back at her — tired, angry, terrified.
"Maybe," she whispered.
"Maybe I will fail."
She touched the mirror lightly, tracing the image of Wira's bowed head.
"But I will fight. Every time. Every breath. Until there is nothing left."
The mirrors shivered.
Cracks raced across them like lightning.
With a roar, Mubali drove her blade into the central mirror.
It shattered, sending shards of light spraying into the mist.
When she blinked again, the circle was gone.
Only the trail remained, leading onward.
The third gate was different still.
There was no grand archway, no trap, no enemy.
Only a small clearing.
At its center: a pool of perfectly still water, dark and bottomless.
The silver trail ended at its edge.
There was no sign, no inscription.
Only a feeling — heavy, solemn, unrelenting:
"To go forward, you must surrender."
Mubali knelt by the pool.
She saw her reflection — tired, bruised, but alive.
The blade in her hand hummed, uncertain.
She understood, somehow, what was being asked.
Let go.
Not of hope.
Not of will.
But of fear.
She thought of everything she clung to:
The fear of being forgotten.
The fear of not being enough.
The fear of losing those she loved.
She closed her eyes.
Let the fear rise.
Let it burn.
And then... let it go.
The blade in her hand dissolved into golden mist, sinking into the water.
Mubali stepped into the pool.
It was not cold.
It was everything — weightless, boundless, infinite.
And then she was through.
Standing on the other side.
Changed.
Stronger.
Ready.
The forest opened before her like a great, green sea.
And at its center, rising like a spear of shadow against the starlit sky, stood a tower she had never seen before — ancient, broken, alive with a terrible, pulsing light.
At its base, figures moved — dozens, maybe hundreds.
Not spirits.
Not villagers.
Something else.
And at their head stood a figure in blood-red armor, a blade as black as night resting casually on one shoulder.
Waiting.
Smiling.
Mubali stepped forward, heart steady.
She had passed the trials.
She had faced herself.
Now, she would face the world.
The wind shifted.
The figure in red turned — and their eyes met across the distance.
Recognition.
Challenge.
And something deeper.
Mubali drew a deep breath.
The first battle was about to begin.
And this time, she would not be alone.
From the trees, from the rivers, from the very stones, the spirits of Alas Purwo stirred, drawn by the light that now burned within her.
They gathered — glowing wolves, winged serpents, towering figures of bark and flame.
Allies.
Friends.
Family.
Mubali raised her hand.
The spirits roared in answer.
The figure in red barked a harsh laugh — and his army surged forward.
The ground shook.
The air cracked with magic.
And Mubali charged.