Aran stood barefoot in the circle of flame. The temple ruins around him whispered with ancient voices, their tones heavy with memory. Pillars cracked and scorched by time surrounded the ritual ground, and at its center, the Flamebound rider—who now revealed his name: Vaerin—watched silently.
"This is the Crucible of Truth," Vaerin said. "What you see, hear, and feel inside this fire is yours alone. Fail to face it, and it will consume you."
Aran nodded once and stepped forward. The flames did not burn—they wrapped around him like a lover's embrace, warm and beckoning. But then came the visions.
Elira—bound in chains of black thorn, her eyes hollow with sorrow.
His father—dying in battle, reaching for Kael with a final, unspoken command.
And Aran himself—alone, cold, walking away from a cradle wrapped in violet silk.
Each memory struck like a hammer against his will. The pain was real, sharper than steel. He dropped to one knee, the fire roaring louder, feeding on doubt.
But amid the torment, a light flickered.
Elira's voice, soft but clear: "Your strength is not in the fire, Aran. It's in the promise you keep."
Aran surged to his feet, defiance in his eyes. The fire obeyed. It bent to him, coiling around his limbs like armor. The Oathbrand on his chest glowed bright, pulsing with the rhythm of his heart.
When he stepped from the Crucible, smoke trailing from his skin, Vaerin offered a short nod.
"The Flame has accepted you."
Aran didn't smile. There was no victory in pain. Only purpose.
"Then lead me to Vareth. I'm done waiting."