The journey eastward took them beyond the cracked borders of Evaris, into a land untouched by mercy. Where grass should have grown, splintered bone dust billowed underfoot. Where rivers once sang, only the moans of wind in empty skulls echoed.
The Bone Valleys had earned their name.
Bleached skeletons—some human, some not—stretched for miles, tangled like roots, their origins lost to time or war. The Rift had passed through this place once. It had not left.
Ayla walked with measured pace, the two flames inside her chest burning in quiet conflict. She could feel it now—like two hearts pulsing out of rhythm. The first, a flame of memory. The second, of potential. But neither was whole. She was not whole.
Varra remained close, eyes constantly scanning the ridges of bone and stone. The Watcher trailed behind, silent and distant as ever.
They didn't speak for hours.
But the wind did.
The Bone Choir
At dusk, the wind shifted.
And the bones began to sing.
Not in melody—but in memory.
Ayla froze as voices curled around her mind. Old ones. Soft. Gentle. Terrible.
"Do you remember what you've taken?"
"Do you remember who you left behind?"
Faces flickered through her mind—her sister screaming in the dark, her mother's final breath, the Sanctuary burning from within.
"No," Ayla whispered. "I don't."
But the voices kept coming. More insistent. More cruel.
"Liar."
Varra gritted her teeth and stepped in front of Ayla. "This place is cursed. We shouldn't have come."
"We didn't have a choice," Ayla said, her hands trembling. "This is where the second trial begins."
The Watcher finally spoke, low and grim. "No. This is where the second loss begins."
Ayla looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"
But he didn't answer.
The Hollow Saints
As night fell, the bone valley stirred. Not with wind, but with movement.
Figures rose from the piles—slow, graceful, and hollow.
Wearing crowns of ribcage. Wrapped in cloaks of skin stitched with scripture.
The Hollow Saints.
A forgotten order, once guardians of death, now bound by the Rift to a new purpose. Each carried a blade carved from femur, inscribed with dying prayers.
They formed a circle around Ayla and her companions.
One stepped forward, face covered by a silver mask fused to its skull. When it spoke, its voice was layered—one tone living, one dead.
"Flame-bearer. You bring memory where only forgetting survives."
Ayla stood tall. "I seek the second trial."
"You carry two flames but do not yet burn. The Valley will test your purpose. We will test your price."
Varra stepped forward, hand on her hilt. "You'll test nothing."
The Saint didn't even flinch. "You are not the chosen."
The Watcher muttered, "Let her speak."
Ayla nodded. "What must I do?"
The Saint stepped aside and pointed to a narrow cleft in the valley wall—a gate of bone and fire.
"Enter the Hollow Cradle. Face what was buried. Leave only if you still believe."
The passage narrowed with every step, walls of bone pressing in so tightly that Ayla could feel the breath of the dead brushing her skin. The gate behind her sealed shut without a sound.
She was alone.
No Watcher. No Varra. Only silence—and a faint red light pulsing ahead like the throb of an infected wound.
She advanced.
The deeper she went, the more the walls changed. Bones gave way to something darker. Not stone. Not flesh. Something in between. It pulsed with her breath. It remembered her.
At the end of the tunnel, the chamber opened.
It was a cradle—just like the Hollow Saints said.
But no child lay within.
Instead, a reflection stood at the center.
The Trial of the Self
It wore her face.
But the eyes were too bright. The smile too cruel. The flames in its chest burned in perfect unity—balanced, powerful, unstoppable.
Ayla stared at the mirror-Ayla. "What are you?"
The double smirked. "I'm who you pretend not to be. The Ayla who never ran. Who took the crown when it was offered. Who burned the world to warm herself."
"I'm not her."
"But you could be. You already want to be. That's why the flames don't dance. That's why they fight."
Ayla gritted her teeth. "You're a test. Just a trick."
"No," the mirror-Ayla said, stepping forward. "I'm truth. And the cradle doesn't judge truth—it devours it."
With a snap of her fingers, the cradle came alive.
Battle in the Womb of Ash
Walls pulsed red. The floor cracked. From the bones below, hands reached up—skeletal, clawed, grasping for Ayla's legs. She jumped back just as the mirror lunged, fire bursting from her fists.
Ayla answered with her own flames—but they sputtered, mismatched, unbalanced.
The mirror moved like water. Like confidence. Like everything Ayla had tried not to become.
"You'll die like the Queen died," it sneered, slashing with flame-edged claws. "Worshipped. Alone. Forgotten."
"I'm not her!" Ayla shouted, throwing a desperate wave of fire. "I chose my path!"
The fire met its twin in the air—two forces clashing in a scream of white-hot light.
Ayla hit the ground hard.
The mirror loomed above. "Then prove it. Burn me."
Unity
Lying on the bone-strewn floor, Ayla felt both flames tremble in her chest. They didn't resist each other anymore. They weren't fighting.
They were waiting.
For her to choose.
Not power or peace.
Not memory or future.
Just truth.
"I'm Ayla," she whispered. "I burn not for power, but to light the dark. I carry memory not to rule, but to remember who we've lost."
She stood. Fire rose behind her—not red or gold, but silver. Pure. Unified.
The mirror-Ayla froze.
Ayla lifted her hand.
And burned the false self into nothing.
Rebirth
When Ayla emerged from the Hollow Cradle, her eyes glowed with silver flame. The Hollow Saints bowed—not in worship, but in acknowledgment.
Varra ran to her. "What happened in there?"
Ayla smiled faintly. "I passed the trial."
The Watcher stepped forward. "And the price?"
Ayla looked to the east.
Where the flame called next.
"Everything," she said. "And more."