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Chapter Six: The Trial of the Past
(Part One)
The stairway of silver light went on forever. Each step hummed like a heartbeat, and the air thickened with ash the deeper I descended. By the time the final step materialized beneath my boots, the stairway dissolved behind me, cutting off any path of return.
The new chamber was not a chamber at all but a vast plain of black sand scattered with shards of mirror. Above, no ceiling — only a twilight sky streaked with pale red veins, as though the heavens themselves had cracked open. The Ashborn Heart pulsed inside me, slower than usual, as if wary.
I called out. "Mara?" My voice echoed once and vanished. No answer. No guiding whispers. Just the faint hiss of wind across the black dunes.
I took a step forward, and the sand rippled. The shards of mirror trembled, reflecting not my current self but younger versions of me: a boy with hollow eyes, a boy curled in an alley, a boy staring at the sky wishing for wings.
A whisper coiled around me, softer than breath. Face what you've buried, or be buried by it.
I swallowed hard. "Trial of the Past," I murmured. "Fine. Show me."
The wind rose. The shards of mirror flared with light, fusing into a single surface beneath my feet. I blinked — and the world shifted.
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I was standing in a filthy back alley lined with rusted trash bins. The stench of spoiled food and damp stone filled my nose. I knew this place. The orphan quarter of the lower rings. My earliest memory.
On the ground, half-covered by a rag, lay a baby — me — wailing soundlessly. Figures loomed above: shadows without faces. They spoke in muffled tones, their words garbled but unmistakably cruel. One lifted me by the scruff of the rag, then let me fall like discarded trash. Another turned away, fading into the darkness.
The scene burned like acid in my chest. My hands trembled. "Stop," I whispered. "I know what happened."
The shadows ignored me. The baby's cries grew louder, echoing inside my skull. My knees buckled.
The Ashborn Heart reacted violently. Silver flames licked up my arms, uncontrolled, fueled by rage. They left you. They threw you away. Make them pay.
I shut my eyes, but the flames only brightened behind my eyelids. "No," I said aloud. "That's not me anymore."
The wind hissed. The figures dissolved, and the alley warped, folding in on itself.
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I was in the training yard now — our training yard. Alan and I sparring with wooden blades, laughing between strikes. For a moment warmth spread through me. But then the scene flickered and changed.
Alan stood before me older, colder. His face twisted with disgust. "You are too weak to be my friend. You are an embarrassment." His voice echoed off invisible walls.
"No," I whispered. "Not again."
"You should stop looking for me from now on," he sneered. "You are neither vampire nor witch nor human. You're nothing."
I clenched my fists. "Stop it."
Alan stepped closer, eyes glowing red now. "You're a curse, Alex. You always were."
Silver fire erupted from my hands. "Enough!" I shouted. The flames flared high, threatening to engulf the apparition.
A whisper slithered through the air: Strike him down. End the pain. He betrayed you. Burn him.
For a heartbeat I almost did. The memory felt real, his smell, his heartbeat. But then I remembered the child I'd once been — the one lying in the alley. Rage had never saved him. Only hope had kept him alive.
I closed my eyes. "I forgive you, Alan," I said, voice trembling. "Even if you never forgive me."
The apparition flickered. His sneer faded into a look of confusion. Then he shattered like glass, his fragments scattering as silver dust.
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A door appeared ahead of me, suspended in midair — two doors, in fact. One crimson, carved with snarling beasts. One silver, etched with gentle runes.
The crimson door whispered promises of power, vengeance, and dominance. The silver door whispered of release, understanding, and self-acceptance.
I reached out. My hand hovered over the crimson wood. My fingers tingled. The Ashborn Heart beat faster, hungering.
I pulled back. "Not this time." I turned to the silver door and pressed my palm against it.
Light engulfed me.
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When my vision cleared, I stood in a narrow corridor of white stone. At the far end, a boy sat curled up, arms around his knees. He wore a ragged tunic, hair unkempt, skin pale with hunger. He didn't look up as I approached.
It was me — no older than seven.
I knelt. "Hey."
The boy flinched but didn't speak.
"I know you," I whispered. "I remember how cold it was. How hungry. How lonely." My chest ached. "I'm sorry. I left you there, didn't I? Buried you under all my anger."
The boy lifted his head. His eyes were hollow. "Everyone leaves," he said. "Everyone."
"No," I said firmly. "Not anymore."
I reached out slowly, and after a moment he let me take his hand. His skin was ice-cold. "I'm here," I said. "I'm not leaving you again."
The boy blinked. A tear rolled down his cheek. Then his outline glowed, silver light spilling from his small form.
He dissolved into a stream of warmth that flowed into my chest. The Ashborn Heart flared, not wild but steady.
For the first time since stepping into the chamber, the oppressive weight lifted.
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The corridor opened into a cavern of smooth obsidian. At its center pulsed a pillar of pale light, carved with runes I couldn't read. My veins glowed to match its rhythm.
The whisper returned, softer now: You have healed the wound of yesterday. The Heart bends to your will, not your pain.
A sigil burned onto my palm — a new ability. I felt it, instinctive and sure: a protective ward, a shield woven of ash and silver.
Beyond the pillar, a staircase of black stone appeared, descending deeper still.
I exhaled, my voice echoing faintly. "Two trials down. How many more?"
The chamber didn't answer. Only the wind moved, carrying the faintest echo of my parents' names — or maybe a trick of the Heart.
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