It retaliated with Echoflame, a wave of sound that burned through her glyphnest and deafened the battlefield. Zariah staggered. Her breath faltered. Her voice vanished.
She whispered:
> "I do not speak. I burn."
She activated Glyphnest, casting a trap beneath Threnox. When it landed, the sigils erupted—summoning a new creature.
Soniclice—tiny parasites stitched from silence and flame. They burrowed into Threnox's wings, disrupting its scream.
Zariah rose.
First hit—Ashfangs into its chest.
Second hit—Glyphstorm into its horns.
Third hit—Cinderstep behind it, carving Silence into its spine.
Fourth hit—Bloodbite into its throat.
Threnox shattered.
Its wings dissolved.
Its scream faded.
Emberveil stitched a new patch—violet and ember, etched with the word Resonance.
The Trial Fire pulsed.
The Flame Tree bloomed.
But the sky did not clear.
It pulsed again.
And from the clouds, the seventh beast began to descend.
The Descent of Blisterra
The sky did not burn.
It boiled.
Above Lycanridge, the clouds twisted into blistered shapes—bubbling, steaming, rupturing with heat that did not glow, only hurt. The blood moon pulsed once, then vanished behind a veil of smoke and acid. The Flame Tree bent low, its bark blistering. The Trial Fire hissed, recoiling from what it sensed.
Zariah the Flamewrought stood beneath the storm.
Her Ashfangs pulsed with Sovereign Radiance, but the heat around her was wrong. Emberveil stitched a new patch across her right thigh—charred bronze and sickly green, etched with the word Resist.
And then it fell.
Blisterra.
An insectoid lion. Wings of cracked chitin. Fangs dripping with molten venom. Its breath carried corrosion. Its claws glowed with heat that melted glyphs on contact.
It did not roar.
It seethed.
Blisterra unleashed Boilstorm, a wave of acidic heat that melted Zariah's summoned creatures mid-flight. Her Ashbats screamed and dissolved. Her Glyphhounds turned to ash. Her glyphs warped. Her Ashfangs hissed.
She bled.
She whispered:
> "You are not heat. You are infection."
She summoned.
Not flame.
Not memory.
Ashlice—tiny parasites stitched from her own pain and venom. They crawled across the battlefield, burrowing into Blisterra's wings and disrupting its balance.
The beast screamed.
It retaliated with Glyphmelt, a blast that targeted Emberveil directly. Her patches tore. Her Emberglyphs flickered. Her breath faltered.
She bit.
Bloodbite—into her own leg, casting a glyph into her mouth. She leapt, biting Blisterra's flank and transferring the glyph directly into its flesh.
The beast staggered.
She activated Glyphnest, casting a trap beneath it. When Blisterra landed, the sigils erupted—summoning a new creature.
Venomcrows—birds stitched from poison and ash. They circled Blisterra, pecking and burning.
Zariah rose.
First hit—Ashfangs into its chest.
Second hit—Glyphstorm into its wings.
Third hit—Cinderstep behind it, carving Resist into its spine.
Fourth hit—Bloodbite into its throat.
Blisterra shattered.
Its wings dissolved.
Its claws fell to the earth.
Emberveil stitched a new patch—bronze and ember, etched with the word Immunity.
The Trial Fire pulsed.
The Flame Tree bloomed.
But the sky did not clear.
It pulsed again.
And from the clouds, the eighth beast began to descend.
The Descent of Crawlspire
The sky did not descend.
It crawled.
Above Lycanridge, the clouds twisted into webs—threads of bone and ember, stitched into spirals that pulsed with hunger. The blood moon flickered behind the veil, casting shadows that moved without wind. The Flame Tree bent low, its roots recoiling. The Trial Fire hissed, sensing entrapment.
Zariah the Flamewrought stood beneath the storm.
Her Ashfangs pulsed with Sovereign Radiance. Emberveil stitched a new patch across her left calf—bone-white and ember-black, etched with the word Escape.
And then it fell.
Crawlspire.
A spider-goat hybrid. Eight legs tipped with claws. Horns like broken spires. Wings stitched from sinew and silence. Its breath carried entrapment. Its body glowed with stitched glyphs—not Zariah's, but its own.
It did not roar.
It wove.
Crawlspire unleashed Spinebind, a net of bone and glyph-thread that wrapped around Zariah's limbs, pinning her to the ground. Her Ashfangs dimmed. Her glyphs flickered. Emberveil tore.
She bled.
She whispered:
> "You are not trap. You are thread."
She summoned.
Glyphhounds—flame-etched wolves born from her own glyphs. They charged Crawlspire, biting and burning. But the beast stitched its own glyphs mid-battle, casting Counterbind, a trap that turned her summons against her.
Zariah screamed.
She bit.
Bloodbite—into her own ankle, casting a glyph into her mouth. She leapt, biting Crawlspire's flank and transferring the glyph directly into its stitched flesh.
The beast hissed.
It retaliated with Webbrand, a blast of glyph-thread that wrapped around the Flame Tree, choking its bloom. The Trial Fire flickered. Zariah fell.
She whispered:
> "I do not weave. I burn through."
She activated Glyphnest, casting a trap beneath Crawlspire. When it landed, the sigils erupted—summoning a new creature.
Ashspiders—eight-legged glyph-fed beasts that unraveled Crawlspire's web mid-battle. They crawled across its wings, biting and burning.
Zariah rose.
First hit—Ashfangs into its chest.
Second hit—Glyphstorm into its legs.
Third hit—Cinderstep behind it, carving Freedom into its spine.
Fourth hit—Bloodbite into its throat.
Crawlspire shattered.
Its legs dissolved.
Its web unraveled.
Emberveil stitched a new patch—white and ember, etched with the word Unbound.
The Trial Fire pulsed.
The Flame Tree bloomed.
But the sky did not clear.
It pulsed again.
And from the clouds, the ninth beast began to descend.
The Descent of Murkthorn
The sky did not darken.
It vanished.
Above Lycanridge, the clouds twisted into fog—dense, silent, suffocating. The blood moon pulsed once, then disappeared behind a veil of shadow. The Flame Tree bent low, its leaves curling inward. The Trial Fire flickered, casting light that refused to land.
Zariah the Flamewrought stood beneath the storm.
Her Ashfangs pulsed with Sovereign Radiance, but the light bent away from her. Emberveil stitched a new patch across her spine—fog-gray and ember-black, etched with the word Shadow.
And then it fell.
Murkthorn.
A fog-antlered stag. Its body shimmered with mist. Its wings were silent. Its breath carried concealment. Its hooves left behind nothing. Its eyes did not glow—they absorbed.
It did not charge.
It hid.
Murkthorn unleashed Fogrend, a wave of mist that cloaked the battlefield. Zariah's vision vanished. Her glyphs dimmed. Her Ashfangs flickered. The Flame Tree disappeared. The Trial Fire hissed.
She bled.
She whispered:
> "You are not shadow. You are silence pretending to be strength."
She summoned.
Trialcrows—birds etched with burning glyphs. They flew blind, casting sigils into the fog. But Murkthorn moved within her shadow, striking from behind. Its antlers pierced her shoulder. Emberveil tore.
She fell.
She bit.
Bloodbite—into her own back, casting a glyph into her mouth. She leapt, biting Murkthorn's flank and transferring the glyph directly into its mist-flesh.
The beast recoiled.
It retaliated with Mistlash, a strike that wrapped her in fog and memory. She saw every beast she had faced. Every wound. Every failure.
She whispered:
> "I do not forget. I forge."
She activated Glyphnest, casting a trap beneath Murkthorn. When it stepped into her shadow, the sigils erupted—summoning a new creature.
Shadowlice—parasites stitched from fog and flame. They burrowed into Murkthorn's wings, unraveling its concealment.
Zariah rose.
First hit—Ashfangs into its chest.
Second hit—Glyphstorm into its antlers.
Third hit—Cinderstep behind it, carving Reveal into its spine.
Fourth hit—Bloodbite into its throat.
Murkthorn shattered.
Its wings dissolved.
Its fog dispersed.
Emberveil stitched a new patch—gray and ember, etched with the word Clarity.
The Trial Fire pulsed.
The Flame Tree bloomed.
But the sky did not clear.
It pulsed again.
And from the clouds, the tenth beast began to descend.
The Descent of Hexdrake
The sky did not burn.
It turned.
Above Lycanridge, the clouds twisted into coils—smoke and shadow folding inward, as if the heavens were swallowing their own flame. The blood moon pulsed once, then inverted, casting cold light across the battlefield. The Flame Tree bent low, its roots shivering. The Trial Fire flickered, not with heat—but with doubt.
Zariah the Flamewrought stood beneath the storm.
Her Ashfangs pulsed with Sovereign Radiance, but the fire around her felt wrong. Emberveil stitched a new patch across her chest—ashen blue and ember-gray, etched with the word Corruption.
And then it fell.
Hexdrake.
A wingless dragon. Scales of obsidian. Eyes like frozen suns. Its breath carried inversion. Its claws dripped with corrupted flame. Its tail coiled with glyphs that pulsed in reverse.
It did not roar.
It unmade.
Hexdrake unleashed Curseflame, a blast that twisted the Trial Fire against Zariah. Her glyphs warped. Her Ashfangs hissed. Emberveil tore. The Flame Tree recoiled.
She bled.
She whispered:
> "You are not fire. You are failure pretending to be flame."
She summoned.
Frostcrows—birds stitched from silence and ice. They circled Hexdrake, casting glyphs of cold that slowed its corruption. But the beast absorbed them, turning their chill into burning venom.
Zariah staggered.
She bit.
Bloodbite—into her own shoulder, casting a glyph into her mouth. She leapt, biting Hexdrake's flank and transferring the glyph directly into its corrupted flesh.
The beast screamed.
It retaliated with Flameinvert, a wave that reversed her glyphs mid-battle. Her summons turned on her. Her glyphnest collapsed. Her breath faltered.
She whispered:
> "I do not burn to destroy. I burn to define."
She activated Glyphnest, casting a trap beneath Hexdrake. When it stepped into the sigils, they erupted—summoning a new creature.
Ashwyrms—serpent-like glyph beasts born from her resilience. They wrapped around Hexdrake, biting and binding.
Zariah rose.
First hit—Ashfangs into its chest.
Second hit—Glyphstorm into its tail.
Third hit—Cinderstep behind it, carving Purify into its spine.
Fourth hit—Bloodbite into its throat.
Hexdrake shattered.
Its scales dissolved.
Its flame unraveled.
Emberveil stitched a new patch—blue and ember, etched with the word Cleanse.
The Trial Fire pulsed.
The Flame Tree bloomed.
But the sky did not clear.
It pulsed again.
And from the clouds, the eleventh beast began to descend.
The Descent of Scaldmane
The sky did not blaze.
It forgot.
Above Lycanridge, the clouds twisted into molten shapes—horns dripping with lava, wings stitched from steam. The blood moon pulsed once, then dimmed into a haze of heat. The Flame Tree bent low, its bark blistering. The Trial Fire flickered, not with flame—but with confusion.
Zariah the Flamewrought stood beneath the storm.
Her Ashfangs pulsed with Sovereign Radiance, but her thoughts felt distant. Emberveil stitched a new patch across her temple—charred gold and ember-black, etched with the word Recall.
And then it fell.
Scaldmane.
A lava-maned bull. Its breath carried heat that burned memory. Its hooves cracked the ground. Its horns glowed with molten glyphs. Its wings were steam, its eyes blank.
It did not charge.
It erased.
Scaldmane unleashed Heatlash, a wave of burning memory that tore through Zariah's mind. Her glyphs vanished. Her summons forgotten. Her Ashfangs dimmed. Emberveil flickered.
She staggered.
She whispered:
> "You are not heat. You are hollow."
She tried to summon.
Nothing came.
She bit.
Bloodbite—into her own wrist, casting a glyph into her mouth. But the glyph faded before it reached her tongue. Her memory of it was gone.
Scaldmane roared.
It struck with Mindbrand, a blast that shattered her recall of past battles. She saw only fog. Her body moved, but her mind lagged.
She fell.
She whispered:
> "I do not remember. I react."
She activated Glyphnest, casting a trap she could not name. When Scaldmane stepped into it, the sigils erupted—summoning a new creature.
Ashmoles—burrowing beasts stitched from instinct and flame. They charged Scaldmane, biting and burning without command.
Zariah rose.
First hit—Ashfangs into its chest.
Second hit—Glyphstorm into its horns.
Third hit—Cinderstep behind it, carving Memory into its spine.
Fourth hit—Bloodbite into its throat.
Scaldmane shattered.
Its mane dissolved.
Its heat faded.
Emberveil stitched a new patch—gold and ember, etched with the word Remembrance.
The Trial Fire pulsed.
The Flame Tree bloomed.
But the sky did not clear.
It pulsed again.
And from the clouds, the twelfth beast began to descend.
The Descent of Veilgnash
The sky did not scream.
It gnawed.
Above Lycanridge, the clouds twisted into jaws—rows of teeth stitched from emberlight and bone. The blood moon pulsed once, then vanished behind a veil of hunger. The Flame Tree bent low, its bark curling inward. The Trial Fire flickered, sensing a predator not of flame—but of glyph.