Zariah the Flamewrought stood beneath the storm.
Her Ashfangs pulsed with Sovereign Radiance. Emberveil stitched a new patch across her forearm—ashen red and black, etched with the word Devour.
And then it fell.
Veilgnash.
A horned hyena. Its breath carried hunger. Its claws dripped with glyph-venom. Its wings were torn, stitched from shredded Emberglyphs. Its eyes glowed with appetite. Its fangs pulsed with flame it did not earn—but ate.
It did not roar.
It bit.
Veilgnash unleashed Glyphshred, a strike that tore through Zariah's patches mid-battle. Emberveil screamed. Her glyphs unraveled. Her Ashfangs dimmed. The Flame Tree recoiled.
She bled.
She whispered:
> "You are not hunger. You are theft."
She summoned.
Glyphhounds—flame-etched wolves born from her own glyphs. They charged Veilgnash, but the beast devoured them mid-leap, absorbing their sigils and growing stronger.
Zariah staggered.
She bit.
Bloodbite—into her own wrist, casting a glyph into her mouth. She leapt, biting Veilgnash's flank and transferring the glyph directly into its flesh.
The beast roared.
It retaliated with Sigilgnaw, a blast that targeted her summoned creatures and consumed their flame. Her glyphnest collapsed. Her breath faltered.
She whispered:
> "I do not feed. I forge."
She activated Glyphnest, casting a trap beneath Veilgnash. When it landed, the sigils erupted—summoning a new creature.
Ashrats—small, fast, glyphless beasts born from instinct and ember. They swarmed Veilgnash, biting and burning without sigils to steal.
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.
Veilgnash shattered.
Its wings dissolved.
Its fangs fell to the earth.
Emberveil stitched a new patch—red and ember, etched with the word Integrity.
The Trial Fire pulsed.
The Flame Tree bloomed.
But the sky did not clear.
It pulsed again.
And from the clouds, the thirteenth beast began to descend.
The Descent of Thornchant
The sky did not echo.
It whispered.
Above Lycanridge, the clouds twisted into mouths—silent, open, endless. The blood moon pulsed once, then dimmed into a ring of soundless flame. The Flame Tree bent low, its leaves trembling. The Trial Fire flickered, casting heat that made no noise.
Zariah the Flamewrought stood beneath the storm.
Her Ashfangs pulsed with Sovereign Radiance, but her voice felt distant. Emberveil stitched a new patch across her throat—smoke-gray and ember-gold, etched with the word Mute.
And then it fell.
Thornchant.
A whispering goat. Its horns curled like soundwaves. Its wings shimmered with silence. Its breath carried command. Its hooves left behind echoes that never faded.
It did not roar.
It spoke.
Thornchant unleashed Whisperbind, a wave of sound that wrapped around Zariah's throat, silencing her mid-glyph. Her summons vanished. Her glyphs flickered. Emberveil tore.
She bled.
She tried to speak.
Nothing came.
She whispered—without voice:
> "You are not silence. You are control."
She summoned.
Trialcrows—birds etched with burning glyphs. But Thornchant's whisper turned them mid-flight. They circled Zariah, casting sigils against her.
She bit.
Bloodbite—into her own tongue, casting a glyph into her mouth. She leapt, biting Thornchant's flank and transferring the glyph directly into its flesh.
The beast hissed.
It retaliated with Echobind, a second wave that silenced the Flame Tree itself. The Trial Fire dimmed. Zariah fell.
She whispered—through flame:
> "I do not speak. I burn."
She activated Glyphnest, casting a trap beneath Thornchant. When it stepped into the sigils, they erupted—summoning a new creature.
Mutehounds—wolves stitched from silence and ash. They attacked without sound, biting and burning.
Zariah rose.
First hit—Ashfangs into its chest.
Second hit—Glyphstorm into its horns.
Third hit—Cinderstep behind it, carving Voice into its spine.
Fourth hit—Bloodbite into its throat.
Thornchant shattered.
Its wings dissolved.
Its whisper faded.
Emberveil stitched a new patch—gray and ember, etched with the word Speak.
The Trial Fire pulsed.
The Flame Tree bloomed.
But the sky did not clear.
It pulsed again.
And from the clouds, the fourteenth beast began to descend.
The Descent of Embercoil
The sky did not ignite.
It coiled.
Above Lycanridge, the clouds twisted into spirals of ash and flame—like serpents winding through smoke. The blood moon pulsed once, then vanished behind a veil of ember-thread. The Flame Tree bent low, its branches curling inward. The Trial Fire flickered, sensing entrapment.
Zariah the Flamewrought stood beneath the storm.
Her Ashfangs pulsed with Sovereign Radiance. Emberveil stitched a new patch across her ribs—charcoal and ember-red, etched with the word Unwrap.
And then it fell.
Embercoil.
A serpent of ash. Its body was long, winding, and stitched from flame. Its wings were smoke. Its breath carried binding. Its eyes glowed with hunger. Its coils pulsed with glyphs that wrapped, not burned.
It did not strike.
It wrapped.
Embercoil unleashed Flamewrap, a move that coiled around Zariah's summoned creatures—Ashbats, Glyphhounds, even Trialcrows—and turned their bodies into burning prisons. They screamed. Their glyphs shattered. Emberveil tore.
She bled.
She whispered:
> "You are not flame. You are leash."
She summoned.
Ashlice—tiny parasites stitched from ember and instinct. They crawled across Embercoil's coils, burrowing into its glyphs and unraveling its bindings.
The beast hissed.
It retaliated with Bindlash, a whip of flame that wrapped around Zariah's limbs, dragging her toward its mouth. Her Ashfangs dimmed. Her glyphnest collapsed.
She bit.
Bloodbite—into her own side, casting a glyph into her mouth. She leapt, biting Embercoil's flank and transferring the glyph directly into its flesh.
The serpent screamed.
She activated Glyphnest, casting a trap beneath it. When Embercoil slithered into the sigils, they erupted—summoning a new creature.
Uncoilers—worm-like glyph beasts born from broken bindings. They wrapped around Embercoil's body, biting and burning.
Zariah rose.
First hit—Ashfangs into its chest.
Second hit—Glyphstorm into its wings.
Third hit—Cinderstep behind it, carving Freedom into its spine.
Fourth hit—Bloodbite into its throat.
Embercoil shattered.
Its coils unraveled.
Its bindings dissolved.
Emberveil stitched a new patch—ash and ember, etched with the word Release.
The Trial Fire pulsed.
The Flame Tree bloomed.
But the sky did not clear.
It pulsed again.
And from the clouds, the fifteenth beast began to descend.
The Descent of Dreadspike
The sky did not howl.
It pierced.
Above Lycanridge, the clouds twisted into spines—rows of jagged quills, vibrating with sonic tension. The blood moon pulsed once, then vanished behind a veil of silence sharp enough to cut. The Flame Tree bent low, its bark splintering. The Trial Fire flickered, sensing a threat not of flame—but of precision.
Zariah the Flamewrought stood beneath the storm.
Her Ashfangs pulsed with Sovereign Radiance, but her shields felt brittle. Emberveil stitched a new patch across her shoulder—obsidian and ember-red, etched with the word Pierce.
And then it fell.
Dreadspike.
A porcupine-goat hybrid. Its back bristled with sonic quills. Its wings were jagged, stitched from broken glyphs. Its breath carried vibration. Its eyes glowed with focus. Its hooves echoed with intent.
It did not roar.
It launched.
Dreadspike unleashed Piercehowl, a barrage of sonic quills that tore through Zariah's glyph shields. Her defenses shattered. Her Ashfangs dimmed. Emberveil tore. The Flame Tree recoiled.
She bled.
She whispered:
> "You are not precision. You are panic sharpened."
She summoned.
Glyphhounds—flame-etched wolves born from her own glyphs. They charged Dreadspike, but the beast launched quills mid-air, impaling them before they reached its flank.
Zariah staggered.
She bit.
Bloodbite—into her own forearm, casting a glyph into her mouth. She leapt, biting Dreadspike's flank and transferring the glyph directly into its flesh.
The beast screamed.
It retaliated with Quillstorm, a spinning blast that targeted her glyphnest and scattered her sigils across the battlefield.
She whispered:
> "I do not shield. I strike."
She activated Glyphnest, casting a trap beneath Dreadspike. When it landed, the sigils erupted—summoning a new creature.
Quillbats—winged beasts stitched from broken glyphs and emberlight. They flew erratically, dodging Dreadspike's barrage and biting into its back.
Zariah rose.
First hit—Ashfangs into its chest.
Second hit—Glyphstorm into its wings.
Third hit—Cinderstep behind it, carving Break into its spine.
Fourth hit—Bloodbite into its throat.
Dreadspike shattered.
Its quills dissolved.
Its howl faded.
Emberveil stitched a new patch—black and ember, etched with the word Penetrate.
The Trial Fire pulsed.
The Flame Tree bloomed.
But the sky did not clear.
It pulsed again.
And from the clouds, the sixteenth beast began to descend.
The Descent of Lurkmire
The sky did not flood.
It sank.
Above Lycanridge, the clouds twisted into bogs—wet, heavy, dripping with decay. The blood moon pulsed once, then dimmed into a swamp-colored haze. The Flame Tree bent low, its roots soaked in shadow. The Trial Fire sputtered, struggling to stay alight.
Zariah the Flamewrought stood beneath the storm.
Her Ashfangs pulsed with Sovereign Radiance, but the ground beneath her feet felt wrong. Emberveil stitched a new patch across her shin—moss-green and ember-black, etched with the word Rise.
And then it fell.
Lurkmire.
A bog-drenched ram. Its horns curved like sinking anchors. Its wings were stitched from swamp mist. Its breath carried weight. Its hooves left behind puddles that swallowed light.
It did not charge.
It dragged.
Lurkmire unleashed Swampbrand, a wave of mire that flooded the battlefield. Zariah's summoned creatures—Glyphhounds, Ashbats, Trialcrows—sank into the muck, their glyphs dissolving. Her Ashfangs dimmed. Emberveil tore.
She bled.
She whispered:
> "You are not depth. You are delay."
She summoned.
Emberlice—tiny flame-fed parasites. But the swamp drowned them before they reached Lurkmire's flank. Her glyphnest collapsed. Her breath slowed.
She bit.
Bloodbite—into her own thigh, casting a glyph into her mouth. She leapt, biting Lurkmire's flank and transferring the glyph directly into its mire-soaked flesh.
The beast roared.
It retaliated with Mirelash, a strike that pulled her into the swamp, threatening to drown her flame.
She whispered:
> "I do not sink. I surge."
She activated Glyphnest, casting a trap above the battlefield—on the branches of the Flame Tree. When Lurkmire stepped beneath it, the sigils erupted—summoning a new creature.
Skyboars—beasts stitched from wind and ember. They charged from above, trampling Lurkmire with flame that could not be drowned.
Zariah rose.
First hit—Ashfangs into its chest.
Second hit—Glyphstorm into its horns.
Third hit—Cinderstep above it, carving Ascend into its spine.
Fourth hit—Bloodbite into its throat.
Lurkmire shattered.
Its wings dissolved.
Its swamp receded.
Emberveil stitched a new patch—green and ember, etched with the word Elevation.
The Trial Fire pulsed.
The Flame Tree bloomed.
But the sky did not clear.
It pulsed again.
And from the clouds, the seventeenth beast began to descend.
The Descent of Cravix Prime
The sky did not remember.
It reflected.
Above Lycanridge, the clouds twisted into bone—wings stitched from memory, horns carved from past battles. The blood moon pulsed once, then split into glyphs Zariah herself had cast. The Flame Tree bent low, its bark whispering her name. The Trial Fire flickered, not with flame—but with recognition.
Zariah the Flamewrought stood beneath the storm.
Her Ashfangs pulsed with Sovereign Radiance. Emberveil stitched a new patch across her chest—bone-white and ember-red, etched with the word Echo.
And then it fell.
Cravix Prime.
The evolved bone-winged goat. Its breath carried memory. Its claws dripped with Zariah's own glyphs. Its wings pulsed with tactics she had used. Its eyes did not glow—they watched.
It did not roar.
It remembered.
Cravix Prime unleashed Ashbind+, a trap stitched from Zariah's own glyph history. Her Bloodbite, her Glyphnest, her Cinderstep—all mirrored, all turned against her. Her Ashfangs dimmed. Emberveil tore. The Flame Tree recoiled.
She bled.
She whispered:
> "You are not memory. You are mimicry."
She summoned.
Trialcrows—birds etched with burning glyphs. But Cravix Prime summoned Echocrows, identical in form, identical in flame. They clashed mid-air, canceling each other out.
Zariah staggered.
She bit.
Bloodbite—into her own palm, casting a glyph into her mouth. She leapt, biting Cravix Prime's flank and transferring the glyph directly into its flesh.
The beast hissed.
It retaliated with Originflare, her own move—rewinding time and striking before her leap. She fell. Her ribs cracked. Her breath faltered.
She whispered:
> "I do not repeat. I evolve."
The Descent of Vulthex
The sky did not scream.
It starved.
Above Lycanridge, the clouds twisted into beaks—wide, jagged, dripping with hunger. The blood moon pulsed once, then dimmed into a ring of ash. The Flame Tree bent low, its branches curling inward. The Trial Fire flickered, not with flame—but with fear.
Zariah the Flamewrought stood beneath the storm.
Her Ashfangs pulsed with Sovereign Radiance, but the fire around her recoiled. Emberveil stitched a new patch across her chest—ashen gold and ember-black, etched with the word Consume.
And then it fell.
Vulthex.
A vulture-goat hybrid. Its wings were tattered, stitched from devoured glyphs. Its breath carried hunger. Its claws dripped with Trial Fire. Its eyes glowed with emptiness.
It did not roar.
It fed.
Vulthex unleashed Feastflame, a wave that devoured the Trial Fire itself. The battlefield dimmed. The Flame Tree withered. Zariah's glyphs flickered. Her Ashfangs hissed. Emberveil tore.
She bled.
She whispered:
> "You are not hunger. You are theft dressed as need."
She summoned.
Ashbats and Glyphhounds—but Vulthex consumed them mid-flight, absorbing their flame and growing stronger. Her glyphnest collapsed. Her breath faltered.
She bit.
Bloodbite—into her own wrist, casting a glyph into her mouth. She leapt, biting Vulthex's flank and transferring the glyph directly into its flesh.
The beast screamed.
It retaliated with Flameleech, a strike that drained her Emberglyphs and left her body cold.
She whispered:
> "I do not feed. I forge."
She activated Glyphnest, casting a trap beneath Vulthex. When it landed, the sigils erupted—summoning a new creature.
Ashbuzzards—birds stitched from resistance and ember. They pecked at Vulthex's wings, burning what it could not digest.
Zariah rose.
First hit—Ashfangs into its chest.
Second hit—Glyphstorm into its wings.
Third hit—Cinderstep behind it, carving Sustain into its spine.
Fourth hit—Bloodbite into its throat.
Vulthex shattered.
Its wings dissolved.
Its hunger faded.
Emberveil stitched a new patch—gold and ember, etched with the word Preserve.
The Trial Fire pulsed.
The Flame Tree bloomed.
But the sky did not clear.
It pulsed again.
And from the clouds, the nineteenth beast began to descend.