The heavy golden doors of the Trial of Kings slammed shut, sealing Primrose, Rajah, and Rurik inside.
Primrose expected fire. She expected lava.
She did not expect silence.
The room was a void of blinding white. There were no walls, no floor, just an infinite expanse of oppressive, heavy heat. It wasn't the kind of heat that burned skin; it was the kind of heat that weighed on the soul, demanding you confess every lie you ever told.
"It's hot," Rurik noted, wiping sweat from his brow. "Like a sauna built by angry gods."
"It is Spiritual Pressure," Rajah growled, his tiger ears flattened against his head. "The Ancestor is testing our resolve. If we waver, we burn."
Suddenly, the white void shifted. The heat coalesced into a massive, swirling tornado of golden fire in front of them. Two eyes opened within the flames—the same ruby eyes as the statue outside.
