The wind howled through the ruins of Eldrakar, whispering forgotten secrets through the cracks of timeworn stone. The temple loomed ahead, its massive archway gaping like the jaws of some ancient beast. Lyara Valen pulled her hood lower, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her sword.

The 𝗔𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗖𝗿𝗼𝘄𝗻 —an artifact of immeasurable power, forged in dragonfire and worn by the last king of Eldrakar—was said to rest within these ruins. Legends claimed it could restore balance to the fractured lands or plunge them into an age of endless war.

She wasn’t the only one after it.

From behind a crumbling pillar, she spied three armored figures standing guard at the temple’s entrance. Their dark steel masks bore the insignia of the 𝗢𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝗕𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝗘𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿.

Lyara’s stomach twisted. Lord Malrik’s agents had arrived first.

She had fought the Order before. They were ruthless zealots who believed the crown belonged to their master. If Malrik claimed it, the kingdoms would fall under his dominion. She couldn’t let that happen.

She crouched lower, pressing herself against the cold stone, and steadied her breathing. Her mind raced. There was no way to enter unnoticed—not with the guards so close. She could wait, but time was not on her side. Others would come searching for the crown, and hesitation meant defeat.

Her only option was speed and precision.

Lyara moved, swift as a shadow. With a flick of her wrist, she sent a dagger flying. It struck the first guard in the throat before he could turn, his gurgled cry cut short as he slumped to the ground.

The second barely had time to react before she was upon him, her sword thrusting deep into his chest. His eyes widened in shock before the light faded from them.

The third spun, his blade already raised, but she was faster. She ducked beneath his swing, her body moving fluidly. Before he could recover, she smashed the pommel of her sword into his temple with a sickening crunch. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Silence.

Lyara exhaled, steadying herself. Her heart pounded against her ribs, but she didn’t allow herself to dwell on the adrenaline flooding her veins.

She wiped her dagger clean and retrieved it, glancing around.

No other enemies.

Not yet.

Carefully, she approached the temple entrance, pausing only to listen. The air within was thick with dust, carrying the scent of something ancient—forgotten history waiting to be unearthed.

The stone walls were lined with carvings, stories of kings and queens long lost to time. Figures were depicted wearing the 𝗔𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗖𝗿𝗼𝘄𝗻, each one wielding power beyond imagination. Some ruled with wisdom, while others drowned the world in chaos.

The sight sent a shiver down her spine.

As she stepped inside, a cold chill ran down her spine. The temple was deathly silent, the weight of centuries pressing in on her. Shadows danced along the walls, shifting as if something unseen moved within them.

The trial of the 𝗔𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗖𝗿𝗼𝘄𝗻 had begun.

...****************...

"𝑨 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒓 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒚."

Inside, the air was thick with dust and the scent of something ancient. Towering statues of forgotten kings lined the vast chamber, their stone eyes watching as if judging her presence. The temple walls, though cracked and faded, bore intricate carvings of battles fought, kingdoms risen and fallen. The weight of history pressed in around Lyara, suffocating yet exhilarating.

At the center of the chamber stood a pedestal, its surface glowing with ancient runes, pulsing like a heartbeat.

As she stepped closer, the runes flared to life. A deep voice rumbled through the chamber, reverberating through the stone like the echo of a god long gone.

“Who seeks the Ashen Crown?”

Lyara hesitated, her heart hammering.

“I am Lyara Valen,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady. “And I come to claim the crown.”

The runes pulsed brighter, casting eerie shadows across the chamber.

“Then prove your worth. Face the trials of fire, shadow, and soul. Only the worthy may wear the crown.”

The floor trembled beneath her feet. The air thickened, charged with unseen magic. Suddenly, a ring of fire erupted around her, its searing heat licking at her skin. From the shifting darkness beyond the flames, figures began to take form—humanoid shapes with glowing eyes, their bodies twisting like smoke in the wind.

The first shadow lunged. Lyara barely had time to react, raising her sword in defense, but the blade passed through it harmlessly, slicing only air. The creature reformed instantly, its glowing eyes locking onto her with eerie intelligence.

She cursed under her breath. Killing them the normal way won’t work.

She darted to the side, barely avoiding a second attack. Then she noticed the braziers lining the chamber, each burning with an unnatural blue flame.

Fire.

Diving past another shadowy claw, she sprinted toward the nearest brazier. A creature lunged, but she ducked low, feeling the whisper of cold death graze her shoulder. She grabbed a torch from the wall and thrust it into the flame, the tip igniting with brilliant blue fire.

Another shadow lunged, and this time, when she swung the burning torch, the creature recoiled, its form flickering like a dying ember.

A grim smile crossed her lips. That’s more like it.

One by one, she drove the creatures back, striking with fire until they dissolved into smoke. Some shrieked as they burned away, their screams echoing off the temple walls. The final shadow lunged in desperation, but Lyara met it with a precise, searing blow. The creature let out a final, tortured wail before vanishing into nothingness.

As the last one faded, the flames around her dimmed, and the chamber stilled once more.

The voice spoke again.

“You have conquered the Trial of Fire. Now, face the darkness within.”

The temple walls melted into shadows. The air turned cold, and suddenly, she was no longer in the chamber—she was standing on a battlefield.

The stench of blood and death filled her nostrils. Torn banners fluttered in the wind. Bodies lay strewn across the ground, lifeless eyes staring at nothing. The sky above was thick with black smoke, and in the distance, the ruins of a once-great castle burned.

Lyara’s breath caught in her throat.

She knew this place.

It was the battlefield where she had led her rebellion against King Aldros. She had won, but at a terrible cost—her closest friends had perished, their sacrifice the price of victory.

A chill ran down her spine as she heard a whisper.

“You failed us.”

She turned sharply.

A shadowy version of herself stood before her, clad in the same armor she had worn that fateful day. Its eyes, hollow and filled with sorrow, bore into hers with accusation.

“No,” Lyara whispered, shaking her head. “I did what I had to.”

The shadow stepped closer, its voice turning into a bitter hiss. “You let them die.”

Lyara clenched her fists, her heart pounding. “I had no choice.”

“And now, you seek a crown that will bring only more destruction.”

A wave of guilt crashed over her, raw and unrelenting. She had lived with this burden for years, questioning if she had made the right choices. But she could not allow doubt to consume her now.

She took a step forward, meeting the shadow’s gaze. “I seek it so no one else has to suffer. I won’t let power fall into the wrong hands.”

The shadow’s expression softened, and for a moment, it almost looked… proud.

Then it faded.

The battlefield dissolved into mist, and Lyara found herself back in the temple. The air felt heavier, as if the stone itself had absorbed the echoes of her past.

The final trial awaited.

A new passage opened before her, the stone grinding apart as if the temple itself willed her forward. The light inside was dim, cast by flickering braziers of ghostly silver fire. The silence was heavy, pressing against her ears, a weight of something unseen and ancient.

At the center of the room stood a massive mirror, its surface rippling like disturbed water. Inscribed around its frame were words in an ancient tongue she didn’t recognize. The letters seemed to shift, warping under her gaze, refusing to be understood.

“Step forward,” the voice commanded.

Lyara approached cautiously, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her sword. As she peered into the mirror, her reflection stared back—but it was not just a reflection.

It was her, yet… not her.

The other Lyara wore the same armor, bore the same scars. But her eyes were different. They gleamed with something darker—power, hunger, and an emptiness that sent a chill down Lyara’s spine.

“I know what you fear,” the reflection spoke, its voice identical to hers. “You fear becoming like me.****”

Lyara stiffened. “You’re not real.”

The reflection smirked. “Aren’t I? I am the future you fear. The path you could take.”

The mirror shimmered, and suddenly, she was seeing visions—herself, standing on a throne, the Ashen Crown upon her head. Armies knelt before her, cities burned in her wake. Malrik’s fate was sealed beneath her blade, but so was the fate of countless others.

She gasped, stumbling back. “No. That’s not who I am.”

The reflection’s eyes gleamed. “Yet you want power. The crown has chosen you, but power comes with a price. Will you pay it?”

Images flashed in rapid succession—her hand gripping the hilt of a dark sword, cutting down those who stood in her way. A kingdom bending the knee before her, not in admiration, but in fear. Shadows coiled around her throne, whispering promises of eternal dominion.

The weight of the visions pressed against her chest, suffocating, intoxicating. A part of her—a small, hidden part—felt the temptation. With the power of the Ashen Crown, she could stop tyrants before they rose, end wars before they began. She could rule.

The reflection stepped forward, its voice dropping to a whisper. “You could bring peace, Lyara. A lasting peace. All you have to do is embrace what you were always meant to become.”

Lyara took a deep breath, steadying herself.

“I don’t seek power for myself,” she said, her voice unwavering. “I seek it to protect.”

The reflection’s smile faded. The mirror rippled, the vision distorting.

“Then prove it.”

The chamber erupted in a blinding light.

The weight lifted. The visions faded.

When the glow subsided, Lyara was alone. The mirror was gone, leaving no trace it had ever existed. The silence of the temple stretched once more, but it no longer felt oppressive. It was expectant.

The temple walls rumbled as the final passage opened.

Ahead of her, waiting atop an obsidian pedestal, was the Ashen Crown.

The trials were over. But the greatest battle was yet to come.