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.
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