The obsidian pedestal stood before her, the Ashen Crown resting upon it like a sleeping beast. Dark metal, etched with intricate runes, pulsed with a quiet, ominous power. The air shimmered around it, bending reality as if resisting her presence.
Lyara hesitated, her fingers hovering inches above the crown’s surface. She could still hear the whispers of the mirror trial, echoes of the dark future she had seen.
Power always demanded a price.
Before she could decide, the air behind her shifted. A low chuckle echoed through the chamber.
Malrik.
The leader of the Order of Black Ember stood at the entrance, his crimson cloak billowing behind him. His gaunt face twisted into a smirk, amusement flickering in his cold, calculating eyes.
“Well done, Lyara,” he said, stepping forward. “You survived the trials. Now, be a good girl and hand over the crown.”
Lyara’s grip tightened on her sword. “You’re too late, Malrik. The crown belongs to no one but the worthy.”
Malrik chuckled, his voice laced with mockery. “And you think that’s you?” He took another step forward, his fingers curling as dark energy crackled around them. “You may have passed the temple’s trials, but you will not leave this place alive.”
The chamber darkened. Shadows twisted unnaturally, coiling around Malrik like living tendrils. He raised a hand, and from the darkness, spectral warriors emerged—hulking figures with hollow eyes and jagged blades. The air grew colder, death pressing in from all sides.
Lyara exhaled sharply, steadying herself. There was no running. No escaping.
The only way out was through.
Malrik flicked his wrist, and the specters lunged.
Lyara moved. She ducked beneath the first swing, rolling to the side as a spectral blade slashed the air where she had stood. Coming up on one knee, she struck fast, her sword slicing through the nearest phantom. The creature shrieked but did not fall.
Mortal steel would not end them.
She pivoted, knocking another blade aside before sprinting toward one of the chamber’s silver-fire braziers. Snatching a torch, she thrust it into the flames. The fire roared to life, turning brilliant gold in her grip.
Holy fire.
A specter lunged, and this time, when Lyara swung, the fire-wreathed blade connected. The creature screamed as it was consumed, its form collapsing into embers.
Malrik scowled. “Clever, but futile.”
He extended his hand, and the darkness moved. The shadows themselves wrapped around Lyara’s arms and legs, tightening like iron chains. Her body seized, muscles locked in place as the cold seeped into her bones.
Malrik strode toward the pedestal.
“You think you’re strong, but you don’t understand power,” he mused, reaching for the crown. “The crown does not belong to the righteous. It belongs to the strongest.”
“No!” Lyara’s voice tore from her throat, raw with desperation.
The crown recoiled.
The air trembled as a force erupted from the pedestal, sending Malrik staggering back. The shadows binding Lyara shattered, and she moved.
She lunged.
Her hand closed around the crown.
The chamber exploded with light.
Blinding energy surged through her veins, burning away exhaustion, fear—everything. Visions flooded her mind—of kings and queens long past, of battles fought, of the weight of rule.
And then… silence.
She opened her eyes.
The Ashen Crown pulsed against her skin, and she understood. It was not a tool of conquest. It was a burden, a responsibility.
Malrik, blinking against the golden glow surrounding her, snarled. “No… it should have been mine!”
Lyara lifted her sword. Power thrummed through her voice.
“I am the guardian of the Ashen Crown.”
Malrik roared, raising his hands for one final spell—
But Lyara was faster.
She struck, and the battle ended.
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