The temple doors groaned as they sealed behind us, their dark marble surfaces etched with twisting runes that writhed like serpents beneath the talisman's eerie glow. Beside me, Aziel's presence was a paradox—both solid and insubstantial, like smoke given shape. I had expected him to linger at the gates when I entered the courtyard; instead, he maintained a measured distance of ten paces, his silent vigilance an ever-present shadow.

  "The Spire has a path already picked out for you. Follow the light," he murmured, his low, resonant voice vibrating through my bones.

  I turned back to the path ahead and noticed tendrils of goblin-green light coursing along it like veins beneath living skin. As we descended a staircase carved from black marble—each step worn smooth by countless unseen feet—the walls pulsed with a faint blue luminescence. Living runes danced in a spectral tide, their light ebbing and flowing. I trailed a trembling finger over one, and the stone shuddered as if awakening, whispering in a language that scraped the edges of my memory. "They're not runes. They're scars," my father had once said during a lesson on ancient battlefields. "The earth bears the wounds of the gods' wars."

  At the base, we entered what had once been the grand hall. High, vaulted ceilings soared above, and the corridor before us split into three arched passages. Skeletal hands sculpted from moonstone framed each arch—their curling fingers pointing to inscriptions above the thresholds. I read aloud, squinting at the first arch: Truth—carved in High Aevarin, its letters sharp as a blade's stroke.

  I moved to the second arch and whispered, Memory...

  "Sacrifice," Aziel finished, his gaze slicing toward the third arch like a finely honed blade. "You can't go wrong with those. Your father's scribe lessons should've taught you how to craft a pretty lie."

  I tightened my grip on the talisman until its ridges bit into my palm. Truth. Memory. Sacrifice. These words had been etched into my bones long before this trial. "I'm here to finish this," I snapped, voice trembling with defiance and weariness, "so I can stop dreaming of temples, sentinels, and you. Let me go home—to ink pots and herb gardens. Let me sleep."

  "Home?" Aziel prowled closer, shadows pooling at his feet like spilled tar. "Where exactly is home? The library alcove your father locked you in? The scribe's desk where you etch his glory into parchment? Or perhaps that courtyard where Atlas flirts with your friend instead of you—while he whispers promises he'll never keep?"

  Heat surged up my neck at the memory of prism-colored potions, candy-floss skies, and Atlas's bright, summer-laced laugh. His words yanked me from my reverie.

  "Get out of my head," I hissed.

  "Gladly." He leaned in until his frost-kissed breath brushed my temple in a mock display of tenderness. "Finish the trial, and you won't have to see me again. You will be free of me. Until then?" His fingers, cool and deliberate, traced the contours of my temple. "Your mind is a tomb, Tia. Ten languages, a hundred wars, a thousand dead gods—all rattling inside that pretty skull of yours."

  A moment of stillness followed his words, and I felt the truth of them settle deep within me. In that instant, I recognized the subtle envy I had long harbored for the effortless command my friends held over their powers—a gift that seemed so natural compared to my own constant struggle. There was also a creeping resentment, a silent rebellion against the unyielding expectations of my father, whose legacy weighed on me like an ever-present shackle. The cacophony of ancient wars and dead gods echoed in my mind, each syllable a reminder of the power I craved but had never possessed.

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  Shifting my gaze, I turned toward the three arched trial doorways looming before us, their inscriptions glowing faintly in the shifting light. "What now?" I asked, voice small yet determined.

  Aziel's eyes flickered over the doorways, a shadow of unease crossing his usually impassive features. "I had to complete these trials," he said softly, the admission heavy with unspoken truths. "Now it's your turn."

  I let my eyes wander over the doorways—each a silent monument to a path laden with both promise and peril. They stood as guardians of Truth, Memory, and Sacrifice, their meanings both mesmerizing and foreboding.

  "What are the trials? Do I have to fight?" I murmured, more to myself than to him, my eyes drifting to the gleaming broadsword at his side—a stark symbol of conflict and power. I nearly snorted at the absurdity of my own worry, my expression twisting into a look so incredulous it felt as if I were sprouting horns right there on my head.

  Aziel’s voice cut through my levity, cold and unyielding. “These trials are not merely about clashing swords or enduring physical blows. They are a crucible for your very soul—a confrontation with the truths you’ve long hidden, the envy you harbor for those whose power seems—effortless.”

  His words struck me like a sudden, unrelenting gust. In that moment, I was forced to confront the gnawing doubts that had shadowed my every step— Did he really sense the secret bitterness I held toward my friends, whose magic flowed with graceful ease? I wouldn’t call my feelings towards my father resentment, but there was an undeniable, simmering fear that clutched at my heart.

  “You're afraid,” he pressed, relentless. “Not of the trial—of what happens if you win, and your father finds out somehow.”

  “Stop—” I began, but he wouldn’t let the accusation drop.

  “Why? You've spent your life swallowing all of your own desires. It's time to let out that beast inside you.” I whirled on him, the talisman blazing in my palm like a flare against the dark.

  "I'm not your puppet!" I snapped, defiance ringing in every syllable.

  His smile turned feral, a predatory curl of his lips. “No? Tell your father that. Until then, truth, memory, sacrifice—pick one. Or stand here shaking until the Spire consumes us both.”

  A heavy silence fell between us as his challenge echoed off the ancient stone. The corridors around us seemed to pulse with the weight of generations—each crack in the marble and every etched rune a testament to past trials and forgotten wars. I could almost hear the murmurs of those who had come before, their voices woven into the very fabric of this temple. The Spire looming above us, its silver light bleeding through the gloom like a promise of both deliverance and doom.

  In that charged pause, I felt the burden of a lifetime settle upon my shoulders. I recalled the secret envy I harbored as I watched friends wield their magic with a confidence I’d never known, and the quiet, gnawing fear that my own power—if it ever truly awakened—might shatter the fragile balance of my world. The temple’s cold, indifferent walls bore silent witness to my inner turmoil, and I wondered if, by turning against my fathers ways, I would finally be free—or doomed to repeat the legacy of endless sacrifice. Letting out the beast.

  I stepped toward the archways, each determined footfall echoing against the cold marble. Every stride plunged me deeper into a realm where truth slashed like a sharpened blade and memory struck with relentless precision. I pushed forward, intent on embracing the raw fire of my hidden desires instead of remaining caged by expectations. As I reached the threshold—a moment of daring choice—the very ground beneath me shuddered. In an instant, a violent force seized me, tugging me away from the ancient temple’s dark embrace. I felt the world spin wildly as I was ripped from that shadowed sanctum, the distant hum of the Spire fading into a chaotic blur.