Dawn broke slow and cold over the horizon, casting a pale amber light through the skeletal branches of the ancient trees above. A biting wind whispered through the woods, carrying the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. Orien Vale stirred beneath his thick woolen cloak, rising from a dreamless sleep that offered little in the way of rest. He stretched his stiff muscles, his breath misting in the frigid air. The flame-shaped shard and the featherstone lay untouched beside him on the packed earth, still glowing faintly with the ethereal light from the previous trial. He blinked against the weak brightness, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and listened intently: birdsong, faint but present, rustling leaves skittering across the forest floor, the quiet rush of the river somewhere behind him, a constant, soothing murmur. No footsteps broke the natural symphony. No voices shattered the morning calm. The world had returned to normal—or as close to it as it ever would be, in his strange and fractured reality.
But something was calling.
It began subtly, like the echo of a distant memory, the faint resonance of a forgotten song. A tug behind his eyes, a subtle pressure building. A strange sensation in his ribs, like a tightly wound spring about to burst free. Orien turned toward the worn leather satchel where he'd carefully stored the sealed letter from the Lira-like apparition. Still unopened, the wax seal unbroken. Still mysterious, its contents a looming question mark in his already uncertain journey. He hesitated to open it, fear warring with curiosity, but the calling grew stronger.
And yet, to his surprise, the insistent pull didn't originate from the letter. It resonated from somewhere else entirely, a subtle but undeniable force.
He reached for the small pouch containing the two shards he'd already acquired, his fingers brushing against the soft leather. As his fingertips brushed the cool surface of the featherstone, a faint vibration rippled through his arm, a tingling sensation that spread from his hand to his shoulder. He pulled the stone free of the pouch and held it up to the meager light filtering through the canopy. The silvery shimmer inside pulsed—once, twice—then steadied into a constant, mesmerizing glow. His heart skipped a beat, a sudden surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He felt a strange mix of trepidation and excitement.
A third shard was calling him.
He stood, the movement quick and decisive now, slinging his worn pack across his shoulders, adjusting the weight until it rested comfortably. He took one last, lingering look at the Silent Bridge far behind him, its stone arches disappearing into the mist-shrouded distance, a silent sentinel of his past. Then he turned east, his boots crunching on the frost-covered ground, following a path that didn't yet exist, guided only by the invisible force pulling him forward.
The terrain shifted quickly, as if the forest itself was responding to his presence, reshaping itself to meet his purpose. Trees grew denser, their trunks thick and gnarled, their branches intertwined to form a dark, impenetrable canopy. Moss hung in thick drapes from every branch, like spectral curtains, clinging to the bark and swallowing the light. The deeper he walked, the dimmer the sunlight became, as though it struggled, futilely, to penetrate the suffocating canopy. The air grew heavy and still, the forest holding its breath. Birds no longer sang their cheerful melodies. The rustling of leaves ceased. The only sound was the soft thud of his boots on the leaf-strewn ground and the whisper of his own breath.
By midday, though it felt much later, the path sloped downward into a forest basin, a depression in the earth where the trees grew even taller and thicker, their roots clawing at the exposed soil. The wind had stopped completely, leaving the air stagnant and heavy. Insects didn't buzz or flit about. The air was thick with the scent of something ancient, something primal—old stone, worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain, and old magic, potent and lingering. It was a scent that spoke of forgotten rituals and sleeping power. That was when he saw it, nestled at the base of a towering oak, partially hidden by a curtain of ivy.
A boulder. Smooth. Rounded. Unnatural in its perfect symmetry. It looked as though it had been deliberately placed there, a silent guardian of the secrets that lay beneath.
Carved into its surface was a complex spiral of symbols he didn't recognize, an intricate design that seemed to writhe and shift as he watched, drawing his eye deeper into its pattern. All the symbols encircled a single indentation at the center of the spiral, a perfectly formed recess just large enough to hold the featherstone. Beneath it, etched in crude Common script, the letters uneven and worn, were four words:
"Your name is known."
The stone in his hand grew warm, the pulsing light within intensifying, as if responding to the inscription. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he stumbled slightly, his hand instinctively tightening around the stone.
With hesitant breath, his heart pounding in his chest, Orien pressed the featherstone into the indentation.
The stone glowed, the light emanating from it growing brighter and brighter, bathing the clearing in an ethereal luminescence. The carved symbols on the boulder lit in sequence—one by one, around the spiral—the light spreading like wildfire, illuminating the ancient glyphs. The air crackled with energy. The forest held its breath. Then, with a sigh of dust that seemed to echo through the ages, the boulder cracked down the center, a clean, precise fissure splitting the stone in two. The forest trembled, the ground shifting beneath his feet, the roots of the ancient trees groaning in protest. And from the split in the boulder, a stairwell descended into the earth, disappearing into the darkness below.
He hesitated only briefly, the weight of the calling too strong to ignore. He took a deep breath, steeling his nerves, and descended into the unknown.
The air below was dry and cold, a stark contrast to the dampness of the forest above. The temperature dropped noticeably with each step, chilling him to the bone. The walls of the stairwell were carved from black granite, polished smooth by time and etched with intricate spirals that mirrored the design on the boulder above. But here, among the swirling carvings, were names. Hundreds. Thousands. Etched into the stone, whispered on the wind, resonating with an ancient power.
Some of the names had been scratched out, the stone scarred and defaced, as if someone had tried to erase their existence. Others shimmered faintly, glowing with a soft, ethereal light, as if they were still alive, their stories waiting to be told.
And there, in the center of a large, circular chamber, bathed in an otherworldly glow, stood the Calling Stone.
It floated serenely above a simple stone pedestal, glowing with a deep blue hue that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Around it hovered three fragments—shard-shaped, like the ones he'd collected, each resonating with a unique energy. One glowed with the faint, flickering fire of the second trial. Another shimmered with a silvery light, like the feather, ethereal and weightless. The third was blank, a void of color and light, waiting to be filled.
Orien stepped forward, drawn by an irresistible force. The moment his foot crossed the threshold of the chamber, the fragments spun rapidly, whirling around the Calling Stone in a dizzying dance of light and color. Then, with a sudden surge of power, they vanished—absorbed into the Calling Stone, becoming one with its essence.
And then… it spoke.
"Orien Vale. Son of Narin Vale. Bearer of Flame and Feather. Listener of the Echo. You stand before the Third Calling."
His skin prickled, a wave of goosebumps rising on his arms. He felt a strange disconnect from his body, as if he were no longer fully in control.
The voice was not a sound in the traditional sense—it was inside him, resonating deep within his mind, a thunderous presence that filled every corner of his being.
"Your name is known. Your path is written. But ink fades. And names… change."
The floor trembled, the stone beneath his feet vibrating with an unseen energy. The pedestal beneath the Calling Stone sank slowly into the floor, disappearing into the depths below, revealing another passage, a dark and forbidding tunnel that spiraled downwards.
"Descend. Know yourself. Or be forgotten."
He obeyed, compelled by the voice and the promise of understanding.
The tunnel spiraled downward for what felt like hours, a seemingly endless descent into the heart of the earth. The air grew heavier and colder, the silence broken only by the echo of his own footsteps. He emerged finally into a vast cavern, a subterranean world lit by strange crystals embedded in the ceiling—sky-blue and vibrating softly, casting an ethereal glow over the landscape. A lake spread before him, its surface as still as glass, reflecting the crystals above like a shattered sky.
At its center stood an island of obsidian, a jagged spire of black rock rising from the water.
And atop the island, bathed in the crystal light, stood an altar, its surface smooth and polished, waiting for a sacrifice.
He waded into the water, his boots sinking into the soft mud at the bottom. It was not cold. Not warm. It simply was—a sensation beyond temperature, a numbing neutrality that spread through his body. Halfway across the lake, as the water reached his chest, his reflection changed.
It stared up at him from the depths, but it was not him. Not entirely.
This Orien was older, his face etched with lines of worry and weariness. His hair was longer, streaked with gray. His eyes were harder, colder, filled with a knowledge he didn't possess. His expression… was that regret? A deep, abiding sorrow that seemed to weigh him down.
He stumbled, the shock of the vision nearly knocking him off his feet.
The water around him shifted, swirling and thickening into a swirling mist, obscuring the lake and the crystals above.
He looked up, disoriented. The obsidian island was gone, vanished into the swirling fog.
He stood in Elowen.
His childhood home. The familiar thatched roofs of the cottages, the scent of woodsmoke and baking bread, the sound of children laughing. His father's forge, the rhythmic clang of the hammer against steel echoing through the village. The village green, where he had spent countless hours playing as a boy.
And then, a voice, soft and achingly familiar.
"You never said goodbye."
Lira.
She stood before him in the mist, younger than he remembered, her eyes shining with warmth and affection, but a sad smile played on her lips.
"You left," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "But I stayed. I stayed and watched the sky change."
He reached for her, his hand outstretched, desperate to touch her, to hold her. But his hand passed through her, as if she were nothing more than a ghost.
"You weren't ready," she whispered, her voice filled with understanding. "And neither was I."
"Why are you here?" he asked, his voice choked with emotion.
"Because you still carry me," she replied, her eyes filled with a mixture of love and sorrow.
The mist deepened, swirling around them, obscuring the village. The forge dissolved, the cottages faded, the laughter of children silenced. Elowen was gone, swallowed by the fog of the past.
Now he stood in a battlefield. Smoldering. Ash-stained. The ground littered with broken weapons and shattered shields. The air thick with the stench of death. Hundreds of broken swords lay scattered across the field, their blades dulled and stained with blood. A single banner—his family's—ripped and burning, lay trampled in the mud.
The older Orien knelt in the center of the carnage, his armor blackened and broken, blood on his hands and face, his expression one of utter despair.
"No!" Orien stepped forward, his voice filled with horror. "This hasn't happened. This isn't real."
"It will be."
The Calling Stone's voice boomed, resonating through the battlefield, silencing the cries of the wounded and the groans of the dying.
"The name Vale carries weight. Fire and burden. This is what awaits, should you continue."
He clenched his fists, his knuckles white with anger and resolve.
"I've seen what comes from hiding. From running. I won't do it again."
"Then take your name. And bear it."
The battlefield vanished, the smoke and ash dissipating like a dream.
He stood once more before the altar, the obsidian surface gleaming in the crystal light.
A third shard hovered above it—this one shaped like a blade, its edges sharp and clean. It shone with a silver-blue light, a cold, ethereal glow that seemed to promise both power and pain.
He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and as his fingers closed around the shard, a searing burn etched itself into his skin, a wave of agony washing over him. His right forearm flared with pain, as if branded by fire, and when he looked down, the mark of Vale had returned, imprinted on his flesh. A crest of flame and feather encircled by an eye, glowing faintly with an inner light.
"Trial III awaits. Ninety-seven remain."
He turned, ascending once more to the surface, leaving the cavern and its secrets behind.
But this time, as he climbed the stairs, the names on the walls whispered, their voices soft and insidious, like the rustling of leaves.
They spoke of choices made and paths not taken.
They spoke of names forgotten, erased from history.
And they whispered his.
"Orien Vale… Orien Vale… Orien…"
He emerged into the twilight, the sun having dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the forest.
And the Calling Stone vanished behind him, the boulder sealing itself once more, the stairwell disappearing without a trace.
But the voice lingered in his mind, a constant presence that echoed in his thoughts.
"You have answered. The world watches. The Trials remember."