"The body breaks. The spirit falters. But the will endures."
Eliakim's legs trembled as he climbed the spiral stone steps from the chamber of flame. The Embercloak draped across his shoulders hung heavy with soot and sweat. His muscles screamed from the burns and exertion of his last trial. Skyling rested inside his cloak, unusually still, its little body curled tight against the warmth of his chest.
Every heartbeat echoed in his ears like a war drum. Every breath came with effort. The weight of the bracelet, now pulsing softly with two lit sigils, felt more like a shackle than a blessing.
"How many more..." he muttered hoarsely, dragging one foot after another.
At the top of the stair, he emerged into a smaller, domed cavern. It was quieter here, almost tranquil. Crystalline structures grew from the walls, casting soft, multicolored light across a wide stone dais in the center. The sound of trickling water echoed faintly.
On the dais sat a silver basin, and within it, a glowing orb of aquamarine light hovered above still water. Etched on the stone surrounding the basin were healing runes and ancient words of restoration. Eliakim recognized some from his studies: Lirael—the Womb of Waters. Giver of Breath. Restorer of the Weary.
The third treasure.
He stepped toward the basin, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion, but a sudden wave of warm energy from the orb washed over him like a gentle breeze.
He felt the pain ebb.
But as he reached out—
The orb flashed.
The cavern quaked.
A section of the wall split open, and water rushed in from hidden ducts, filling the chamber in seconds. Eliakim gasped as the floor beneath him dissolved into mist and light. He was no longer in the same room.
He now stood ankle-deep in a vast marsh under a storm-wracked sky. Lightning split the air. Wind howled. The mud beneath his feet sucked at him as if trying to drag him under. The orb hovered far ahead, still glowing, resting on the skeletal hand of a drowned statue.
A voice whispered from all directions:
"The healer must walk through pain. Will you carry the wounds of others, or be crushed by your own?"
Before he could respond, the first test struck.
From the mire rose shadowy forms—withered, hollow-eyed reflections of himself, each bearing some wound he had already endured. A burnt doppelganger shambled forward, skin charred like coal. A bleeding one crawled from the mud, leaving a trail of crimson. Another limped with a shattered leg. Each bore his face.
And they attacked.
Eliakim dodged the first, but slipped in the mud. The burning shadow slashed at him, and heat exploded along his side. He rolled, flailing, fists swinging desperately. He landed a punch square in the jaw of the bleeding shade, only for it to dissolve into red mist that sprayed across his chest.
More emerged—too many.
He ran.
Through tangled reeds and brambles, each step like dragging chains. The storm above raged. He fell more than once, cut his palms on jagged stone, cried out as thorns tore across his face.
But he kept moving.
The orb shimmered like a lighthouse ahead.
Then came the final guardian.
A towering, translucent figure formed before the statue—a feminine entity with flowing hair of mist and a body formed from rain. Her face bore no malice, but sorrow. In her arms, she cradled a mirror. She raised it toward him.
In the reflection, he saw not himself—but the faces of those he'd failed.
Villagers from Yldrahollow. His father. Friends.
Each flickered like ghosts, blaming him with silent eyes.
"No," Eliakim gasped. "That's not true... I haven't failed them. I'm trying. I'm—"
The mirror cracked.
Pain lanced through his chest as if the guilt had stabbed him physically.
He dropped to one knee, struggling to breathe.
The spirit reached out, brushing his forehead with her watery fingers.
"Only by embracing your pain, can you mend it. Only by seeing the broken, can you heal the whole."
And then—
He stopped resisting.
He knelt before the spirit, shoulders bare, heart open. "I will carry it. The pain, the failure. All of it. If it means I can protect them. I accept it."
The storm began to still.
One by one, the shadows vanished. The mirror melted into mist.
The spirit leaned down, kissed his brow, and faded.
The swamp dissolved.
Eliakim found himself kneeling before the basin again, the chamber dry and still. The orb floated before him, brighter than before.
This time, it drifted toward him without resistance. It touched his chest—and dissolved into the bracelet.
A third sigil lit.
Eliakim inhaled sharply as warmth surged through his limbs. Cuts sealed. Bruises faded. The pain ebbed into numb relief. The magic coursing through him filled every corner with restorative power.
Skyling peeked out again and chirped with cautious joy.
"I'm alright," Eliakim said, rising to his feet.
In the reflection of the basin, his eyes looked older.
Not from age, but from endurance.
He picked up a silver vial left behind by the orb. Inside, it shimmered with aqua light—the Tear of Lirael, a one-time use elixir to revive from mortal injury. He tucked it into the newly forming slot of his bracelet.
The chamber's wall opened to another path.
Deeper into the unknown.