"The strength of will must be forged in fire, but the strength of body must be earned in pain."
Eliakim sat curled against a wall of rough stone, still trembling from the mental storm of the Codex. His brain felt like it had run a thousand races while his body dragged behind, weak and gasping. The bracelet shimmered on his wrist, silently pulsing. Skyling nuzzled under his cloak, now too large to hide entirely, but still fiercely loyal.
He needed rest, but the path only moved forward.
The next passage narrowed, rough and jagged, barely wide enough to crawl through. The air was dry and sharp. With aching limbs, Eliakim pushed forward, scraping his elbows, his knees bruising against the stone. Skyling chirped softly in concern.
Beyond the passage was a chamber suffused in red light. The heat struck him like a wall.
Molten rivers flowed through channels in the floor, glowing veins of liquid fire. In the center stood a black iron pedestal. Upon it—a treasure: a silver armband shaped like entwined roots and flame, hovering in a ring of fire.
The Gauntlet of Varnash.
As he stepped forward, fire spiraled from the pedestal and a deep voice echoed:
"You who seek strength in flesh, step forward and be broken. Only through agony will you rise."
The trial began.
The floor cracked beneath him.
He fell into a vast furnace-pit of obsidian and flame. There was no ground—just jagged platforms floating in midair over lava. A colossal shape loomed above—a fiery giant made of living ash, wielding a flaming chain.
Eliakim barely had time to breathe.
The giant hurled its chain.
It wrapped around his leg, searing through cloth and skin. He screamed as he was flung against a stone platform. The world spun.
Skyling shrieked above, unable to help.
Pain shot through every nerve. He tried to stand, but the giant was relentless. Blow after blow rained down. Not magical. Not mental. Just brutal, merciless force.
"You think wisdom alone makes you worthy?" the giant roared. "Endure. Or perish."
He crawled. Dodged. Scrambled. His brain offered nothing. No spells. No clever tricks. Just instinct.
The chain came again. He caught it.
It burned his hands, but he held tight.
He used its pull to launch himself forward. He climbed the giant, battered and scorched. He reached the glowing core in its chest and struck it with his bare fist.
The giant howled.
But it did not die.
Instead, it melted into molten light, and Eliakim fell again—this time into darkness.
He landed hard on his back, gasping. The chamber was silent. No more fire. No more heat.
Only stillness.
Then the pain started.
Every wound. Every strain. His body trembled as black smoke poured from his pores. The air reeked—rancid and vile. The toxic build-up in his body from years of stagnation, weakness, and strain expelled itself.
Skyling, perched at a distance, let out a pitiful screech and vomited.
Eliakim laughed bitterly. "Sorry, buddy. I didn't know I stank that bad."
Then his laughter turned into screams.
His skin steamed violently, as if scalded from within. His muscles twitched uncontrollably, spasming under the strain of something ancient forcing its will upon his flesh. Bones cracked—one by one—reshaping, elongating, thickening. He writhed on the stone, nails scratching bloody lines on the floor. His fingers curled unnaturally, the tendons drawing tight like wires about to snap.
Memories of his struggles surged to the surface—not of weakness, but of hard-earned strength. The time he fought through fever to help his mother carry firewood. The day he wrestled with a stubborn fishing pole, catching a riverbeast larger than himself. How he ran for miles through the swamp to find a cure for Mareth, never once stopping to complain. He wasn't fragile—he was resilient, tempered by necessity and will. Not soft, but forged slowly, like iron over a low flame.
But now the pain was a roaring fire. His organs twisted, some shifting place, others reshaping entirely. It felt like every sinew in his body was being pulled apart and rewoven with iron.
He clawed at the ground, bile rising in his throat. His spine arched unnaturally. A distant crunch echoed as his jaw realigned. Muscles tore and reformed. The agony tore through him like a storm, drowning out thought, breath, and reason.
Even Skyling turned away, the loyal creature unable to watch any longer.
Finally, after what felt like eternity, the pain ebbed.
He lay still, soaked in sweat, black ichor clinging to his skin.
The stench was unbearable. Skyling gagged again and flapped back.
Eliakim slowly pushed himself to his feet.
His limbs obeyed. They obeyed. He could feel strength in them now. A deep power, forged from suffering.
His clothes clung tightly to him, seams stretched and fabric taut across broader shoulders and thickened limbs. His sleeves barely reached his wrists, and his pants had risen awkwardly above his ankles. Skyling eyed him with blinking surprise.
"Guess I outgrew myself," Eliakim muttered, trying to adjust his tunic.
At the center of the chamber now floated the treasure, the Gauntlet of Varnash.
He stepped forward, his steps now balanced and firm, and reached for it.
It wrapped around his right arm and fused with his skin—cool to the touch despite its flame-like glow. New strength pulsed through his limbs.
A deep whisper:
"You have endured. You have earned the flame. Let strength follow wisdom."
Eliakim clenched his fist. The sixth sigil ignited.
He turned to Skyling, who cautiously approached again, still wrinkling its nose.
"I think... I can actually keep up with you now," he said, voice rough but confident.
A tunnel opened in the far wall, leading downward once more.
But as he turned to leave, the voice of the flame echoed:
"One more trial remains before the Heart of the Vault may awaken."
Eliakim paused, heart thudding.
Only one left?
He stepped into the dark, unaware that something—someone—watched from beyond the last gate.