The path from Myndros ran like a scar through the mountain's spine, narrow and uneven, its jagged ridges kissed by the breath of ancient storms. David walked it alone, but the silence didn't feel empty — it pulsed with meaning.
The trial had changed him.
His mana still flowed endlessly, but now it no longer surged wild. It moved in harmony with his will. The Well wasn't simply feeding him power — it was aligning to his spirit, obeying the measure he imposed upon it.
He was not its servant.
Nor merely its master.
He was its mirror.
And yet, deeper inside, he sensed that something had awakened alongside him.
A day after leaving Myndros, as twilight blanketed the cliffs, David reached a plateau that seemed untouched by time. There, a lone spire jutted from the stone like a tooth from a giant skull. Carved from obsidian and wrapped in chains, the tower burned faintly with an inner heat, like a forge left to smolder for centuries.
This was no natural structure.
And it was not silent.
David stepped forward.
A voice met him — not through sound, but directly into his chest, as if spoken by the mana itself.
"The Trial is not over."
The tower doors burst open on their own.
He entered without hesitation.
Inside, the world shifted.
He was no longer in the tower, but in a chamber of pure flame.
Every surface burned, yet nothing was destroyed. The floor was fire, yet held his weight. The walls shimmered, and above him, a sky of endless embers whirled.
A figure stood across from him — the same form as before in Myndros. The Bound Flame. But different.
Taller. Sharper. Its presence was heavier now. No longer a test of growth — a test of control.
"You mastered the Well," it said, voice deeper now. "But have you mastered yourself?"
David stepped forward, calm.
"I learned to listen."
The Bound Flame raised a hand. "Then listen now… to your limits."
Flames erupted in every direction. Waves of fire surged toward David from above, below, behind. The figure disappeared into the inferno.
David didn't run. He breathed.
The mana within him responded, forming a shield not from magic — but from intention. The fire passed over him like a tide around stone.
Then the world darkened.
Not visually — spiritually.
He felt his mind stretch, his body drain. The fire didn't only burn flesh — it burned identity. It whispered doubt, clawed at memory.
"You will become lost in yourself," the Bound Flame whispered from nowhere and everywhere.
David closed his eyes.
He saw his mother.
Her hands at the fire.
Her voice calling him home.
He saw Orinel.
He saw the path. The book. The Well.
He remembered.
And with that memory, he grounded himself.
The fire broke.
The Bound Flame emerged again, slower this time.
"You remember," it said. "But do you feel?"
It charged.
Their clash sent tremors through the dreamlike space. Fist to flame, soul to trial. Each time David struck, he felt more of his essence reflected back at him. Not just power — anger. Fear. Hope. Doubt. The full spectrum of what he was — and what he might become.
"You cannot grow endlessly without burning something away," the figure said.
"I know," David whispered.
And he allowed the fire in.
The world went silent.
The flames entered him — not to destroy, but to temper. He didn't resist. He accepted the blaze, letting it burn away his hesitation, his passiveness, his reliance on endless power.
He saw the truth:
To wield endless strength was not to overflow.
It was to refine without ceasing.
Like a blacksmith.
Like a sword.
The chamber collapsed around him. The spire vanished.
David awoke on the plateau again, the wind cold against his skin. But now, around his arms, were glowing sigils — tattoos born of flame.
They pulsed with quiet fire. Not power granted. Power earned.
He had not fought the Bound Flame.
He had become it.
Far below the cliffs, in a forgotten valley, something stirred.
A figure cloaked in shadow opened its eyes.
"The Well has passed the second gate."
Its voice was a whisper wrapped in poison.
"Then it is time… to begin the collapse."