Chapter 3:Sovereign of the Scar

The priestess's masked face tilted, sunlight glinting off the gold as if it, too, were holding its breath. For a moment, the only sound was the demon's fading growls and the metallic clink of chains settling in the dust. Then she spoke, her voice softer now, stripped of its earlier thunder.

"Your mother spoke true," she said, stepping closer. The hem of her robes brushed the demon's smoldering corpse. "To resist the scar's hunger in such a moment… Few have that strength."

Alex staggered to his feet, his body trembling with exhaustion. The scar seethed beneath his collarbone, a cold, oily whisper. "She lies. They all lie. They'll use you, then cast you into the dark."

"But the test isn't over, is it?" Alex rasped, wiping demonic spittle from his cheek. It left a raw, red burn.

The priestess paused. Behind the mask, he heard the faintest exhale—something like regret. "No. The scar's shadows may yet consume you. Your refusal to wield them here proves only that you fear their cost. Not that you've mastered it."

Before Alex could respond, she raised a hand. The courtyard trembled, stones groaning as the earth split. From the fissure rose a pedestal of black obsidian, and atop it sat the crystal he'd surrendered—a shard of jagged violet light, humming with unstable power.

"Your final trial," she said. "Take the crystal. Its energy will merge with the scar's curse. Control both, or be obliterated."

"Fool!" the scar shrieked, its voice fraying into a dozen hisses. "This is their trap! They want you dead!"

Alex approached the pedestal. His mother's face flashed in his mind—not as she'd looked in her final moments, pale and bloodied, but laughing by their hearth, teaching him to bind a splint with steady hands. "Fear isn't weakness," she'd said. "It's the compass. Listen to it, but don't let it steer."

He gripped the crystal.

Agony erupted. Violet tendrils slithered up his arm, piercing the scar. The shadows beneath his skin woke, thrashing against the light, tearing him apart from within. He fell to his knees, vision blurring as two forces warred in his veins—one devouring, the other purging.

"Let go!" the scar begged, desperate now. "We can flee! I'll give you power, true power—!"

Alex clenched his jaw. "No."

He focused on the memory of his mother's voice, her hands on his shoulders. "You are not your fear. You are the wall it breaks against."

The crystal's light flared, violent and pure. The scar's screams crescendoed—then silence.

When Alex opened his eyes, the crystal lay dull and lifeless in his palm. The scar was still there, but muted, its voice reduced to a distant murmur.

The priestess removed her mask.

Her face was young, scarred not by shadows but by time—a web of lines etched by grief and resolve. "You chose to bleed rather than betray," she said. "That is the essence of judgment here."

She pressed her palm to his chest. The scar burned once, briefly, then cooled.

"The curse remains," she warned. "But so does your choice. Remember: strength is not the absence of fear. It is the forge where fear is tempered."

As she led him from the courtyard, the scar stirred, faint but venomous. "This isn't over."

Alex smiled, weary but unshaken. "I know."

---

The priestess's trial reveals that true power lies in sovereignty over one's shadows, not their eradication. Alex's resolve deepens, but the scar's threat lingers—a whisper, yet unconquered.

The temple gates groaned shut behind them, sealing the courtyard and its obsidian pedestal in shadow. Alex walked beside the priestess, his steps heavy but deliberate. The scar's muted whispers coiled like smoke at the edges of his mind, faint but persistent. They will never trust you, it sighed. Look how she watches—waiting for you to falter.

The priestess led him down a narrow mountain path, the air thinning as they climbed. Below, the valley sprawled like a wound, choked with ash and the skeletal remains of dead trees. A storm brewed on the horizon, violet lightning flickering in sync with the scar's dormant pulse.

"Where now?" Alex asked, breaking the silence. His breath fogged in the chill.

"To the Sanctum of Echoes," she replied, her eyes fixed ahead. "Where the Order's ancestors speak. Your scar's origin may lie buried there."

The scar stirred. Lies. They'll feed you scraps to keep you leashed.

Alex ignored it. "And if the answer isn't one I like?"

She glanced at him, the wind tugging at her silver-streaked hair. "Truth is a blade. It cuts clean or festers—the choice is yours."

A cry shattered the stillness—sharp, human. Ahead, a child crouched in the path, her leg trapped beneath a landslide's debris. Blood seeped through her torn trousers. The priestess moved to help, but Alex froze.

The girl's eyes glinted too bright, her whimpers too rhythmic. A phantom, the scar purred. Demons wear pretty skins here. Let the priestess bleed for her ignorance.

"Wait—" Alex grabbed the priestess's arm. "It's a trap."

The child's face split into a grin, teeth sharpening into fangs. The ground erupted. Serpentine tendrils of rot lashed out, aiming for the priestess's throat. Alex shoved her aside, the scar roaring to life as venomous thorns grazed his shoulder.

Fool! the scar screamed. You'll die shielding her! Let me in—

Alex staggered, the toxin burning. His vision swam, but he clenched his fist, focusing on the scar's muted core. No. He wouldn't feed it, wouldn't trade control for survival. The priestess chanted, her hands blazing with golden light, but the demon-child was faster, its claws raking toward her unguarded back.

Alex lunged, seizing the creature's wrist. The scar writhed, hungering to devour the demon's flesh, to claim. He gritted his teeth. "I don't need you," he hissed—to the scar, to the fear.

The memory surfaced unbidden: his mother's voice, steady as she stitched a wound. Pressure here stops the bleed. Control, not force.

Alex twisted, driving his knee into the demon's ribs. It screeched, the sound unraveling into black mist as the priestess's light struck true. The tendrils dissolved, leaving only the stench of sulfur and the girl's hollow puppet-skin.

The priestess knelt beside him, her glow staunching his wound. "You saw the deception."

"Not at first." He winced. "The scar… it knew."

"And you denied it anyway." Her approval was quiet but unmistakable.

They continued in silence until the path opened to a cliffside cave, its mouth studded with glowing runes. Inside, spectral figures lined the walls—stone effigies of long-dead priests, their mouths open in silent judgment.

The priestess lit a brazier. "The Sanctum. Speak your questions to the dark."

Alex stepped forward. "Who cursed me?"

The flames died.

Cold breath filled the chamber as the statues shuddered. One by one, they spoke in overlapping rasps.

A king's bargain.

A mother's plea.

A soul split, shadow given form.

Alex's scar flared, icy pain spidering across his chest. "What does that mean?"

The priestess paled. "The scar… it isn't just a curse. It's a piece of someone."

The central statue ground forward, its stony lips peeling wider. A familiar voice echoed—his mother's.

"Forgive me, Alex. I could not let you die."

The scar laughed, soft and broken. Now you see. She made me. Fed me her own fear, her own life. You carry her sins.

Alex fell to his knees. The truth was a blade, just as the priestess had warned.

But as the scar savored his anguish, he grasped the fuller truth: his mother's love had teeth, but so did his own resolve.

He stood, the scar's taunts fading beneath the weight of his choice—to carry the wound, but not let it carry him.

The priestess watched, her gaze unreadable. Outside, the storm broke, its fury a mirror of the war within.