445: The Origin Flame

Location: Vatican Black – Trial Chamber

The flaming ring tightened, dancing with ancient whispers that curled through the shadows like spirits released from purgatory. Damien's breath was steady, but every flicker of the fire licked at the deepest fractures in his soul.

"You fear becoming your forefathers," the spectral figure said, voice echoing like chimes of judgment. "Then show us… who you truly are."

The flames surged into Damien's chest—not burning, but revealing.

Suddenly, he stood in a memory not his own.

A battlefield.

Corpses littered the ground—armored men bearing the insignia of House Kane, swords drenched in blood not just of enemies, but of kin. In the center of the field stood a man identical to Damien, only older, eyes cruel and hollow.

"This is your blood," the Trial intoned. "Dominion. Ruthlessness. Legacy at the cost of love."

Damien clenched his fists. "I am not him."

The vision changed.

Nora lay dying in his arms—again, a phantom of a future unwritten. Her eyes wide, her lips murmuring his name. Behind them, the world burned. His power had gone unchecked.

"You fear you'll lose her," the voice continued, "because power without restraint always corrupts."

Damien took a step forward, the vision unraveling like mist. "Then let my restraint be my power."

The flames around him flickered—then bent away, as if bowing.

The Trial moved to Nora.

"Doctor of shadows… hidden savior. Reveal your truth."

Nora's heart thudded. The flames pressed into her.

She stood in the surgical theatre of her youth—alone, unnoticed, operating on a warlord's child under candlelight in a village clinic. No thanks. No glory. Only her hands, trembling from hunger.

Then the vision shifted—her true self, a deity of medicine in a realm of war, standing tall as assassins bowed to her, not with reverence, but fear.

"You are both healer and executioner," the Trial said. "You fear what your love will cost the world."

"I fear I will have to choose," she whispered. "Between saving him… or saving them."

"Would you?" the voice asked.

Nora looked toward Damien.

"I'll find a way to do both."

Again, the flames parted.

Now Lazarus stepped forward—without being summoned. "My turn."

The specter turned toward him, surprised. "You carry no fear?"

"I carry a burden. Let it be judged."

The flames touched him—then recoiled. A storm of black feathers swirled behind his eyes.

"You… are not bound to the Trial," the voice said.

"I was forged in it," Lazarus growled. "Now end this farce."

With a sudden crash, the pedestal at the center shattered.

The crystal dagger floated between the three of them—glowing brightly, now tinged with red.

The spectral figure bowed. "The Trial of the Origin Flame has been passed. The blade is yours."

Damien reached out and grasped the dagger.

In that moment, a mark burned onto his palm—a sigil not from any known House, but older.

Primordial.

A new power had been awakened.

And unseen, deep beneath the crypt, something stirred… and screamed.