Chapter 14 – Blood and Shadows

The world smelled of iron and ash.

Elira's knees sank into black sand, the grains warm like embers under her skin. Above her stretched a crimson sky, broken by jagged shards of floating obsidian. They glowed faintly—runes crawling across their surfaces like living scars.

This was not a dream.

This was a cage.

And the Herald stood at its heart.

"You brought me here," Elira said, voice hoarse.

The Herald lowered his hood fully. His silver eyes gleamed with a hunger that was almost reverence.

"No," he murmured. "You brought yourself. Every Trial answers a door you opened. Every door leads deeper."

He paced slowly, chains slithering behind him like obedient serpents.

"Welcome to the Third Trial, child of Ashborne: Blood and Shadows."

Her fists clenched. "I'm done playing your games."

"Are you?" His tone was soft, cruel. "Then why do you still carry the book?"

Elira froze.

The Ashen Book was in her hands.

She hadn't summoned it. She hadn't touched it since the second Trial. Yet now it pulsed with dim scarlet light, heavier than steel, as if its pages drank the heat from her blood.

"You think this book serves you," the Herald said. "But it serves the oath written in your mother's veins. As do you."

Elira hurled it to the ground.

It didn't fall.

It hovered in midair, pages fluttering as though laughing.

You cannot discard what you are, the whispers curled into her skull.You cannot choose not to burn.

Chains lashed toward her—faster than thought. Elira leapt back, fire bursting from her palms, carving molten arcs through the air. They struck the chains, melting steel into dripping slag.

But more came.

Too many.

The Herald raised both hands. The floating shards of obsidian trembled—and rained down like spears.

Elira dodged, rolled, fire slamming upward in desperate bursts. Sweat slicked her spine. Her heart pounded like war drums.

I can't fight him like this. He's not even trying yet.

Then—she saw it.

The Book.

Its pages glowed brighter with every strike she took, as if feeding on her defiance.

For one heartbeat, Elira hesitated.

And then she seized it.

The instant her fingers touched the Book, heat roared up her arm—liquid fire surging into her veins. Pain scorched her marrow, but with it came power.

Flame burst from her in a tidal wave, white at its core, threaded with black glyphs that writhed like living thorns.

The Herald stopped mid-step.

His silver eyes widened—not with fear, but with something sharper. Satisfaction.

"Yes," he breathed. "Yes. Show me the Queen's fire."

Elira didn't answer.

She raised her hand—and the sky itself ignited.

Back in Valteran, chaos reigned.

The East Wing was a ruin of shattered glass and blood. Professors scrambled to stabilize wards as smoke choked the halls. Students huddled in clusters, whispering in terror.

"Status report!" roared Archmage Loras, his golden mantle spattered with soot.

"Two instructors critical," barked Professor Veyra. "Three wards collapsed. And—" Her voice caught. "Elira is gone."

Loras froze.

"Gone?" he said coldly.

"She vanished when the Herald triggered the Seal. We traced a rift signature—Shadow Realm class."

The chamber fell silent.

At last, Loras spoke.

"Summon the Council."

Within minutes, the Academy's highest circle convened in the obsidian council chamber. Sigil-light bathed their grim faces.

"She cannot remain there," snapped Veyra. "The Shadow Realm is not just a battlefield—it's a crucible. If she dies there, her soul—"

"—returns to the one who summoned her," finished Loras, eyes like knives. "And that… cannot happen."

At the far end of the table, Caelum stood rigid, fists clenched so hard his knuckles bled.

"Send me," he said.

"No," Loras replied. "You've already compromised protocol by engaging the Herald."

Caelum's jaw tightened. "Then kill me now, because if you think I'm staying here while she—"

"Enough!" The Archmage's voice cracked like a whip. Silence crashed over the chamber.

But in the shadowed corner, another voice murmured:

"Perhaps… this is what we need."

All eyes turned to the speaker: Lady Neryss, Head of Relic Studies, her smile a blade.

"The girl is becoming exactly what the prophecy requires," she said softly. "Why interfere? Unless"—her eyes glittered—"you fear who she'll become."

Elira staggered, smoke curling from her skin. The power she'd unleashed was intoxicating—terrifying. Her hands trembled, but the flames obeyed her now, swirling like serpents around her arms.

The Herald stepped through the inferno, untouched.

"Magnificent," he whispered. "You are her daughter."

"Stop calling me that," Elira hissed.

"Why?" His smile was thin. "You wear her rage like a crown."

He lunged.

Their clash shook the ground—fire against shadow, glyph against chain. The sky screamed with crimson lightning. Each strike ripped shards from reality, scattering them into the void.

Elira's vision blurred.

Her body screamed.

But something inside her burned brighter than pain.

I won't kneel. Not to you. Not to anyone.

With a roar, she drove her fire into the Herald's chest—an explosion that tore the earth open.

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then—

Laughter.

The smoke cleared.

The Herald stood, blood trickling from his lips—but smiling wider than ever.

"Good," he rasped. "Now… bleed for me."

Before Elira could react, the ground split—and chains erupted, binding her wrists, her throat, her ribs. They didn't burn this time. They drank her fire, swallowing it whole.

The Herald leaned close, voice a whisper of silk and steel.

"Do you know why your mother died?" he murmured. "It wasn't betrayal. It wasn't war. It was choice."

His fingers brushed her jaw, cold as bone.

"And soon, you'll make the same one."

The world tilted.

Darkness surged.