The Shadow-Walk Talisman felt like a stone of glacial ice pressed against the skin of Erich's palm. It wasn't the weight that bothered him, but the way it drank the heat from his body. With every step he took toward the Citadel's reinforced secondary entrance—a maintenance corridor far beneath the royal garden—he felt the Talisman siphoning the vital energy he had sacrificed. Half of his life force, traded for an hour of invisibility and ward-nullification.
He stood before the massive, iron-bound door, its surface humming with ancient protective magic. This ward system was meant to filter out all but the purest royal blood. For a Triple Hybrid fueled by bloodlust and borrowed magic, it should have been impenetrable.
Erich clamped his jaw, concentrating. The blue diamond used to fund the Talisman's retrieval now felt like a cheap trinket compared to the literal price he was paying. He slammed his hand, talisman first, against the door.
There was no sound, no flash of light. The Talisman didn't smash the wards; it simply tricked them. The air around Erich warped, the scent of his Werewolf and Vampire lineages dissolving into the neutral emptiness of shadow. The door's magic registered him as nothing—a harmless draft, an anomaly, air. The iron groaned inward, silent and obedient.
Erich stepped across the threshold, and the door sealed behind him with a cold, metallic thud.
The maintenance corridor was gone.
He stood instead in an infinite space of polished, obsidian black. There was no ceiling, no floor, only a distant, throbbing pulse of light that cast no shadow. This was not a physical location; it was the Test of Cunning, the first layer of the Trial of Lineage. A mental and magical cage woven by the Citadel's best Witch-wardens.
A soft, mournful voice echoed from the void—a voice Eric knew intimately, though it wasn't Bettina's.
"Erich. Stop."
His mother, the former Queen, materialized before him. She looked exactly as she had the last time he'd seen her—regal, disappointed, and utterly in control. But this version of her was translucent, shimmering like heat off a desert road.
"You should not have done this, my son," the spectral figure said, her eyes boring into him. "You are running on a fool's errand. Bettina is already weak. She is fading. The Citadel knows you came for her. They have begun the rites."
Erich's breath hitched, the raw fear spiking his hybrid senses. He took a predatory step forward. "Lies. A trick."
"Is it?" the illusion challenged, her voice dripping with cold, parental logic. "You paid half your soul for that trinket. You are fading, too, Erich. You have maybe thirty minutes before the Talisman burns out and the true wards find you, turning you into ash. You think you can find one girl in a fortress built for centuries in that time?"
The illusion shimmered, and the darkness around them fractured. Suddenly, he was looking down two identical corridors, stretching away into the pulsing light.
"One of these paths leads to Bettina's prison," his 'mother' whispered, pointing down the left corridor. "The other leads to the Chamber of Ruling—where the Council is meeting right now to formally strip you of your lineage and bestow your title upon your younger brother."
The voice intensified, hitting the core of his Vampire ambition. "You are the King's son. You risked everything for power, not love. Forget the girl. Go the right way. Take the throne that is rightfully yours while the Council believes you are chasing shadows. You save the crown, and then you can save your consort."
Erich felt the logic burrowing deep, exploiting his rage and his frustration with his family. His Werewolf instinct screamed to take the direct path to the fighting, the glory, the power.
He lifted his foot, leaning toward the right corridor—the Chamber of Ruling. The scent of ozone and triumph beckoned him.
I save the crown, and then I can save her.
But as he took the half-step, he felt the icy drain of the Talisman. It was burning his life force not to gain power, but to save Bettina. That single, agonizing cost was the anchor to his true goal.
Erich let out a choked sound, a primal mix of fury and pain. He knew the Witch-wardens hadn't put up a challenge he could out-fight, but one he could out-will. His mother's illusion was a perfect, tailored lie. If he chose the throne first, the magic would stall him, realizing he hadn't truly sacrificed himself for the girl, but for the power he craved.
The Test of Cunning wasn't about the destination he was shown; it was about the desire he chose.
Erich wrenched his gaze from the right corridor. He raised his good hand—the one without the Talisman—and plunged it through the shimmering image of his mother's chest.
"I am here for Bettina," he snarled, the words burning with a truth that shattered the lie. "The throne can wait. My soul is already paid for her."
The illusion screamed, dissolving into fine, black dust. The right corridor—the one leading to power—vanished entirely. The obsidian chamber cracked, then exploded into the solid, cold stone of a simple doorway marked with the number II.
Erich staggered, breathing heavily, the Talisman radiating pure cold. He had passed the Test of Cunning, but the psychological toll was immense, and his precious time was ticking away.
He had chosen love over power. Now, he had to face the consequences.