The path out of the Labyrinth of Echoes dissolved behind me, leaving only a void of swirling shadows. I clutched the fragments close: the ember of fire from Thyrrion, the droplet of water from Selmyra, and the black crystal of clarity from the labyrinth. Their light pulsed in unison, a fragile harmony against the darkness that lay ahead.
The realm that unfolded was nothing I had seen before. The ground was black stone, slick and reflective, stretching into an endless horizon. Above, the sky was a shifting void, a dark mirror that rippled like water, reflecting my every move in countless distorted images. Shadows moved independently of objects, whispering secrets in languages I almost recognized.
"Eryndor..."
The voice came from all around me, yet nowhere. Calm, cold, and seductive. I knew without doubt who awaited. Nyxion, the god of shadow and secrets, had made his presence known.
I took a cautious step, and the shadows coalesced into a figure. His form was tall and elegant, draped in black mist, his face hidden beneath a hood of living darkness. But when he moved, the reflections in the ground twisted and changed, showing multiple faces—some my own, some strangers, some people I loved, and others I had never met but somehow knew.
"Bearer of the Shattered Sky," Nyxion's voice echoed like silk and steel. "You have survived fire, water, and the trials of the labyrinth. Impressive, mortal. But how will you fare against that which cannot be burned, cannot be drowned, and cannot be outrun?"
I tightened my grip on the fragments. My heartbeat echoed in the void. "I will endure, as I have before," I said.
Nyxion smiled—or at least, the shadows suggested a smile. "Endurance alone will not save you. You will face yourself, your fears, your truths. And sometimes… the truth is a weapon sharper than any blade."
Suddenly, the reflections in the ground shifted violently. I saw images of Thalir, of my sister's face, twisted by anger and despair. I saw visions of Aelira, guiding me—but also turning away, judging me silently. And then I saw myself: older, crueler, using the fragments not for salvation, but domination.
"Do you see?" Nyxion whispered, his voice in my mind now. "All that you could become. All that you could lose. All the lies you tell yourself about courage and heroism. Which Eryndor is the real one?"
The shadows surged, forming countless specters of myself, each one mocking, accusing, tempting. I could feel my mind unraveling, the black crystal from the labyrinth pulsing violently in warning.
I realized then that this was no ordinary battle. Nyxion's power was not in fire or water, not in force or speed—it was in doubt, in reflection, in the poison of knowledge. Every secret he whispered could erode resolve, twist morality, or paralyze action.
I forced myself to breathe, to focus. The flame of Thyrrion burned within me, reminding me of courage. The water of Selmyra reflected understanding and wisdom. And the black crystal reminded me of clarity—the ability to see truth through deception.
"I am not your puppet," I whispered, raising all three fragments. Light exploded outward, pushing the shadows back. They screamed, a chorus of every fear and secret I had ever carried. But I stood firm.
Nyxion's voice grew colder, sharper. "Very well. Let us see how you act, mortal. The realm itself is my trial. Choose: save or sacrifice, lie or confess. Every choice here will echo beyond these shadows."
Before me appeared two paths. On the left, a bridge of obsidian over a pit filled with writhing shadow-forms—creatures that seemed to absorb light and hope. On the right, a narrow path lined with mirrors reflecting distorted images of every person I had ever loved—and lost. The voice in my mind hissed: "Choose wrongly, and everything burns."
I hesitated, weighing the fragments in my hands. I could feel the Shattered Sky whispering, urging me to power, to control, to dominate—to take the path that promised strength and certainty. But I remembered Selmyra: "Power without wisdom is destruction." And I remembered the labyrinth: clarity and choice.
I chose the path of mirrors.
Every step was agony. The reflections whispered doubts, accusations, memories of failures I had yet to face. I saw moments I could have prevented—the sorrow of those I had left behind, the mistakes that had already shaped the fractured realms. The shadows tried to pull me in, to trap me in an endless cycle of guilt.
I clenched the fragments and forced myself to speak the truth aloud: "I am Eryndor. I have failed. I have feared. I have been selfish. But I will act. I will endure. I will choose."
The mirrors shattered one by one, the shards dissolving into starlight. Nyxion's form wavered, the shadows flickering. For the first time, I sensed doubt in him—or perhaps respect.
"You have passed my trial," he said, his voice a whisper now, like smoke in the wind. "Not through strength, but through choice. Few mortals endure the knowledge of themselves and emerge unbroken. Take this fragment."
A black crystal, faintly glowing, floated toward me. I grasped it, feeling its weight—not heavy, but dense with understanding. Secrets, lies, and truths pulsed within it. I could feel the temptation to misuse it, to dominate, to control—but I held firm.
Nyxion receded into shadow. "Go, Eryndor. The path grows darker yet. The gods will test you further. But remember this: even the Shattered Sky can corrupt the bearer. Choose wisely."
I stood alone in the void, holding four fragments now: fire, water, clarity, and shadow. Each pulsed with power, each carried a lesson. The path forward shimmered faintly in the distance, leading to realms I could not yet imagine.
The Age of Gods continued, and I was no longer merely a mortal stepping into the unknown. I was becoming something else. Something that could survive the trials of fire, water, labyrinth, and shadow.
I was Eryndor. Bearer of the Shattered Sky. Bridge between realms. And my journey—my myth—had only just begun.