Chapter 25: The Flames Below and Names Forgotten
Ashwell Spire stood like a jagged tooth on the horizon—blackened stone and scorched sky, a relic of a time when gods still walked mortal ground. The wind around it hissed with memory, and the soil beneath their boots crunched as if scorched by countless pyres.
"This place hates the living," Calder muttered, eyes narrowed. "I can feel it gnawing at the edges of thought."
Eira nodded. "It remembers the last offering that reached the altar. He was a Trickster too. They say he tried to steal the fire without paying its price. The Spire burned his shadow into the wall—and he still screams when the wind is right."
Loki smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Guess I better aim for better manners."
Their descent began at the cracked outer gate, where flame symbols spiraled around obsidian pillars. As they passed, the air grew hotter—dry and thick, as if each breath threatened to turn lungs to tinder.
Inside, memories danced across the walls—flickering illusions of past intruders. Knights. Acolytes. Thieves. They screamed, pleaded, burned. Their last moments etched into stone by the altar's fury.
"You shouldn't look too long," Eira warned. "This place feeds on what you regret. If you stare, it may show you the version of yourself that never walked away."
Selena touched the edge of her blade. "Good. Let it try."
As they moved deeper into the spiraling corridors, Eira began to speak again, voice low.
"Long before your family claimed the north, there was a boy who dreamed of becoming a god. Not through prayer, but through performance. He danced before kings, whispered poison into the ears of priests, and reshaped prophecy by telling stories no one dared believe. His final lie was that he had already ascended."
"What happened to him?" Calder asked.
"He believed it. And so did the world. For three days, he was a god. Then the lie unraveled—and he burned from the inside out."
Loki chuckled. "Sounds like my kind of idiot."
Eira didn't laugh.
Halfway through the Spire's spiral, the first guardians emerged.
Charred husks of former pilgrims, animated by leftover fragments of belief. Their eyes glowed with hollow faith, and their movements were slow—but deliberate.
"Let me handle this," Loki said, stepping forward.
He summoned three illusions of himself—each one taunting, laughing, dancing across the stone. The husks hesitated, confused.
Then he dropped low, spinning with a dagger in each hand. His blades found their marks—quick, clean, silent. Smoke bled from the husks as they collapsed into dust.
But it wasn't over.
A second wave surged forward—larger, faster. They carried with them words of worship twisted into curses, echoing like thunder.
Selena stepped into their path. Her mark blazed violet, and she split the air with a single gesture. Lances of refracted light burst from her palms, piercing the husks like radiant spears.
"They pray to fire," she said through clenched teeth. "Let's show them what light can do."
Calder hurled flame against flame, his own magic roaring with volatile chaos. One guardian tried to grasp him—only to vanish in a blast of violet-white fury.
Still they came.
Loki ducked under a strike, letting the Trickster within him take over. His movements blurred, a dance of shadow and laughter. His illusions chattered nonsense riddles, filling the space with distraction.
Then one of the guardians whispered his name.
Not Loki.
A name he hadn't heard since childhood. A name he hadn't told anyone.
He froze.
Just a second.
It was enough.
A burning blade sliced across his ribs. He staggered, bleeding, breath catching.
Selena was there in an instant—shielding him, blasting the attacker with a sphere of crackling force.
Loki dropped to one knee. Eira knelt beside him, gaze heavy.
"This place remembers who you were," she said. "It'll keep trying to bring him back. Even if you've buried him."
He looked up, pained but grinning. "Then I guess I'll have to lie better."
They reached the altar at last.
A pillar of flame burned without source or end. Around it, a ring of blackstone etched with sigils of memory, sacrifice, and loss. The heat was unbearable—but more than that, it was personal.
Loki approached.
Each step felt like peeling back skin.
He saw flashes of every version of himself—begging for mercy, lying for food, laughing while bleeding. His own voice echoed in his ears.
"You're not strong enough."
"You always run."
"She'll leave you too."
Then, the Trickster in him rose.
He laughed—loud, wild, reckless. And he stepped into the flame.
It consumed him.
Screams tore from his throat—not of pain, but of memory. The fire tore away fragments: the guilt he never admitted, the fears he never faced. It left behind only the version of Loki that chose to survive.
When he stepped back, the mark on his chest was blazing gold. The second trial had been won.
But his eyes... they were different.
Older. Wilder. Less anchored.
Selena said nothing, but her hand trembled as she reached for him—and stopped.
Eira whispered, "One more. And then you'll forget who you were."
She turned then, her expression unreadable. "The final trial is already watching us. It has many faces, none of which it wears willingly."
In the darkness beyond the altar, something laughed.
Plots moved. Schemes tightened.
And far away, Magnus Dumornay opened his eyes.
He had felt it.
His brother was getting close.
Too close.