The road squeezed itself tighter beneath Verek's boots, pressed in between cliffs that looked like a god had thrown a tantrum—fists clenched so hard the earth cracked and bled. Jagged slabs stabbed out in uneven, angry angles, sharp enough to tear at the sky if it leaned too close. A wind blew up from the canyon below, carrying dust and broken scraps of voices—old whispers that felt like they belonged to some other time, another world altogether.
Verek didn't slow down. His eyes stayed locked on the path ahead, but the weight of the shards slung across his back pressed like dead weight, pulling at his spine with every step. There were so many now—each one thrumming quietly in his pack, little heartbeats out of sync, dull in the weak morning light but no less alive for it. They didn't shine anymore; they didn't glow with the fire they once had. They breathed, and worse—they watched.
Behind him, the others moved without a sound, like shadows trying not to disturb the dust. The memory of the High Priestess hung heavy around them, thick and choking like the ash left after a pyre's fire died out. It stretched everything thin—the air, the words they wanted to say, even the moments between breaths.
Up front, Caylen's shoulders were tight, his hand never wandering far from the hilt of his blade. "This road wasn't made for travelers," he said, voice low and rough. "More like it was carved to keep something in. Or maybe just to make you think twice before stepping on it."
Verek clenched his jaw and swallowed the doubt bubbling in his gut. It was the kind of doubt that made the whole world feel like a trap, but that was exactly why they had to press on. "Good," Dax muttered close beside him, voice dry as dust. "I'm sick of things pretending to be polite right before they try to gut us."
Verek glanced back at Ezreal walking behind them. His friend's pace was steady but weighed down by something heavier than the pack. His eyes didn't stray from the road, careful and sharp like he was measuring each step against some invisible rhythm only he could hear. The Chariot—the next trial—was waiting for them. Not a test of heart or mind, but of movement, control, and sheer force.
The cliffs peeled away just enough to reveal the fortress sprawled on the edge of the world like a dying beast. Its towers lurched drunkenly on cracked foundations, blackened stone mottled with moss, old banners shredded and frozen stiff by frost, snapping listlessly in the cold wind.
Verek pushed open the heavy gates, leading them inside without a word. The cold hit hard, cutting through armor and skin like grief that steals your breath without warning. It squeezed the chest and clamped down on the throat.
Caylen's eyes flicked from cracked windows to empty doorways, sharp and searching. "This place held longer than it had any right to."
"Then whatever's left inside," Dax said in a clipped voice, "doesn't know how to die."
Verek felt the old magic stirring beneath his ribs, a thread pulled tight and humming with something stubborn—something not quite alive but far from dead. It wasn't hateful or cruel. Just relentless. A will that refused to rot away. A place that didn't forgive.
They hadn't walked ten steps inside when the ground shifted beneath them—not a tremor, not a quake, but a slow, steady rhythm.
Drums.
Heavy and methodical, like warhorses pacing across cracked bones. The sound sank into their boots, into their blood, into the hollows behind their eyes.
Then the soldiers came.
Armor clanked with rust and memory, old and corroded, dragging broken spears and swords chipped past usefulness. Their eyes burned with a hunger long past reason. Faces stretched tight with time and grief, mouths sealed like they couldn't scream even if they wanted to.
Verek tightened his grip on his staff, voice low but hard enough to cut through the growing chaos. "We hold. We move forward. No matter what."
The ghost warriors hit like a wave crashing over jagged rocks.
Caylen moved like a striking snake, fast and unforgiving, his blade darting with a personal grudge. Dax swung like a battering ram, muscle and fury in every blow, pounding out everything he didn't dare speak. Ezreal unleashed fire and frost from his hands, jagged and brutal bursts that didn't bother with grace, only power.
Verek carved sigils in the air with steady hands, herding the attackers back like a beast with broken wings. Step by step, they pushed through. They weren't fighting for victory. They were fighting for motion. Momentum. That was what this trial demanded.
Keep moving. Keep pushing. Don't let the weight drag you under.
Every ghost they felled rose again behind them. Every step forward demanded leaving part of themselves behind. That was the price.
By the time they reached the inner sanctum, their armor was crusted with dried blood, their breaths shallow and ragged. At the center of the fortress stood an altar carved with chariots locked in endless charge, wheels burning through flame and ruin forever.
And there, hovering just inches above the stone, was the blue shard. It pulsed with a rhythm that matched the fading drumbeats in their ears. A call to lead. A promise that power was born from movement.
Verek stepped forward without hesitation. His fingers brushed the shard and it dropped into his palm like it had been waiting for him—cool, alive, humming with quiet energy.
The air shifted around them. The drums stopped.
The warriors faded—not beaten, but freed.
Caylen leaned heavily on his sword, sweat and ash streaking his forehead. "This place didn't want us dead. It wanted to see if we could carry the weight forward."
"Or if we'd break beneath it," Dax said, wiping a cut along his cheek with a grimace.
Verek studied the shard in his hand. The fortress didn't groan or fall apart. It just stood there, silent, like it was watching them leave and weighing their worth.
They retraced their steps, boots crunching over bones and shattered stone. The wind kicked up again, tugging at their cloaks and biting at bruises fresh on skin.
At the cliff's edge, Verek stopped and looked out over the darkening world. The sky churned with thick, twisted clouds, strange spirals writhing in the storm. Somewhere beyond the horizon, the final trial waited.
He adjusted the pack heavier on his shoulders. The shards inside hummed faintly, whispering to each other or maybe just to him.
"One more," he said quietly.
Dax stepped up beside him, flexing fingers stiff from the fight. "What do you think it'll be?"
Verek looked down at his hands for a long moment, then back to the road stretching ahead.
"The World."
Caylen joined them, squinting through the swirling storm clouds. "That sounds like an ending."
"It is," Verek said without flinching, "but not the kind we expect."
The wind howled louder, carrying with it the distant thunder of something massive moving across the plain below.
They turned from the edge and pressed on, boots sinking into mud, frost, and flickering firelight. They didn't slow down.
Whatever waited, they would face it on the move.
Because that was the only way Verek knew to survive.