The path changes.

One moment you’re walking on packed earth. The next, the ground beneath you has become roots—living, shifting, breathing roots that move like slow serpents. The trees press closer. The canopy thickens until no sunlight reaches you.

But you can still see.

A soft green glow emanates from the wood itself. Bioluminescent moss. Flowers that shine like trapped stars. And eyes—countless eyes watching from the darkness between the trees.

“The first trial,” Wren’s voice echoes from somewhere nearby, or perhaps from the trees themselves. “The forest shows you what you fear most. Face it, or be consumed.”

The shadows coalesce.

You see your village burning. Eldermoor in ruins. The Purple Gem shattered, its light extinguished. Everyone you’ve ever loved, dead or worse—twisted into shadow creatures like the ones that attacked the ceremony.

And standing at the center of the destruction: you.

Not you as you are. You as you could become. Hollow-eyed. Shadow-wreathed. Your hands dripping with the blood of everyone who trusted you.

“This is what you fear,” the vision-you says. “That you’ll fail. That you’ll become the weapon instead of the wielder. That the light inside you will corrupt you, not save you.”

The vision reaches for you.

“Join me. Accept what you’ll become. It’s so much easier than fighting.”

You take a breath. And you speak the truth.

“I am afraid. But fear doesn’t define me. What I do with it does.”

The vision shatters.

The forest sighs.

“The second trial,” Wren’s voice says, softer now. “The forest shows you what you’ve lost. Accept it, or be trapped in grief forever.”