The Wilds didn’t reset.

  They just held their breath.

  Forge walked in silence, the bone still warm in his hand. Ash stayed close, quiet, twitching slightly—his skin flickering like bad lighting, like memory trying to decide what version of him belonged here.

  Karna walked ahead, sword unsheathed, blade low, shoulders tight.

  None of them spoke.

  But the trees did.

  Not with sound. With posture. With presence.

  They leaned in. Not to threaten. To watch.

  Like they knew what came next.

  The Wilds narrowed into a canyon mouth—redstone, ash-colored vines, a sky that no longer pretended to render stars. Just static overhead. And in that air, Forge felt it: the change.

  Not in heat. Not in light.

  In meaning.

  Karna stopped.

  Then, as if triggered by her silence, the canyon answered.

  Movement above. Not fast—intentional.

  Figures stood on the ledges, cloaked in bone-cloth and shadowlight. No system tags. No names. Just scars and weapons that remembered violence.

  A low whistle cut the air. Not a warning. A summons.

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  The terrain around them shifted—vines rising like scripted snakes, stone curling into place to block retreat. Ash stepped closer to Forge, instinct before fear.

  Karna didn’t move.

  She raised her voice—not loud, but grounded.

  “We’re not enemies.”

  The air didn’t respond.

  But a figure did.

  He stepped forward without drama. Elder, maybe. Or just older. Skin like baked clay, face tattooed in faded runes that burned at the edges. His cloak was stitched with names. Not labels—memories. And across his chest, a brand shaped like an open flame.

  He looked at Forge.

  Not like he saw him.

  Like he’d already seen him in dreams he didn’t trust.

  “You carry fire.”

  Forge didn’t answer.

  The man tilted his head, slow. His voice came with weight, not volume.

  “But have you burned?”

  The Wilds rippled. The question echoed—not in the air, but in the memory of the ground.

  Karna stepped forward. “We didn’t come to take anything.”

  “That’s not how flame works,” the elder said.

  More Dustborn emerged. Sentries. One with a spear wrapped in scriptcloth. Another with no eyes, only ink. Ash flinched.

  Forge opened his mouth—then stopped.

  Because the bone in his hand pulsed.

  And the air… listened.

  He raised it.

  Whispers licked through the canyon like a buried choir.

  The elder’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve touched soulbone.”

  Forge nodded.

  “That means something here,” the elder said. “But it doesn’t mean enough.”

  Two sentries stepped down. Their spears weren’t raised, but they weren’t lowered either. They moved like dancers taught by grief.

  One gestured.

  “You walk without proof. The flame walks with you. But that doesn’t make you flame.”

  Forge didn’t resist. He let them take his hammer. Let them bind his wrists—not with rope, but with memory-thread that itched with questions.

  Karna gave hers up without protest. But she didn’t lower her head.

  Ash trembled when they approached him.

  One of the sentries paused—then stepped back. Ash wasn’t bound. Only watched.

  The elder turned without ceremony.

  “Trial by Flame begins at dusk. The Wilds will judge what we can’t.”

  And with that, they walked.

  Not captives.

  Not guests.

  Witnesses under fire.

  And somewhere beneath the canyon’s ash-choked stone, the roots of the world stirred—waiting to see if this myth was kindling or a lie.