To confirm she hadn't somehow waltzed into a nightmare, she grabbed a cheek and proceeded to pull as hard as she could. Her nails bit into the skin, and the pain cleared her head a bit. She then pinched the other cheek for good measure. Hard. It hurt like hell, but it was real.

Almost in a daze, Fiona looked around, getting her bearings. What used to be the forest was the pit stashed underneath Lockhart territory. There was no mistaking it. The pit had about three levels to it: the bottom floor was where the hot coals were shoveled and stored for the Lockhart rite of passage. Before the coals was a patch of sand where the young Lockharts were supposed to start, footwear removed.

Then, the two other levels. The second was where the younger Lockharts watched, which were usually the participants siblings and cousins, seated shoulder-to-shoulder on benches carved into the stone itself. They weren't allowed to speak during the trials, only watch. Watch, and remember. Cheering wasn't encouraged—neither was sympathy. Only silence. Discipline. The rite wasn't meant to entertain; it was meant to temper.

The third level, high above, was reserved for the adults—the parents, accomplished Lockharts, and the family head. From their perch, they watched with eyes like razors, noting not just victory or defeat, but posture, breathing, even hesitation.

Fiona was on the second level, her body just a step away from leaning over the edge. She reached out to hold the railing, but as soon as her hand grazed the iron, a puff of that same mist that attacked her coiled around her fingers. When she recoiled away, the mist retreated back to its position and shifted back into its previous form. The iron didn't feel real. Nothing did. Not the stone beneath her boots, not the dry air burning in their lungs

"This is the pit underneath the estate," said a voice from her left.

Fiona turned to see Igneal approach her, his hand gliding across the railing, kicking up mist.

"It looks like the pit," Igneal said slowly, his eyes scanning the scene, "but everything feels hollow. Like it's mimicking what one of us remembers."

"This must be the work of a sorcerer," Fiona said. "And the forest—what happened to the forest? How can mist shift into a perfect recollection of this damn place? This is no dream since I can feel pain. Did that cloud transport us here? Or are we still in the forest and just trapped inside something?"

Igneal didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted down to one end of the pit, where the air shimmered.

A cloud of mist swirled, forming into a humanoid shape. A pair of legs took shape first—bare, trembling. Small feet sunk into coarse sand, toes curling against the heat. The mist rose, building into a fragile frame. A thin body with long, tawny hair. A face too familiar for either of them to mistake.

Fiona stared, frozen.

The eleven-year-old version of herself now stood at the edge of the coals, arms stiff at her sides, fists clenched so tight her knuckles turned white. Her chest rose and fell in fast, uneven breaths. The illusion wasn't perfect—her younger self flickered slightly at the edges, like a candle struggling to hold its shape in the wind—but it was close enough. Real enough.

Next to them, more figures billowed into existence. Familiar faces took shape on the benches—siblings, cousins, all with red hair. Their expressions were unreadable, carved from still mist, their eyes empty but watching. No one moved. No one spoke.

Then, the third level stirred.

A man emerged high above the pit, looming over the trial like a shadow with a voice. Mist cloaked him in an almost grand posture—tall, square shoulders, arms crossed behind his back, and hair as red as a fire dragon's flames: The head of the Lockhart family. Even formed of smoke and false memory, his presence hit like a furnace blast.

"That little girl down there must be you. There's no mistaking that contrast of hair," Igneal said. "And the fact that we're in the pit must mean this is a recollection of your rite of passage. I was only five years old when this happened, though I have heard the gist of what happened because of elder brother."

Igneal turned and tilted his head up, staring directly at the third level. Fiona followed his gaze and noticed more apparitions appearing. Alongside their father came younger Selena with hair down to her nape, and a few Lockharts much older than the family head. Their hair was a lighter shade of red with a few lines here and there on their face. One of them jabbed a thumb at the bottom level of the pit, chuckling with the others.

" A memory of the past," Fiona said. Her voice was low, but the words scraped against something raw inside her. "But why are we being shown this memory?"

Igneal didn't answer immediately. His gaze stayed fixed on the third level, listening to the laughter among the elders above—dismissive, derisive. The kind of laughter meant to sting, to linger long after it faded. Fiona clenched her fists.

Did the illusion have something to do with the voices she had heard earlier? They were definitely words said five years ago, but how was the illusion aware of such conversations? Furthermore, Igneal mentioned that the content of the voices differed from hers. Would that mean the voices were specifically targeting them individually?

Isolating everyone else from her and Igneal, the voices, and a memory no one but her and those in attendance could only mean one thing. Whoever or whatever was responsible for the unnatural mist was purposely digging into their minds. Not just reading memories—understanding them. Using them to most likely whittle down their mental defenses and pluck at the sorest of spots. Thinking that this memory as a coincidence when she just opened up to Tyrus about her past was beyond foolish.

"Begin the rite of passage," said the family head from above.

Fiona and Igneal snapped their heads back to the young girl quivering down below. Upon closer inspection, slight blemishes dotted her arms and legs—old bruises, scrapes that hadn't fully healed. Her younger self tensed at the command. The other children seated around her on the second level didn't flinch. They watched, as they had been taught, with blank faces and wide eyes.

"You'll see firsthand why I despise our family and why Aunt Selena did what she did," Fiona grumbled.

Younger Fiona inched toward the coals lit by the family head. She tip-toed, lifting her leg and sticking a toe against the coals that pulsed with flames through its cracks. Her foot recoiled at first contact, instinctively pulling back from the searing pain, but there was nowhere else to go. The trial demanded forward movement, no matter how much it burned. Younger Fiona's jaw locked. Then, with a breath that stuttered halfway through her chest, she stepped fully onto the coals.

The hiss of skin against heat echoed in the silent arena.

"You didn't stop," Igneal said.

"I couldn't," Fiona replied. "If I had, they would've ended the rite early. Marked me as unworthy. No second chance. That would've been the end. Well, not that it mattered anyway."

Below, the younger Fiona kept walking—each step slower than the last, every muscle in her body tight with restraint. Tears welled at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

"She'll collapse before halfway. Mark my words."

"The girl's not like her elder brother. That boy—he'll be someone to look out for in the future."

"I see the flames are stronger than usual, Kleine. Purposeful, or accidental?"

The illusion of younger Fiona stumbled, her legs buckling for half a second before she caught herself. The fire crackled louder, as if mocking her pain. Her breathing was labored now, each inhalation sharp and painful.

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"Every part of me was screaming to stop," Fiona murmured, her eyes locked on the memory. "But I knew if I gave them even a flicker of weakness, they'd brand me unworthy."

Igneal's jaw twitched. "You never told me that."

"Didn't seem like it'd matter to you back then."

Younger Fiona's knees gave again, this time harder. About a quarter of the way through completing the rite, she leaned forward, sticking out her arms in an attempt to stop the fall. They couldn't move fast enough, and it looked like she would fall face first into what was, at that point, the depths of hell, until a figure stepped forward.

From the illusion's upper level, Selena took a sharp step forward. Her hands clenched at her sides, face pale with fury. One of the elders grabbed her arm, trying to stop her, but she yanked free. She leapt over the railing and landed with a thud at the edge of the coals.

The elders shouted after her, but she didn't slow. Selena swooped over just in time to grab the younger Fiona before any more of her skin would be seared. The coals hissed beneath her stride as she turned and walked straight out of the coals, smoke curling around her like mist retreating from defiance. Selena looked over her shoulder, glaring at those who watched from above.

"She was the only one who treated me like I mattered," Fiona said. "Everyone else just watched."

Igneal was still staring at Selena, shoulders drawn in. "I will admit I was unaware it was this bad."

"Of course you didn't. Why would you? Everyone knew you would possess a primary affinity for fire the moment you were born. You never had to bleed for it."

"I still had to walk the coals," he said.

"But did they sear your feet through the bone?" she snapped, turning toward him. "Did anyone laugh when you cried out? Did anyone make the flames burn hotter just to prove a point?"

Fiona watched him for a moment, and when he didn't speak, she softened. "You followed the family head everywhere. You mimicked his stride, knew the traditions, the rules, the lines in the book. But you never questioned them. Why would you? You never had to walk those coals wondering if they were hotter just for you."

Igneal didn't answer. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles paling. Fiona studied him for a beat longer, then surveyed the memory unfolding once more.

Selena had already entered a corridor that led participants out of the bottom floor, younger Fiona cradled in her arms, limp and gasping. Behind her, the elders erupted in shouts, mostly about how the rite had been disgraced and that Selena was coddling weakness. Their words spilled over the pit like bile, but Selena never looked back.

Igneal followed Fiona's gaze, and when he looked back up, his eyes lingered—not on the girl being carried away, but on their father, who was stone-faced, unmoving as he watched Selena disappear into the darkness.

"I'm not blaming you," she said. "It's about time you saw their true colors. What following in the family's footsteps teaches. You were lucky, Igneal. You were blessed with the gift they praise. But they use that same fire to burn anyone who doesn't match their ideal. It's not about whether you walked the coals. It's about what walking them meant, and what it cost."

When the words left her mouth, the illusion stuttered. The pit, the elders, even the sound of Selena's boots against stone, all shivered for a second. Then, just as quickly, it smoothed out again.

Fiona narrowed her eyes, and a thought clicked into place.

She stepped closer. "You don't have to throw away everything you've been taught. But don't treat the Lockhart name like it's Sthitos' will carved into stone."

"You can still aim to be the next family head," she said. "I won't stop you. But if that's what you want, you need to ask yourself why."

The memory behind them continued to play in quiet, ghostly detail, but neither of them looked at it now.

"Do you want the title just because you were told it's yours to claim?" she asked. "Or do you want to become someone people actually look up to in a positive light?"

Igneal's lips parted slightly, but no words came out. His brows furrowed. His eyes flicked to Selena, who, even in illusion, carried more honor in that one defiant act than the man who ignored his daughter's pain.

Fiona took a breath. "Maybe I'm saying all this not only for your sake, but perhaps mine as well. I thought I'd put the past behind me and wouldn't flinch at the memory. But ever since Aunt Selena brought it up, and you came along, I see now that I was only fooling myself."

Her hand hovered over the flickering air where the younger Fiona had stood moments ago. A warmth not from flame, but from something deeper—resolve.

"I'm not here to tear you down," Fiona said, reaching her hand out to him. "I just want something better to rise out of this."

Again, the illusion shifted, yet returned to its previous place. Igneal stared at her hand but didn't take it right away.

"An idiot once told me I would leave allies to die if it were to fit my interests. That I was not fit for a title as grand as the family head. In my head, I laughed because I believed it to be impossible for a commoner to understand. I thought they were just bitter, jealous of what I am destined for ."

He finally took Fiona's hand, finally meeting her gaze. "But as time passed, I have realized that my attitude, as that idiot mentioned, was not fit to reflect the weight of the title I've been chasing. Flaunting a title I have not worn as a weakling would not look good on my image or the Lockharts. As for what I said to you last night..."

His words faltered as his face scrunched in concentration. "I will admit I spoke hastily, and my words were uncalled for. Because of that, I would... like to apologize for my outburst."

Fiona's mouth hung open for a second. The world must truly be ending if her bratty brother was apologizing. Though it looked like he had to force the words out, they were honest. That much, she could tell. That aside, was that enough for the illusion to wither away?

Not even a second after thinking that did everything around them shimmered, almost like a reflection in water being disturbed. The faces of everyone around them rippled—father, the elders, even the younger version of Fiona—until they dissolved into threads of color, peeling away from reality and fading like mist under morning light.

The oppressive heat of the pit vanished. In its place came the sharp tang of salt and sea. A cool breeze brushed against Fiona's cheek. She blinked and found herself no longer underground, but standing near a cliffside overlooking the endless sea and scattered islets. Beneath them, the sound of waves crashing against the rocks blasted her ears. She turned to see them standing at the forest's edge.

"We're out?" Igneal muttered beside her. Fiona shook her head to get her bearings, and her eyes flitted open at the sight before her.

There, not far from where the mist had deposited them, stood a tall, weatherworn lighthouse at the very end of the cliff. Its once-white exterior was cracked and stained with years of salt and storm. Shingles dangled precariously from the sloped roof, and seaweed clung to the stone like creeping vines. Windows were shattered or shuttered, and the faintest creak of a slowly rotating beacon echoed within its hollow frame—though no light shone.

It looked as if it hadn't been touched in decades. Despite the ruin, there was something off about it. Fiona activated mana sense and was immediately greeted by a swarm of mana orbiting the tip of the beacon. It hummed with a quiet presence, like a heart still beating in a dead body.

"A pseudo-artifact?" Fiona concluded. "No other magical object other than an artifact itself could radiate that much mana. "What is a pseudo-artifact doing out here so far from Lullin? Or any other city, for that matter? No, that shouldn't be the question I should be asking!"

For now, they had to focus. Her thoughts raced, fixed on the humming pulse above the lighthouse. The wind howled past them. She could feel the pull again—the fog, thin and nearly invisible now, still trying to coax them closer like a whisper in the mind.

She turned just in time to see Igneal drawing his blade. He didn't say anything at first, but the direction of his sword was pointed at the lighthouse's entrance that was about sixty paces away.

Two shapes emerged from the misted doorway. Out came a figure cloaked in a long overcoat stitched with a pattern that swallowed moonlight, the symbols on the fabric constantly shifting between geometric angles and flowing script. Their masks—white, bone-smooth—was shaped like a skull, only the barest slits for eyes as red as a blood moon.

Next to the one with the bone mask was someone she hadn't expected to see again so soon: Wyford. The man was visibly speaking to the other, rubbing his hands together with a casual grin plastered on his face.

Why was Wyford smiling? That was the second thing that hit Fiona.

Not the looming figure at his side. Not the way the symbols on the cloak seemed to crawl like living ink. Not even the blood-moon stare peering through the bone-white mask. It was Wyford's smile. Too at ease. As if they weren't standing on the precipice of something terribly wrong. Yet here he was, looking completely fine and chatting it up with a suspicious stranger!

Fiona narrowed her eyes. "Why is he—"

She stopped herself. Every instinct in her screamed that something was off. Wyford wasn't bound. He wasn't dragged or held hostage. He stood there as if in conversation. Negotiation?

No, Fiona thought, it can't be…

The cloaked figure tilted its head, sensing their eyes. Its movements were too smooth, as if gliding rather than walking. Not a whisper of sound escaped from beneath its coat. Even the mist around it seemed afraid to cling too closely.

Right as Fiona and the figure locked eyes, everything inside her screamed. Her lungs refused to expand for a beat, her vision tunneled, and her knees nearly buckled beneath her.

Sweat slicked her brow instantly, her breathing grew ragged, and her heart pounded so loudly she could barely hear the waves below. She staggered back a step, nearly slipping on the damp grass.

"Now is not the time for rest!" Igneal's voice cut through the haze.

She barely managed to lift her staff, grounding it against the earth just to keep from collapsing.

"Igneal—we need to leave. Now!" she gasped, her voice breaking through the panic. "Whoever that is... Its not normal. Their mana... We cannot beat that!"

The bone-masked figure tilted its head again, as if examining the two of them like a puzzle box. Then it turned to Wyford and spoke in a way that its voice was brushing against the inside of Fiona's mind with frigid fingers.

"How did they break free from the beacon's power, naraga?"

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