Trial Three was nothing like the others.

If the first had tested survival, and the second had tested will, then the third trial—this final gauntlet—tested soul.

The moment Verena and Isolde stepped through the threshold, everything changed. Gone were the glowing halls and labyrinthine corridors. Gone were the physical traps, elemental puzzles, and celestial beasts. Instead, they stood beneath an endless obsidian sky. The stars above blinked sluggishly, as if watching, waiting.

Below their feet: glass. Or what looked like glass. It reflected nothing but darkness, and yet every step echoed like a heartbeat.

Then came the pressure.

An overwhelming weight, like guilt condensed into atmosphere. Isolde straightened, fists clenching as though resisting something. Verena stumbled slightly before regaining her balance, her throat tightening around a sudden surge of emotion.

"Where… even are we?" Verena whispered.

"The Endscape," Isolde muttered grimly. "This is where the Zodiac Weave untangles you from the inside out."

As if summoned, images began to surface around them—floating fragments, like mirrors dipped in starlight. Scenes from their past. Choices. Moments they thought buried.

Verena watched, frozen, as a scene flickered beside her. It was her—back in the real world—before everything. Alone at her desk. Head in her hands. Crying. Not because of heartbreak, or magic, or destinies. Just life. Loneliness.

The pressure grew.

From another angle, Isolde's fragment hovered into view. It was her as a child, kneeling in a courtyard, covered in bruises and gripping her practice blade like it was the only thing keeping her alive.

Neither of them said a word.

"This is cruel," Verena finally said.

Isolde gave a sharp laugh, devoid of humor. "It's honest."

A low hum began to build around them, the glass beneath their feet rippling like disturbed water. The stars above shifted, aligning into signs—Zodiac glyphs, glowing, pulsing. Then came the voice. Not from above. Not from the stars. From within.

"To claim ascendance, you must confront the selves you abandoned."

A glyph lit beneath Verena's feet—Virgo. Her natal sign. It pulsed three times.

The mirror shattered, and from the shards, a figure emerged.

It was Verena—but not as she was now. This one was pristine, cold, perfect. Her hair was neat, her robes untouched by dust or stress. Her eyes glowed with certainty, and her voice dripped with judgment.

"You've failed so many expectations," the copy said. "Even now, you cling to survivors, pretending to lead while dragging them toward your own collapse."

Verena recoiled. "I don't—"

"You do. You carry everyone. Even when they don't ask. Even when they shouldn't. Because you're afraid that if you stop, you'll vanish."

The blow came fast. The doppelganger lunged, striking her in the chest with magic laced in her own mimicry—only stronger, more refined.

Verena hit the ground hard.

Across from her, Isolde was facing her own ghost—a version of herself that never learned compassion. That never softened. The kind of soldier that obeyed, even if it meant becoming a monster.

It was chaos. But somehow, it was expected.

Verena coughed, forcing herself up as her own echo prepared another spell. The mimicry construct hovered behind the figure, gleaming with flawless constellations.

It was terrifying.

But it was her. Her idealized, inhuman self.

"I'm not perfect," Verena said, struggling to her feet. "I never wanted to be. I just wanted… to protect what I could. Even if I fail."

The doppelganger paused.

"I'm scared," Verena continued, voice shaking but steady. "I'm angry. I'm tired. And I still want to keep going."

A pulse of starlight exploded from her core. Her mimicry thread surged, warping into something more alive. The false Verena raised a hand to block—but the magic unraveled.

Not with force.

With understanding.

The figure crumbled, scattering into stardust, returning to the weave.

Across the way, Isolde stood victorious, her blade dripping with light.

Silence returned. The pressure eased.

Then, in unison, the stars blinked.

"Trial Three: Passed."

The ground beneath them began to fall away, transforming into a bridge of woven constellations. At the far end, the final gate stood—a tall, radiant arch shimmering with the light of all twelve signs.

Verena exhaled. She didn't smile. She didn't collapse.

She looked at Isolde.

"We made it."

Isolde nodded, offering a hand. "No speeches?"

Verena took it. "I'm saving those for graduation."

The final gate loomed like a celestial promise—glowing arcs of pure constellight thrumming with the pulse of the entire Zodiac Weave. Verena stepped forward, hand still clasped in Isolde's, the echoes of their mirrored selves lingering behind them like fading shadows.

With every step, the bridge beneath them shimmered. Not with fragility, but resonance. The threads of their choices, their fears, their victories—it was all stitched into the fabric now, undeniable and eternal.

And then, just before the gate, a tremor.

A low growl, not from behind—but from within the very archway itself.

"What now?" Verena muttered, drawing back.

From the gate's heart emerged something massive—something ancient. A towering beast cloaked in liquid stars, its serpentine form winding like a living river of constellations. Eyes like eclipses. Fangs like falling comets.

The Final Zodiabeast.

It didn't roar.

It sang.

A deep, mournful note that resonated with every bone in their bodies. The hymn of judgment. Of closure.

And it wasn't alone.

Twelve glyphs appeared in a ring above its body, each representing a different Zodiac sign. One by one, each glyph bled light into the creature, infusing it with elemental bursts—flame, storm, water, stone. A fusion of all the beasts they'd fought. This was no ordinary encounter.

This was the Weave's reckoning.

"Oh, hell no," Verena snapped, summoning her mimicry construct mid-air. Her threads blazed to life, frantic but focused. "We're not doing this again."

"We can't win through force," Isolde said, tone clipped as she summoned her Bind Magic—threadlike filaments dancing between her fingers. "It's trying to overwhelm us with everything we've seen. It's thematic. Symbolic. Final boss bullshit."

"I hate thematic storytelling."

The beast moved.

Not with fury, but grace. Its tail swept low, sending a spiraling ring of earth magic toward them, jagged and relentless. Isolde's threads snapped into place, catching the rocks mid-air and breaking them into harmless dust. Verena mimicked the fire arc that followed, intercepting it with a mirrored flame whip—though hers faltered slightly, heat licking her skin.

"I can't keep up with this tempo," Verena hissed. "I need a rhythm, not jazz fusion death magic!"

"Then make one!" Isolde barked, leaping up to tangle the beast's limbs with sharp filaments of Bind Magic. "You're not improvising—you're adapting. That's what you do."

It clicked.

Verena gritted her teeth, closed her eyes for just a moment—and felt.

The beat.

The pulse of the Weave.

Not chaos. A melody.

She rewrote her mimicry on the fly, her threads aligning with not just the beast's attacks—but its intent. Flame shifted into misdirection. Earth crumbled into footholds. Water curved into traps. She wasn't copying anymore.

She was harmonizing.

"Saphira—now!" Verena shouted.

Her familiar surged from beneath her cloak, coiling upward in a spiral of stardust and flame. They fused, in a flash of divine mimicry. Serpentine eyes glowing through Verena's own, scales shimmering across her arms.

"Zodiacal Mimicry: Harmonized Ascension."

Verena moved like a star given flesh. Fast, fluid, and furious.

She coiled around the Zodiabeast, not attacking head-on, but threading her presence through its blind spots, slicing through the magic currents like a conductor through notes. Isolde worked in tandem, her Bind Magic weaving snares into opportunity, latching onto weak points and severing glyph-fed arteries of mana.

It screamed.

The celestial melody became dissonant. Glitches in the weave.

And then—the final sign.

Virgo, her sign, pulsed brightest. The Weave recognized her.

Not as a usurper. Not as an intruder.

But as one of its own.

She was never meant to lead a path perfectly.

She was meant to walk the messiest path—and still choose forward.

With one last breath, Verena flung her construct forward, no longer trying to mimic, but to merge. Her threads wrapped around the beast's core like a net of understanding.

And it paused.

Then... bowed.

The beast collapsed into mist and light, unraveling into stardust that gently drifted down like falling snow. The twelve glyphs above spun once, then scattered into the heavens.

The archway opened.

A new path. A glowing stairway upward.

They had passed.

Verena stood there, winded, clothes scorched and messy, hair tangled from the fight.

Isolde approached slowly. "You didn't try to win."

"I didn't need to," Verena said softly. "I just had to listen."

They looked up.

The Trials were over.

But the real story was only beginning.

The path ahead pulsed with soft blue light, twisting into another corridor of shifting stone and whispers. Verena adjusted her cloak, Saphira coiled loosely around her neck, their shared energy humming beneath her skin. The weight of exhaustion still lingered, but determination burned hotter. She wasn't done—not even close. Somewhere beyond these winding halls, her team was waiting. Beatrice, Evelyn, Penelope… and the rest of them, tangled in their own trials. Verena exhaled, steady and sharp, and pressed forward. The labyrinth wouldn't swallow her again. This time, she'd drag herself—and everyone else—straight to the finish line.

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