Chapter 3: Ambition

The labyrinth’s pulse grew louder, a deep, resonant hum that seemed to echo through every ancient stone. Joan of Arc stood at the mouth of a narrow, towering bridge suspended high above an abyss that swallowed light. The bridge was slender, barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side, and it was composed of smooth, uneven stones that glistened as if wet. A thick, blue mist curled around the edges, hiding the drop below.

Joan clutched her sword tighter, her knuckles white. She took a shaky breath, trying to quell the unease in her stomach. The mist whispered, a thousand murmured voices that wove into her mind, seeking cracks in her faith. It called out in French, in voices she knew—some familiar and comforting, others painful and accusing. She shook her head, her heart pounding.

“Be strong,” she whispered to herself. “Fear is but a test of faith.” Yet the mist’s voices persisted, echoing memories she had tried to leave behind: the cries of villagers she had failed to save, the sneering taunts of her captors, the roar of flames that had once claimed her life.

A shimmer in the mist caught her attention. Figures materialized, barely solid, like ghosts. One stepped forward, and Joan’s breath hitched. It was a spectral form of her mother, eyes wet with sorrow. “Why did you leave us?” the apparition asked, the voice so achingly familiar that Joan’s grip on her sword faltered.

Tears prickled her eyes, but Joan clenched her jaw, her determination hardening. “You are not real,” she declared, raising her sword defensively. “I walk God’s path, and I will not be swayed.”

The mist swirled angrily, but Joan took her first step onto the bridge. The stone felt slick beneath her feet, and she steadied herself, whispering a prayer as she moved forward.

Elsewhere, Alexander the Great approached the same bridge from the opposite end. His eyes, sharp and calculating, swept over the structure. He didn’t trust the bridge or the mist. Strategy, he reminded himself. This place was a game, a test of both mind and body. He would conquer it as he had conquered empires.

He placed one foot onto the stone, and a ripple of energy coursed through the bridge. The mist shifted, revealing a phantom army—soldiers clad in Macedonian armor, their faces twisted in anguish. They had fallen for him, bled for him, and here they stood, accusing him with empty eyes.

Alexander’s lips curled into a wry smile, though the sight unsettled him. He was not one to show weakness, even to memories. “You think ghosts will make me waver?” he said, his voice mocking. “You were all part of my vision, of the world I built.”

But as he advanced, the figures grew more vivid, their whispers louder. One soldier, a young boy who couldn’t have been more than sixteen, stepped forward, blood running from a wound at his side. “You used us,” he said, his voice thick with pain. “We died for your ambition.”

Alexander’s grip on his spear tightened, and his jaw set in defiance. “You were part of something greater,” he snapped. “I gave you glory. I—” He stopped, the mist whispering doubts he rarely let himself consider. His confidence faltered for a brief moment, but he forced himself to keep walking, refusing to let the past cripple him.

The two warriors met at the center of the bridge, their eyes locking. The mist swirled around them, whispering and coiling like a living thing. Joan kept her sword raised, her faith an armor stronger than her chainmail, while Alexander stood tall, his spear ready, pride and intellect shielding his heart.

“Another warrior from the past,” Alexander observed, his voice smooth and composed. “Tell me, girl, do you have what it takes to cross this bridge, or will you fall to your own ghosts?”

Joan’s eyes narrowed, her voice steady. “Do not speak to me of weakness,” she replied. “I know who I am, and I fight with purpose beyond my own pride.”

Alexander’s eyebrow twitched, more curious than offended. “Purpose, you say? Faith, perhaps?” He chuckled, though the sound was devoid of humor. “Faith won’t keep you from falling.”

Joan’s gaze was unwavering. “And pride will not make you immortal,” she shot back, her voice echoing in the mist.

The bridge trembled, and the ghosts grew bolder, reaching for the warriors with spectral hands. Joan swung her sword, and Alexander lashed out with his spear, both determined to face whatever this arena threw at them.

The mist thickened, and the air felt heavy, like a storm about to break. The whispers became a cacophony, pressing against their minds, searching for their weaknesses. Joan closed her eyes briefly, centering herself in prayer. Alexander’s mind raced, calculating every possible move.

“Enough,” Alexander finally declared, his voice cutting through the chaos. “If this bridge is a test, then let us prove our strength together.” His tone was grudging, but there was a flicker of respect in his eyes.

Joan hesitated, surprised, but she sensed sincerity in his words. “An uneasy alliance, then,” she agreed, her voice firm. They moved forward, side by side, using their respective strengths to combat the spectral apparitions. Joan’s faith was an unbreakable shield, while Alexander’s strategies turned every encounter to their advantage.

The bridge felt endless, and the mist fought them with all the memories it could conjure. Yet neither warrior wavered. Joan’s prayers wove a thread of hope, and Alexander’s determination forged a path through the chaos.

Finally, the mist began to thin, the whispers fading. They reached the end of the bridge, battered but unbroken. Joan lowered her sword, her breath coming in short, exhausted gasps. “Thank you,” she said, looking at Alexander, her voice sincere.

Alexander gave a short nod, his expression thoughtful. “You have more strength than I expected,” he admitted, though his pride wouldn’t allow him to say more. The two warriors regarded each other with a newfound understanding, but any truce between them was tenuous at best.

The labyrinth groaned once more, shifting to separate them, the arena always ready for the next trial. Joan whispered one last prayer, and Alexander tightened his grip on his spear, both knowing that their next challenge was just around the corner.