CH. 21 The Trial of Wisdom, Part I
And then it dawns on me.
Seven nights?!
That's seven chances for Prince Sorien to see that version of me — the "beautiful servant with the tragic, delicate complexion" and the general emotional stability of a dying swan.
Absolutely not. I will die before he sees that.
I start pacing my room, muttering like a lunatic.
"There was a time the world froze — will it happen again? Or will I transform? I can't risk it, can I? I almost got caught in the first trial. Think, Drew, think."
I stop, gripping my hair. "You're a witch. You've made love potions, death potions, and that one potion that made a man believe he was a chicken for two months. You can handle this."
My eyes land on something in the corner — an old mannequin head perched on a shelf, still wearing the cracked, ivory full-face mask I once used for potion fumes. Ornate. Creepy. Slightly haunted.
A slow grin spreads across my face.
"Well," I murmur, brushing away the dust, "maybe that'll work."
??
The palace courtyard blazes with silver light as the Seer raises his staff. The door to the Resanarum ripples open again — a gateway of liquid moonlight that hums like a living thing.
I keep my hood up and the mask on.
My reflection in a nearby basin looks like an escaped art project. Perfect.
Farro squints. "What in the Moon's name are you wearing?"
I clasp my hands serenely. "Fashion."
Gavin chuckles, lounging like sin itself. "Probably too ashamed to wear her real face. You don't even need that mask, hag."
That earns a roar of laughter from the nobles — all jeweled fingers and brittle smiles.
A tiny pinch — just a bit — of traitorous hurt crawls up my throat. For once, I forget to have a witty retort.
Then Sorien's voice cuts through the noise, cold and sharp as drawn steel.
"Enough. She's more useful than your companions."
The laughter dies instantly, like a candle snuffed by wind.
And in that silence, I realize two things:
One — Prince Sorien just defended me.
Two — I might actually hate him more for it.
The Seer's voice slices through the tension before anyone can breathe.
"Princes of Resan, your second trial begins. The Labyrinth of Wisdom shall shift for each who enters. Within it, folly and truth are twins—one shall save, one shall ruin."
The runes beneath us ignite. The world tilts. And then the marble floor simply—vanishes.
?
We fall into silver light.
The wind howls past, carrying laughter, whispers, and faint music — like the world itself is gossiping about our poor life choices.
When the light dims, I'm standing on a bridge suspended over nothing.
Two paths stretch before us — both carved from moonstone, both leading into mirrored gates.
The Seer's voice booms from nowhere and everywhere:
"Two roads lead to salvation. One speaks truth, the other lies. Choose, and let wisdom guide your step."
Gavin scoffs from somewhere nearby. "Child's play."
He struts toward the right bridge, his aide scrambling after him like a badly trained duckling.
Farro shrugs and takes the left.
Sorien stands still, eyes narrowed, analyzing the patterns on the stone. Typical.
"Maybe we should—" I start.
"Wait," he says, already deep in observation mode. "Look at the inscriptions."
I look. They're covered in shimmering glyphs, each line shifting into words I can barely read — something about light and purity and truth. It's very poetic. Very suspicious.
The bridge gleams brighter the longer you stare, like it's begging to be chosen. The other one? Dull. Cracked. Brooding in the corner like it has abandonment issues.
"Obviously," I say, "it's that one."
Sorien gives me a side look. "You don't even know what it says."
"No, but I know what it's trying to say. Pretty things are traps. Ugly things are honest."
He hesitates.
I grin under my mask. "Go ahead, Prince. Pick the shiny one. I'll write something flattering on your tombstone. 'Here lies Sorien: handsome, wrong, and very exploded.'"
He exhales — sharply, like it personally offends him that I might be right — and steps onto the shadowed bridge.
The light ripples once, then stabilizes.
I skip after him, triumphant. "See? Wisdom."
"Accident," he mutters.
"Same thing."
??
The air grows colder as we walk. The bridge groans beneath our boots, stone shifting like it's alive. Beneath us: darkness that might be water, or might be infinity — either way, it's not friendly.
The Seer's voice fades, replaced by the echo of our footsteps and my occasional muttering.
Finally, Sorien glances at me. "You really believe ugliness equals truth?"
"Of course. Everyone lies to look pretty. Only the hideous can afford honesty."
He considers that. "You're strange."
"Thank you," I say brightly.
"Not a compliment."
"It's still accurate."
Ahead, the bridge ends in a gate carved with the image of a scale — one side gleaming gold, the other iron. Both perfectly balanced.
Sorien reaches out — hesitates.
The gate hums in response.
And before either of us can react, it swallows us whole.
?
Light. Noise. A hundred whispers in my head.
When the world settles, we're standing in a vast moonlit hall of mirrors — reflections bending, distorting, multiplying.
Each mirror whispers a different truth.
Each reflection lies.
I look at Sorien. "So, what now?"
He studies the mirrors, eyes sharp. “We find out which of us is the liar.”
I grin under my mask. “Oh, that’s easy. It’s definitely me.”
He doesn’t even blink. “For once, I agree.”
And as our reflections start to move before we do, I think — this trial isn’t about wisdom.
It’s about how much truth we can stand to see.