CH. 22 The Trial of Wisdom, Part II
My voice bounces back — not once, but a hundred times.
Definitely me. Me. Me.
The words scatter like coins tossed into a wishing well.
"Wonderful," I mutter. "Now I'm being mocked by myself."
The mirrors hum softly. Each pane shimmers with moonlight, and shapes begin to ripple within them — vague silhouettes, almost human, almost us.
Sorien steps closer, eyes narrowing. His reflection doesn't copy him; it lags half a heartbeat behind.
"That's not right."
"No kidding." I wave my hand; my reflection doesn't move. "Rude."
The Seer's disembodied voice rolls through the hall, low and distant:
"Wisdom begins when truth is questioned. Find the falsehood that wears your face."
Every mirror flares, blinding white, then settles.
Each one now holds a version of me and a version of him — hundreds of Drews and Soriens, each doing something different.
Some laugh. Some weep. Some whisper secrets only my nightmares should know.
I tilt my head. "They're all prettier than I remember."
Sorien exhales slowly. "Focus." Then, after a pause — softer, almost reluctant — "Are you even comfortable with that mask on? Why did you decide to wear it suddenly?"
"My life decisions are not yours to contemplate, Your Majesty." I tilt the mask playfully. "Besides, I like it. It's fun, isn't it?"
He doesn't answer. Not properly. His jaw shifts, but no words come out. Instead, he moves carefully between mirrors, studying every copy.
His reflection — or one of them — smiles when he doesn't.
That's the first tell.
The second is when it starts to speak.
"You can't protect her," the false Sorien says.
He freezes. His shoulders tighten, but his expression stays steady.
The fake turns to me.
"And you — you don't even know who you are."
I laugh too loudly. "Bold of you to assume I care."
But the sound echoes oddly, overlapping with another voice — mine — softer, truer, from the mirror beside it.
"He'll see you soon. The real you."
My grin falters. "Oh, wonderful. A mirror with opinions."
The Seer's riddle whispers again, slithering across the glass:
"The wise will know which truth to break."
Sorien draws a slow breath. "One of these is lying."
"Well, that's the problem, isn't it?" I say. "We both do that professionally."
He walks past another row; I follow reluctantly, my boots clicking against glass that feels disturbingly alive. The reflections twist as we pass — some pleading, some snarling, one of them definitely flipping me off.
"Charming," I mutter.
At the far end of the hall stands a single mirror, larger than the rest, framed in black obsidian.
This one doesn't shimmer like the others. It's still. Waiting.
And when I look into it —
It shows us.
No masks.
No warts.
No crowns.
Just... two people.
The sight steals the breath from my throat.
It's me — but not the me standing here. It's her.
The beautiful servant. The lie I built from moonlight and arrogance.
Beside her, Sorien looks softer somehow. Unarmored. Almost human.
He studies the reflection for a long moment. The silence stretches, taut as wire.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet.
“The girl from the parade… she was beautiful.”
He doesn't look at me when he says it. Just at her.
"I've never seen beauty like hers."
Something sharp twists in my chest — a pinch that shouldn't matter, but does.
Because he's talking about me.
And he doesn't know it.
I laugh, but it comes out brittle. "Well, Your Highness, you have excellent taste in delusions."
The mirror hums faintly — and this time, it's the beautiful me inside it who smiles back.
He keeps staring.
At her.
The reflection's smile softens, almost tender — my own face looking at him the way I never could.
"She had something," Sorien murmurs, voice low, reverent. "Something real beneath all that perfection. Like she wasn't made to be touched."
The words hit harder than they should.
My fingers twitch. My pulse roars in my ears.
Because that's me.
He's talking about me.
The lie. The mask. The creature I swore he'd never see again.
And he's looking at her like she's holy.
My throat burns. "You're staring at a ghost, Prince."
He doesn't look away. "Maybe ghosts are the only honest things left."
Something inside me — something brittle and stupid — snaps.
Before I can stop myself, I march forward, raise both hands, and slam them into the mirror.
The glass doesn't shatter right away. It sings — a deep, ringing sound that vibrates through my bones, like the hall itself is gasping. A sting runs through my palms, sharp and electric, as if the lie fought back before dying.
Then, with one last push, it breaks — a thousand fragments scattering light like dying stars.
The echo dies.
For a heartbeat, there's only silence. Then the Seer's voice fills the air again, calm and resonant:
"Wisdom is not in admiring what is false, but in breaking it."
The floor ripples, the mirrors fade to mist, and the air shifts — cool and clean, like the first breath after drowning.
Sorien stands beside me, watching the shards dissolve into silver dust. His expression is unreadable, but his voice is quiet when he speaks.
"You didn't have to destroy it."
I shrug. "I have a habit of breaking pretty things."
He looks at me then — really looks — and for a flicker of a moment, I can't tell if what's in his eyes is anger, pity... or understanding.
Then the light changes again, the mist parts, and the world reshapes into a new chamber.
Another challenge.
Another lie waiting to be broken.
And somewhere beneath my ribs, a truth I’m still too afraid to touch.