CH. 25 The Trial of Wisdom, Part V
When the golden haze fades, the world reforms again — not marble, not light, but stone.
Cracked, old stone.
We stand in a vast hall, its walls veined with black mold and water stains.
The air smells of rot and wet earth. Beneath our feet, shallow water ripples — dark, oily, rising higher by the minute.
Above the throne, the sun is gone.
In its place hangs a broken crown of gold and rust, dripping rainwater into the growing flood.
The Seer’s voice unfurls through the chamber — slower this time, older, like a prayer too long repeated.
“Once, a kingdom drowned not by war, but by its own hand.
The rivers rose not from the Moon’s command, but from the greed of men.
Each prince shall weigh the heart of a dying city —
and decide whether to save its people, or its throne.”
---
Gavin swears softly, flicking his cape from the encroaching water. “How quaint. A moral bathhouse.”
Farro snorts. “At least it’s scenic. Smells like home after a feast.”
Sorien says nothing. His gaze drifts toward the cracked ceiling, where faint moonlight trickles through a hole like the eye of a silent god.
I edge closer, lowering my voice. “What’s the test this time?”
“The same as always,” he murmurs. “Who deserves to drown.”
---
The Seer’s staff pierces the shallow water, and the world shifts.
We stand in the city of Gazaar — or something that remembers it.
It’s ruined, flooded waist-deep in black water.
Palace towers tilt at strange angles, their gilded roofs sinking beneath the waves.
Statues of kings rise half-drowned, their faces cracked and crawling with moss.
Everywhere, people cry for help — peasants on rooftops, soldiers wading through filth clutching sacks of grain.
On the far horizon, nobles lounge on tall balconies, feasting and laughing, their tables piled high as the city drowns below.
The Seer’s voice carries above the chaos.
“The river devours all.
The coffers are full, but the city starves.
The commoners plead for mercy.
The throne can only save one.”
---
Gavin moves first.
He wades through the water as though it offends him, the hem of his robe soaking black.
“Save the treasury,” he declares. “Gold can rebuild walls. People are replaceable.”
Lord Arec doesn’t flinch. “A wise investment, my prince.”
The Seer’s staff hums.
The water around Gavin clears — for him alone — while screams echo from every corner.
Farro laughs nervously. “I’ll save the people,” he says loudly. “Bring out the boats! We’ll save them one by one — let them see how benevolent their king is.”
Lady Alenia sighs. “They’ll still starve tomorrow, darling.”
Farro hesitates. The water climbs to his knees. He glances at Sorien. “What about you, brother? Still thinking?”
---
Sorien steps forward, the water swirling around his boots.
The reflection of the broken crown ripples on the surface between us.
He looks like he’s standing on it — as if he could claim it, if he wished.
But his eyes are far away.
Tired.
Haunted.
“A throne means nothing if it’s built on corpses,” he says quietly.
The Seer’s staff glows faintly.
The flood slows — just around him.
Sorien looks to the Seer. “What caused the flood?”
“Look around,” the Seer replies. “You will see.”
I look — really look — and my stomach twists.
The buildings are crumbling from the base.
The stone is thin, the beams warped.
“The structures were poorly made,” I murmur. “Cheap material. Too cheap for a royal city.”
Sorien follows my gaze. His hands curl into fists.
“The funds were stolen,” he says darkly. “Pocketed by the very men meant to protect it.”
I point toward a gap in the city wall, where black water gushes in unchecked. “There should’ve been a flood barrier there.”
“There’s none,” Farro blurts out, finally realizing what he’s seeing. “Well, what do you know? Drowned by our own greed.”
---
A sound breaks through the chaos — a mother’s cry.
We turn.
A woman stands waist-deep in the filthy water, clutching a small child shivering against her chest.
“Please,” she begs, “save my boy. The storm took our home.”
Her hands tremble. Her lips are blue.
Before anyone can move, a father’s wail echoes from nearby.
He kneels in the water, holding the lifeless body of his child.
Lady Alenia shrieks. “Don’t come closer! You’ll soil my gown, you wretch!”
I glance at Sorien — and see it.
A single tear slipping down his cheek before he blinks it away.
He straightens, voice steady now.
“Save the people,” he commands. “Punish those who stole from them. Take back the funds — every coin — and rebuild with clean hands.”
---
The Seer’s voice fills the air again — deeper now, resonating through the rising tide:
“The heart of the King weighs not gold, nor favor,
but the will to face his reflection.
For every crown holds a hollow —
and the wise know when to let it sink.”
The flood vanishes.
The cracked hall dissolves into mist.
The broken crown melts into a droplet of water that falls… and falls… and never lands.
Sorien looks up at the empty air where it once hung.
Gavin folds his arms. “So the test rewards sentimentality now?”
Farro mutters, “No, it rewards pretending to have one.”
I clap once, slowly. “Bravo, both of you. Nothing like philosophy to cover cowardice.”
The Seer’s staff strikes the ground.
“The Fourth Night wanes.
The Fifth shall dawn with revelation.
Let the wise remember —
not all rot comes from darkness.
Some gleams like gold.”
The world dissolves again.