CH. 45 The Trial of Leadership, Part I
The Resanarum feels wrong today.
Usually the ancient arena hums with cold moonlight, the kind that sinks into your bones and whispers, yes, you may die here.
But today?
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
Even the shadows seem to hold their breath.
The Seer stands in the center, his white banners fluttering in a wind that absolutely does not exist. The runes beneath our feet glow a muted gold — not comforting gold, but the kind of gold that says, congratulations, you are about to suffer character development.
I inch closer to Sorien.
“This feels bad,” I whisper. “Very bad. The kind of bad where someone loses a limb or dignity.”
“Stay near me,” he murmurs.
“See? Even you feel it.”
---
The princes line up:
Gavin, arms crossed, chin high, looking like the world’s most punchable statue.
Farro, yawning dramatically, clearly hungover from absolutely nothing.
Sorien, calm, unreadable, annoyingly attractive for a man who hasn't slept properly in weeks.
And then there's me. Trying not to faint from nausea, sweat, and the faint smell of sulfur.
Wonderful.
Exactly the ambiance I enjoy.
---
The Seer’s voice slices through the air like velvet wrapped around a blade.
“Princes of Resan.
You have faced Courage, Wisdom, Spirit, and Integrity.”
A low rumble vibrates under our feet.
“Now comes the trial that crushes kings and crowns alike.”
His staff glows a deep, ominous amber.
“The Trial of Leadership.”
Gavin smirks. “Finally. Something I’m naturally good at.”
Farro picks at his nails. “Does this involve speeches? I’m very good at speeches. Especially while lying.”
Sorien just waits — shoulders squared, gaze sharp.
The Seer lifts his staff.
“In Leadership, you must guide those unlike you.
You must inspire without threat.
Save without sacrifice of the innocent.
Unite what is fractured.
Lead what will not follow.”
His banners flare with firelight.
“This is the trial that ends boys
and forges kings.”
The ground shudders violently.
I take one teeny, tiny step behind Sorien.
“For this trial,” the Seer continues,
“each of you shall lead a part of a broken kingdom.”
The floor beneath us splits
—slowly—
cracking like an egg under cosmic pressure.
Gavin steps back, startled.
Farro squeaks. (I will NEVER forget that sound.)
Sorien’s hand shoots out, grabbing my arm.
Then the world drops.
---
We fall through light.
Not moonlight.
Not fire.
Something else entirely—
like fractured glass and distant screams and half-written futures.
When I hit the ground, it knocks the air out of me.
THUD.
I lie there for a moment, staring at a sky that doesn’t look like sky at all — a swirling mess of clouds and ash and violet lightning.
“Oh good,” I croak. “We’ve reached the part of the day where I suffer.”
I push myself up.
Silence.
Then—
“WHAT JUST HAPPENED? WHERE ARE WE? WHY DO WE KEEP FALLING INTO THINGS?”
Farro’s voice echoes somewhere far, far away.
“I’m alive,” Gavin calls, annoyed. “Unfortunately.”
“Sorien?” I shout, heart racing.
No answer.
---
I scramble to my feet.
The landscape around me is… wrong.
A crossroads.
Four long paths stretch outward, each leading into a different quadrant of an enormous fractured village:
North: war-torn barricades and broken weapons.
East: market stalls collapsed in chaos.
South: abandoned homes, windows boarded, the air thick with dread.
West: a silent city square, too still to be natural.
In the center stands a twisted bell tower, half-burned, leaning precariously.
And I’m standing right under it.
“Ah,” I say, “centralized misery. My specialty.”
---
A faint horn sounds in the distance.
Low.
Long.
Mournful.
My skin crawls.
Something is coming.
And not something friendly.
---
I pick a path at random — the military district — and sprint.
The air is sharp with smoke, metal, and panic.
I duck behind a broken cart, peek around it—
And nearly scream.
Gavin stands at the front of a group of stern, battle-hardened soldiers
who are looking at him
the way I look at spoiled milk.
“Who put this toddler in charge?” one grumbles.
Gavin fumes. “I AM YOUR PRINCE!”
The soldiers do not care.
It’s beautiful.
---
I know I need to move on, find the others, and survive this mess, so I slip away, muttering,
“Good luck, your highness. You’ll need it.”
I head down the next path.
Voices.
Screaming.
Crying.
The market square.
Farro stands on a fountain, flailing his arms, trying to hush a crowd of panicked civilians.
“No, stop running! Don’t throw fruit at me! No, your baby is not my responsibility—oh gods, please stop crying!”
A woman throws a cabbage at his head.
I cover my mouth.
I choke.
I laugh.
Then I keep moving.
---
The last path.
The abandoned district.
It’s too quiet. Too dark. Too cold.
Then—faintly—I hear something familiar.
Sorien’s voice.
I run faster.
I find him kneeling beside a group of refugees — terrified, trembling, refusing to move.
He’s speaking gently, trying to coax them to safety.
The refugees stare back, hollow-eyed, paralyzed by fear.
Sorien meets my gaze as I approach.
“It’s not enough,” he murmurs.
“I know,” I whisper.
Behind us, the horn sounds again.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer.
---
I swallow hard.
“Where do we go?”
Sorien looks to the crossroads.
“To the center.
We need each other to survive this.”
He takes my hand without thinking.
My stomach does a dramatic flip.
Together, we run toward the twisted bell tower.
The sky cracks with light.
The horn blares.
And from the horizon…
shadows rise.
A spectral army forming.
Marching.
Coming for us.
For everyone.
---
I squeeze Sorien’s hand.
“So,” I pant, “the Trial of Leadership?”
“Yes.”
“And the goal is…?”
“Lead the kingdom.”
“Oh. Great.”
I swallow.
“No pressure.”