CH. 60 The Trial of Truth, Part I
The mirror swallows Gavin first.
One blink, and he’s gone.
The arena is silent.
Not even the wind dares breathe.
I stand at the edge, watching the glassy surface ripple—until it clears, revealing the chamber Gavin has entered.
A throne room.
But not the polished, gold-soaked hall everyone knows.
This one is… wrong.
The walls are cracked.
The tapestries torn.
And the light above flickers like a dying heartbeat.
Gavin stands in the center, sword drawn, posture perfect—
but his eyes are wide.
Because he’s not alone.
A boy sits on the throne.
Small. Thin. Wrapped in too-large royal robes.
His back is straight—painfully—like someone forced him into the pose.
Gavin freezes.
I gasp softly.
Because the boy on the throne…
is him.
Young Gavin.
Maybe eight.
Maybe nine.
Eyes too bright and too afraid.
“Impossible,” Gavin whispers.
The boy doesn’t respond.
Behind the child-throne…
another figure stands.
Slowly emerging from the shadows.
King Uriec.
Tall. Severe.
Eyes sharp enough to flay skin.
He carries a cane—not for support—
but as a weapon.
Gavin goes rigid.
The truth is already here.
---
The boy trembles as the King slams the cane against the marble.
“Sit straight.”
“I—I am, Father—”
“Straighter.”
The boy forces his body upward, stretching until his back shakes.
Adult Gavin flinches.
“This isn’t real,” he mutters. “This—this was years ago.”
The King circles the boy like a predator.
“You are the heir.
You will not cry.
You will not tremble.
You will not show weakness.”
“But—”
A crack echoes.
The King strikes the throne arm beside the boy’s hand.
The child doesn’t move.
Doesn’t blink.
Doesn’t breathe.
Adult Gavin grips his sword until his knuckles whiten.
“This wasn’t truth,” he whispers.
“This was cruelty.”
The chamber does not care.
The mirror shows what happened, not what he prefers.
---
The scene shifts.
The King drags the young Gavin by the arm—down marble steps—
to a small hidden chamber lit by torches.
The whipping room.
I feel my stomach twist.
I remember the Trial of Spirit.
This is worse.
The boy tries to stand tall.
He fails.
“Failed performance at the academy,” the King says coldly.
“You defended a servant boy from a noble.
You embarrassed your rank.”
The boy shakes. “He was bleeding—”
Another crack.
The cane lands across his back.
Adult Gavin stumbles forward instinctively.
“No. Stop.”
The boy gasps, holding in his cry like it’s a sin.
Another strike.
And another.
The memory Gavin collapses.
The real Gavin collapses too.
His sword slips from his hand.
He claws at his hair, shaking, whispering, “I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. If I cried—he said I wasn’t fit to live—”
The chamber flickers.
Because the truth is leaking out.
Gavin was not born cruel.
Cruelty was beaten into him.
---
The scene shifts again.
The boy, bruised, bloody, barely standing, is led to the Queen.
Mother.
Beautiful.
Elegant.
Untouchable.
“Mother,” the boy whispers.
His voice cracks.
“Father—he—he hurt me.”
The Queen barely glances up from her embroidery.
“As he should.”
The boy chokes, trembling anew.
“I—I only tried to protect—”
“You embarrassed our house,” she says, tightening a stitch.
“You earned what you received.”
Adult Gavin breaks.
He drops to his knees.
Hands dug into the stone.
Breathing in ragged, furious bursts.
“Stop. Please stop.”
The boy reaches for his mother’s sleeve.
Desperate.
Bleeding.
She pulls away, disgusted.
“You are a prince, Gavin.
Not a child.”
The boy’s face crumples.
Adult Gavin screams—
A sound torn from somewhere deep, somewhere wounded and untouched for decades.
The chamber shakes.
Because the truth has cracked him open.
---
The illusions vanish.
Only one remains:
Adult Gavin stands before…
another version of himself.
Crowned.
Cold.
Perfect.
Everything he was raised to be.
King Gavin.
Expression empty.
Voice sharp as a blade.
“You endured pain,” the false king says, “so you learned to inflict it.”
“You were denied softness,” it continues, “so you despised softness in others.”
“You were taught perfection,” it says, “so you demanded it from the world.”
“And now,” the false king finishes, “you cannot stop. Because cruelty is all you know.”
Gavin’s breath shakes.
“No,” he whispers.
“Then prove it,” the false king says.
“Break me.”
A sword appears at Gavin’s feet.
He stares.
The illusion smiles—a twisted mirror.
“Break what made you.”
Gavin lifts the sword…
and instead of striking the illusion—
he throws the blade aside.
“I’m done breaking things,” he says.
Voice raw.
Cracked.
Young.
“I’m done being what he made me.”
The illusion shatters.
Light bursts through the chamber.
Gavin collapses—
—but not from weakness.
From release.
The truth didn’t destroy him.
It freed him.