CH. 20 The Gathering Before the Second Trial
The Resanarum gleams like a blade tonight — too bright, too quiet, and far too full of people who think perfume can disguise their fear.
Three princes sit beneath a silver canopy, all perfectly miserable in different ways.
Prince Gavin lounges like he was born on a throne.
Even when he breathes, it sounds rehearsed.
Prince Farro sprawls beside him, hair slicked, grin sharp, shirt open enough to count as an invitation.
And Prince Sorien — my lovely captor and current employer — stands a few steps apart, cool and unreadable.
If confidence had a temperature, his would frost the air.
The Seer has summoned everyone before the next trial, which means this is officially a royal family gathering.
I can't wait.
?
The moment the guards open the door, the smell of rich oil and judgment hits me like a slap. Every jeweled head turns. Every whisper dies.
And then someone actually gasps.
"What in the Moon's name is that?"
Prince Farro almost topples off his chair, finger shaking in my direction.
"That," Hegar says smoothly, "is the Prince's bonded aide."
Farro blinks. "That's not an aide. That's—"
He waves vaguely, as though his hand can summon the word abomination.
"Careful," I say sweetly. "You'll hurt my feelings."
Farro recoils. "It talks."
"I do more than talk," I add. "Sometimes I hex."
A few courtiers stifle gasps; others pretend not to look.
Prince Gavin smirks into his goblet. "A witch, is it? How quaint. Nothing says 'third-born desperation' like consorting with vermin."
Sorien doesn't even blink. His voice is low, calm.
"Better a witch than a fool with a harem."
Farro's grin curdles. "Careful, brother—"
"Enough," Gavin cuts in. His voice is honey over steel. "Mother will hear of this."
"She already knows," Sorien says.
That shuts them both up. Which is impressive. I might actually start taking notes.
?
I don't get him.
Prince Sorien hates arrogance, noise, and general nonsense — which is basically ninety percent of me.
And yet... he keeps me around.
Maybe it's pity. Maybe it's because I'm too hideous to be a threat. Or maybe he's just collecting broken things — like me, and Hegar, who looks like he hasn't smiled since birth.
The three of them — Gavin, Farro, Sorien — couldn't be more different if the Moon had carved them from separate mistakes.
Farro keeps glancing at me like I'll hex his remaining anatomy.
Gavin keeps staring at Sorien like he's planning his obituary.
And Sorien... just stands there, quiet, steady.
He tolerates me. That's what confuses me most of all.
??
The great doors open with a groan that makes the chandeliers tremble.
The High Seer steps in — tall, skeletal, eyes the color of ash. His staff hits the marble once, and the sound rolls like thunder.
"Princes of Resan," he says, voice echoing through the silver hall. "The First Trial is ended. The Moon now commands the Second."
The air itself seems to listen.
"The next test is the Trial of Wisdom — the weighing of the mind and the measure of restraint.
It will last seven days and seven nights.
Within the Resanarum, you shall find not beasts or blades, but the reflections of your own reason.
Choose your companions carefully, for their folly will be your burden. "
The floor hums with his words. Behind him, a massive archway shimmers — a door of liquid moonlight, waiting.
Farro groans. "Another week underground? Can't we test wisdom somewhere with wine?"
The Seer doesn't even blink.
"If you believe wisdom can be found in a tavern, Prince, perhaps you should start there."
The nobles titter behind their fans. Farro sulks.
I like this Seer. He might actually have a sense of humor.
??
From the upper balcony, the Queen glides down the stairs — veiled, elegant, terrifying. Even in mourning black, she shines brighter than every chandelier combined.
"The Moon bless my sons," she says. "Let the wisest prevail — and may none bring shame to Resan."
Then her gaze lands on me.
I smile my most charming smile, the one that shows all my sharp teeth.
"And may the unclean remember their place," she adds softly.
"Oh, I never forget," I chirp.
Hegar exhales beside me like a man praying for early death.
Sorien bows, wordless, but there's something sharp in his silence — defiance, maybe. When he rises, the Queen is still staring at me, as though she's trying to decide whether I'm an insect or a prophecy.
?
The Seer raises his staff once more.
"You shall enter at dawn. When the seventh night falls, the Moon will weigh your hearts. Only the wise will emerge whole."
Gavin raises his cup lazily. "Then may the foolish make good entertainment."
Farro laughs too loudly. Gavin doesn't.
Sorien says nothing. His jaw tightens just enough for me to notice.
The Seer dismisses the assembly, and the nobles scatter like perfume clouds.
I lean toward Hegar. "If the labyrinth reflects their minds, what happens if one of them doesn't have one?"
He doesn't look at me. "Then it reflects yours."
I grin. "Oh, that's not going to end well."
?
That night, the palace holds its breath.
Three princes dream of crowns.
The Queen whispers to her saints.
And I, the ugly witch caught in their orbit, sit by the window of my borrowed room, watching the moon burn silver over Gazaar.
Seven days of wisdom, the Seer said.
I can't wait to ruin every single one.