CH. 24 The Trial of Wisdom, Part IV
When the world reforms again, the air smells of parchment and incense.
The moonlight is gone. In its place, a golden sun hangs motionless above an endless marble court.
Rows upon rows of faceless figures sit on either side — ghosts of judges, scribes, nobles, all watching. Their unmoving eyes shimmer like liquid glass.
At the center stands a throne of obsidian.
And before it: three identical seats.
For the princes.
And behind each prince, a shadow — their chosen aides.
“Wisdom,” says the Seer’s voice, echoing over the grand hall, “is the art of choice.
Knowledge may guide you, but the heart delivers judgment.
Each prince shall sit upon the throne and rule on matters no law can solve.
His companion may counsel him — but only once.”
That last line rings like a warning.
---
Gavin is first, of course.
His face is drawn, dark circles blooming beneath his eyes. The previous trial’s punishment has left its mark — yet he glides to the throne as though born fused to it, Lord Arec trailing close behind.
The Seer waves his staff. The marble ripples like water. From the floor rise two peasants — a man and a woman — both clutching the same golden bowl.
“This bowl feeds whoever owns it,” the Seer intones.
“But there can only be one owner.
The woman claims she found it.
The man claims she stole it.
Both will starve without it.
How does the King rule?”
The faceless audience murmurs.
Lord Arec leans close to Gavin’s ear.
“Your father would claim the bowl for the crown. Hunger breeds rebellion. Feed power, and you feed peace.”
Gavin’s lips curve into a smile too practiced to be human. “A fair point.”
He raises his voice.
“Seize the bowl. Execute the thieves. Hunger has no loyalty; the crown does.”
The faceless judges nod, approving the cruelty. The peasants dissolve like dust.
Gavin stands, victorious. “Wisdom,” he says smoothly, “is never sentimental.”
The Seer says nothing.
---
Farro saunters to the throne next, Lady Alenia clinging to his arm.
When she sits beside him on the step below, the faceless judges collectively sigh — half scandalized, half enthralled.
The Seer strikes his staff again.
Two women appear, kneeling before the throne — both weeping, both holding the same infant swaddled in gold cloth.
“Two mothers. One child.
Each claims the babe as her own.
Only one speaks truth.
What shall the King decide?”
Farro leans back, lazily twirling a ring on his finger. “What do you think, my darling?”
Lady Alenia smiles faintly. “Keep the prettier one. The kingdom prefers a queen who photographs well.”
Farro chuckles, delighted. “An excellent point.”
Then, louder:
“Split the child. Half for each. That way, neither lies.”
The Seer’s expression does not change. But the faceless judges begin to whisper, their murmurs sharp as knives.
Farro’s smile falters. “What? It’s efficient!”
I mutter under my breath, “You’re an idiot.”
Sorien shoots me a warning look, which I ignore.
---
Now it’s Sorien’s turn.
He approaches the throne as if it’s a blade waiting to cut him.
I follow, staying close but pretending I don’t care.
The Seer’s staff taps once more.
A man in tattered armor appears, bound in chains, eyes hollow but proud.
“This man betrayed his kingdom to save his daughter,” the Seer says.
“If you spare him, the law weakens.
If you kill him, the heart weeps.
What does your wisdom choose?”
Sorien stays silent, his gaze heavy on the man. The hall holds its breath.
I lean forward. “You can’t win this. Pick wrong and you look cruel. Pick right and you look weak.”
He almost smiles. “And what would you do?”
“Cook both soldier and daughter in a cauldron and feed them to the hungry people,” I whisper, blinking innocently.
He gives me a long, incredulous look.
So I throw my head back — quite heavy with the mask, by the way — and laugh the most witchy laugh imaginable.
It echoes through the court like breaking glass.
Choosing to ignore me entirely, Sorien closes his eyes.
I can see the storm moving behind them — thought and rage and something painfully human.
Finally, he speaks.
“Let him live.”
Gasps ripple through the hall.
“But exile him,” Sorien continues.
“Let him carry his shame beyond our borders, so that his daughter may know mercy — and his people may remember the price of it.”
The Seer’s staff flares with light.
The soldier bows deeply before dissolving into gold dust.
The faceless judges rise.
“Wisdom,” the Seer declares, “is not the triumph of law, but the courage of compassion.”
---
The court fades. The marble seats dissolve into smoke, leaving only the princes and their aides standing in a pale golden haze.
Lord Arec bows stiffly to Gavin. “You ruled with precision, my prince.”
“Of course I did,” Gavin says, already bored. “Wisdom is simply cruelty in better clothes.”
Farro’s courtesan pouts. “You could’ve kept the child, darling. You’d have looked noble.”
Farro sighs. “And listen to it cry? No thank you.”
Sorien turns to me, expression unreadable. “You’re… so different from Hegar. I don’t know what to do with you.”
I smile beneath the mask and give a deep, theatrical curtsy. “Thank you.”
The Seer’s voice cuts through the fading echo of the court.
“The Trial of Wisdom continues.
The throne of mercy has been weighed.
The Third Night wanes — and the Fourth approaches.
In darkness shall judgment meet reflection.”
The marble beneath us melts into light.