CH. 26 The Trial of Wisdom, Part VI
When the light returns, it tastes of honey and smoke.
We stand beneath chandeliers of molten gold, their glow so rich it hurts the eyes.
The air is thick with perfume and roasted meat, heavy enough to choke on.
A long banquet table stretches endlessly before us, covered in crystal goblets and plates piled with food that steams and glitters.
The nobles are back — faceless as ever, painted smiles gleaming beneath jeweled masks.
Every seat is taken.
Every voice hums with laughter.
At the far end of the table, the Seer stands, cloaked in silver, his staff glowing faintly violet.
"Feast," he declares, "and be wise."
??
Gavin looks delighted. "Finally, a trial with taste."
He sits, wine already in hand. Lord Arec follows, pouring him a glass with practiced reverence.
Farro slides into the nearest chair, grabbing a golden apple and biting into it with theatrical flair.
"Now this is more like it," he says through a mouthful of fruit. "Morality tastes better roasted."
Lady Alenia watches him with distaste but does not stop him.
I remain standing, arms crossed. "It's too easy. There's always poison at a pretty table."
Sorien glances at me. "You sound like you know."
"I've hosted worse dinners," I mutter.
The Seer's voice ripples through the hall again, calm and terrible:
"The wise know hunger in plenty.
The fool eats before the poor.
Eat, and your truth shall show."
Then he vanishes — gone in a shimmer of light — leaving only the laughter of the faceless nobles, ringing too loudly, too perfectly.
??
The food gleams — roast fowl glazed with gold, wine that smells of roses, bread soft as silk.
Every sense screams to take a bite.
Farro is already devouring his second apple.
Gavin sips his wine, watching Sorien from the corner of his eye.
Sorien doesn't move.
"Not hungry?" I ask, trying for flippant, but my stomach growls on cue.
His eyes flick to me. "You shouldn't eat."
"Why not?"
"Because this isn't food."
I sniff the air. "Smells like food."
"That's the point," he murmurs.
??
Across the table, the laughter falters.
One of the faceless nobles drops her fork; the sound echoes like a scream.
Her reflection in the silver platter stares back — not faceless anymore, but hollow-eyed, gaunt.
Her mask cracks and falls. Beneath it is something... rotted.
The more she eats, the more she decays.
I swallow hard. "Oh, I hate when I'm right."
Sorien studies the table. The food gleams brighter now — but the nobles' laughter grows faint, their skin pale, their jewels tarnished.
"Gluttony," he murmurs. "That's the test."
Gavin waves him off. "Every ruler deserves indulgence. Hunger is for the ruled."
The Seer's disembodied whisper fills the hall once more:
"The heart revealed in fullness shall decay."
??
The nobles begin to crumble — gold and rot mixing like wax and ash.
Each bite they take drains color from the room.
Their laughter twists into wails.
Farro pushes back from the table, clutching his throat. "What— what is this?"
Lady Alenia's lips are black with wine. "You fool," she hisses, trembling. "You feasted too fast."
He vomits gold coins.
Sorien rises slowly, gaze locked on the spectacle. His tone is quiet, deliberate.
"Stop eating," he orders. "All of you."
The room falls silent.
Even the illusions freeze.
He steps forward, looking down the table — at Gavin, at Farro, at the banquet that gleams like a lie too sweet to resist.
"This is what power does," he says. "It feeds until there's nothing left to rule."
I can't help it — I laugh, softly. "Not bad for a moral lesson, Your Highness."
He glances at me, his mouth quirking slightly. "You'd make a terrible court advisor."
"Flattery will get you nowhere."
"I wasn't trying."
??
The chandeliers flicker.
The banquet dissolves — plates, gold, nobles — everything turning to dust that drifts upward like smoke.
The only thing left is the long, empty table and the echo of the Seer's voice.
"The wise do not feast alone.
For power without restraint is famine by another name."
The light dims, leaving only the faint gleam of Sorien's reflection in a goblet beside him — pale, unreadable, and utterly still.
Gavin sneers. "Another sermon. Another trick."
Farro groans, wiping blood and gold from his mouth. "I hate these trials."
I cross my arms. "You hate anything that doesn't flatter you."
Sorien doesn't respond to either of us. He's staring at the table, at the faint golden stains where the feast once was.
Finally, he says quietly, "Power always demands an appetite."
I tilt my head. "And you're still hungry?"
He looks at me — just once, just long enough to make my breath catch. "Not for this."
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The Seer's staff strikes once, echoing through the hollow hall.
"The Fifth Night ends.
The Sixth will dawn with remembrance.
The wise have eaten — now they must endure what remains."
The world begins to unravel, the light draining from the edges inward.
The table stretches, dissolves, and becomes nothing but a ripple of pale smoke.
For a moment, there's peace.
Then I feel it — a faint, familiar twinge under my skin.
A whisper of the curse, soft as a shiver.
It's not enough to change me, not yet, but enough to remind me that time is thinning — that night and revelation are both drawing closer.
I tug my hood tighter, hiding the unease. "Next time," I mutter, "maybe they'll serve dessert."
Sorien glances my way. "You're not taking this seriously."
"I am," I say. "That's why I joke."
He almost smiles. "You're impossible."
"And you're learning," I reply, grinning beneath my mask.
The Seer's laughter — faint, ancient — ripples through the fading air.
"Wisdom grows in those who do not wish to claim it."
And just like that, the feast of lies vanishes — swallowed by silence.