CH. 31 The Trial of Spirit, Part I
The sky is wrong.
Too still. Too quiet.
The Resanarum — the ancient arena where every trial begins — feels colder than usual, though the stones beneath us hum faintly, like something alive beneath the surface.
The Seer stands at the center, his white banners fluttering in wind that doesn’t exist. His staff glows faintly red — a new color. Ominous. Bad. Never trust red magic.
We line up as always: the three princes and their unfortunate sidekicks.
Gavin, smug as ever. Farro, already bored. Sorien, silent and watchful.
And me?
I’m trying not to vomit from nerves — or from the faint smell of sulfur in the air.
This is absolutely not the vacation I signed up for.
The Seer’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade wrapped in silk.
“Princes of Resan. You have faced courage and wisdom.
Now comes the trial that weighs what remains when all else burns.
The Trial of Spirit.”
The arena floor trembles beneath our feet. The runes carved into the black stone ignite, shifting from violet to crimson. A rumble echoes — deep, ancient — and the air thickens with heat.
Gavin tilts his head, unimpressed. “Spirit? Is that another word for faith?”
Farro grins. “Or stupidity?”
The Seer’s empty eyes gleam faintly. “Both, perhaps.”
He lifts his staff.
“For this trial, there is no crown to claim, no riddle to answer.
Only survival.
Beyond the gate lies the heart of ruin — the Forge of Souls.
Enter, and find the exit.
Or let your spirit remain behind.”
The ground splits open.
---
Light explodes upward, blinding.
When it fades, the floor is gone — replaced by a massive gate rising from below, forged of twisted black metal and charred steel. The air around it warps, heavy with heat and the faint scent of burning incense… and flesh.
The Seer’s voice echoes one last time:
“Enter, and be judged.”
---
Sorien’s hand rests lightly on his sword hilt. “Stay close,” he murmurs.
I nod, swallowing hard. “Right. Because that always ends well.”
The gate creaks open with the sound of metal screaming.
A wave of heat slams into us — thick, suffocating, alive.
I stumble back, coughing. “Curse you, Grandmama! You couldn’t have taught me water magic, could you? No, you had to go with fire!”
Farro coughs beside me. “Smells like roasted horse.”
“That would be your perfume,” I mutter, fanning my face.
The Seer’s staff slams once, and the world quakes.
“Find the way out, and your spirit endures.
Fail, and you will burn until even your name is ash.”
And then he vanishes — because of course he does.
The Seer never sticks around for the fun parts.
---
The gate groans wider, exhaling a blast of searing wind. Beyond it, there’s only red — rivers of molten stone, black cliffs, and a sky swirling like smoke and blood.
Sorien steps forward first. Gavin follows with an irritated sigh, like this is all beneath him. Farro grumbles something about wanting a drink.
Me? I hesitate.
“I hate this,” I mutter. “I hate the heat, I hate the smell, I hate—”
A shape moves beyond the smoke.
I stop.
From the molten haze steps a figure — massive, wreathed in smoke, skin glowing like tempered iron. Chains coil across his body, pulsing faintly with light. In his hand is a whip of fire, each link dragging sparks across the ground.
The Warden.
“Welcome,” he growls, voice low and grinding. “You are the living.”
Sorien answers evenly, “We’re here for the trial.”
The Warden’s molten grin twists. “Then you are already dying.”
He gestures toward the labyrinth beyond — jagged cliffs, burning rivers, towers of screaming stone. Far off, faint lights flicker in the haze.
“The exit lies where the flame does not burn,” he says.
“But every step will test what you truly are.”
The air trembles.
From the shadows rise figures — shapes that look like us.
Twisted. Hollow-eyed. Dripping molten tears.
“Oh great,” I mutter. “Now we have evil twins.”
“They’re reflections,” Sorien says.
“They’re nightmares,” Gavin snaps.
“No,” the Warden corrects, his whip cracking once. “They’re you.”
---
He steps aside, eyes burning brighter.
“Face what burns you — or become it.”
“Question.” I raise my hand.
The Warden’s molten gaze whips toward me. “What?!”
“Jeez, didn’t you get a nap or something?” I say. “You’re grumpier than my grandmama. Anyway—so if we die here, do we die for real? Because the Seer said—” I cough and throw my arms dramatically in the air, mimicking, “‘Fail, and you will burn until even your name is ash!’”
“YES!” the Warden bellows. “DIE! You will all die here! If you don’t burn, you’ll be strangled, eaten, or ground to bits!”
“Great,” I nod. “Thank you. That answers my question.”
The gates slam shut behind us like thunder.
Heat rolls over my skin, the air thick with the scent of smoke and despair.
I glance at Sorien. “So, just to confirm, this is hell, right?”
Farro wipes sweat from his brow. “Feels like it.”
“Perfect,” I sigh. “I should’ve stayed in bed.”
---
The figures begin to move. Slowly. Purposefully.
They look like the princes — and yet not. Their eyes too large, mouths bent at strange angles, teeth crooked and gleaming like shards of glass.
Gavin draws his sword and charges. His mirror follows suit — moving with identical precision, anticipating every strike.
Farro steps forward with his blade, his reflection matching him blow for blow.
Sorien does the same — silent, efficient, deadly.
I watch, realization dawning cold and slow. The mirrors don’t tire. They move endlessly, relentlessly, while the princes begin to falter.
At first it looks even — then it becomes terrifying.
It’s like watching someone drown themselves.
Lord Arec joins the fray, trying to help Gavin. But the mirror hisses — a deep, guttural sound — and lunges at him. Its jaw unhinges, mouth stretching far too wide.
It bites down on Arec’s shoulder.
He screams.
Gavin roars and drives his sword through the mirror’s chest. The creature shrieks, releasing Arec before reforming — molten flesh knitting together like wax.
I run to Arec as he collapses, clutching his bleeding shoulder.
“Lord Arec!” I cry. “We need to stop the bleeding!”
Tearing a strip from my skirt, I press it hard against the wound. The fabric quickly soaks red.
The fight rages on.
The princes are still holding their ground — barely.
Their enemies move like memories with teeth.
And somewhere in that chaos, I swear I hear the Warden’s laughter — low, echoing, cruel.