CH. 33 The Trial of Spirit, Part III
The silence after the mirrors break isn’t peace.
It’s the kind of silence that listens.
The flames don’t vanish — they wait.
Every flicker feels like breath drawn between teeth.
Farro wipes sweat from his brow. “Is it over?”
“Don’t,” I mutter, “say that word.”
The air shudders, and then it comes — a low, bone-deep growl that makes the molten floor ripple.
A shape steps out of the red haze.
A beast, massive and wrong, with claws like blackened iron and a muzzle steaming smoke. Its hide glows faintly from within, veins of magma pulsing under the skin.
It opens its mouth and roars — a sound so loud it feels like it’s peeling the flesh from my bones.
“Oh, for Moon’s sake,” I shout over the din, hands over my ears. “You’re loud! And dramatic!”
The hellhound’s roar falters.
I glare. “Yes, you. Shut it!”
Behind me, Gavin stares. “Is she— yelling at it?”
“I think so,” Sorien mutters.
The creature growls again, confused.
“Don’t talk back,” I snap. “You’ll only embarrass yourself. Now, be a good boy and show us the exit before I curse your tail into a mop.”
The hellhound… blinks. Then bows its massive head and turns.
Farro gawks. “How— how did you—”
I shrug. “Animals listen when you have tone control. And good posture.”
The hound rumbles softly, offended, then lumbers down a tunnel glowing with dim blue fire.
“Well,” I say, adjusting my cloak. “Field trip.”
---
We follow the beast through narrowing tunnels. The walls breathe heat, veins of molten gold pulsing faintly under obsidian. The deeper we go, the quieter it becomes — no fire, no screams, just the sound of dripping stone.
Something changes in the air.
It smells less like sulfur, more like… memory.
And then, without warning, the tunnel opens into a wide chasm — flat and endless, the ground covered in black glass.
The hound stops, its molten eyes dimming.
A shimmer of light appears in the air — faint, silver, and trembling.
A door forms, not of stone, but of reflection.
Gavin stops walking.
“Don’t,” he whispers.
The reflection flickers and bursts open like breaking glass.
Out steps a small boy — hair tousled, eyes bright.
Gavin. Maybe ten years old.
He’s standing in a great hall. A table stretches before him, piled high with golden goblets and scrolls. His parents sit at the far end — the King of Resan, sharp as a blade, and the Queen, still and radiant as ice.
Young Gavin walks forward, clutching a crumpled parchment.
A drawing.
He sets it on the table, smiling shyly. “I made this. For you.”
The King glances once. The Queen doesn’t look at all.
“What is this?” the King says, voice cold.
“It’s… us,” the boy says softly. “Our family.”
Silence. Then laughter — low, cruel. Farro’s laughter.
“You call this family?” the King says, holding the parchment up like something dirty. “A king doesn’t waste time with childish nonsense. You are the eldest. You will learn what duty means.”
Young Gavin flinches. “I just wanted—”
The King stands abruptly. “Enough.”
The scene shifts — the room darkens, torches flickering.
Now they’re in a smaller chamber.
A whipping post. Chains.
The boy’s back is bare.
The King’s voice is low, terrifying in its control.
“Cry, and you shame this bloodline. Endure, and perhaps you’ll deserve it.”
The sound of leather cracks through the air.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
The boy screams — a sound so raw I feel it tear through me.
The King doesn’t stop.
Sorien moves instinctively, stepping forward — but it’s only a vision.
He can’t touch it.
None of us can.
Farro’s face is pale, his voice small. “He— he did this to him?”
The whipping stops only when the boy collapses. The King tosses the whip aside, voice calm again. “Remember this, Gavin. Pain is discipline. Discipline is strength.”
He leaves.
The boy stays — small, shaking, bleeding on the floor.
When the scene shifts again, it’s morning light.
Young Gavin limps down a corridor, clutching a robe around his shoulders.
He finds his mother.
She turns, startled. “What happened to you?”
“The King,” he rasps. “He—”
She interrupts coldly. “He is your father. And if he punished you, then you deserved it.”
The boy stares, wide-eyed.
And then he nods. Slowly.
Something inside him dies right there.
The memory freezes — and grown Gavin is trembling.
Farro can’t look at him. Sorien’s fists clench, jaw tight.
I whisper, “Gavin…”
He doesn’t answer. His voice comes out low, hollow. “That’s why I never fail. Because failure meant blood. Every mistake was a scar.”
The flames rise around us again, reacting to his voice, the pain in it.
He laughs — brittle, broken. “Funny, isn’t it? You spend your whole life trying to please ghosts who only ever wanted to watch you bleed.”
No one speaks.
Not even me.
The hellhound lets out a low, mournful sound — almost like pity — and turns again, leading us deeper.
Gavin follows, silent now.
He doesn’t limp, but every step looks heavier.
And for the first time since the trials began,
I stop hating him.
Just a little.