CH. 35 The Trial of Spirit, Part V
The tunnels narrow until the air itself feels too thin to breathe.
The hellhound slows, claws scraping sparks against the stone.
Ahead, the heat shifts — no longer blazing, but heavy. Oppressive. The kind that presses down like guilt.
None of us speak. Not after what we saw of Gavin, or Farro.
Even they are quiet now.
Then, the flames flicker — and the world opens into another chamber.
This one is different.
The fire doesn’t burn red or blue here.
It burns white. Cold, colorless flame licking the walls like ghostlight.
Sorien stops at the threshold. I see his shoulders tense, his jaw tighten.
“Your turn,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
He just steps forward.
The hellhound sits beside the entrance, eyes dimming.
And the memory begins.
---
A wide training yard under grey skies.
A young boy — smaller, thinner than his brothers — is struggling to lift a wooden sword.
“Come on, Sorien!” a voice jeers. “You swing like a maid!”
Young Farro shoves him. Gavin laughs. “He’s hopeless. Maybe we should give him a broom instead.”
Sorien tries again. The sword slips from his hands, clattering into mud.
“I’ll do better,” he says quietly.
“Don’t bother,” Gavin sneers. “You’ll only slow us down.”
Farro adds, “Go play with the kitchen girls. They’ll think you’re strong.”
Their laughter fills the air — bright, cruel.
The boy doesn’t cry.
He just kneels in the mud, picks up the sword, and keeps training.
Over and over.
Alone.
---
The scene shifts.
Now he’s older — maybe twelve. He’s in the library, copying scrolls while his brothers attend a feast.
A servant passes by. “Why aren’t you with them, my prince?”
Sorien shrugs. “Someone has to study. They’ll need me to clean their mess later.”
His tone is light, but there’s an ache beneath it — a loneliness that hums like a song no one else hears.
The servant hesitates. “You’re kind, my prince.”
Sorien smiles faintly. “Kindness doesn’t win wars.”
But he still thanks her.
---
Next, we see him sparring — older now, late teens, sweat dripping down his face.
No teachers, no audience. Just him.
His hands bleed from the grip.
His eyes burn with quiet determination.
Every failed strike, he repeats until it lands. Every bruise, he bears in silence.
Night after night, he trains in secret — too proud to ask for help, too afraid to need it.
---
Then, another shift.
The royal dining hall again.
Gavin and Farro are arguing — their voices rising, echoing off marble.
Sorien walks in, setting down a tray of parchment and letters. “I drafted a plan to manage the southern famine. If we—”
Gavin cuts him off. “You? Handle famine?” He laughs. “You can’t even handle a sword.”
Farro smirks. “Let him try. Maybe the farmers will feed him out of pity.”
Sorien’s knuckles whiten around the scroll. But he only says, “At least I’m trying.”
“Always the peacemaker,” Gavin taunts. “You’re too soft to be king. Maybe too soft to be anything.”
They leave.
Sorien stays. Alone again.
He picks up the parchment — crumpled, torn — and smooths it out with shaking hands.
And in a voice barely above a whisper, he says:
“I’ll still save them.”
---
The fire dims.
The memory dissolves.
But then — a final image flickers.
A small boy, even younger than before, sitting in the corner of the throne room.
His mother’s hand passes over his head — not in affection, just in passing.
Her words are distant, distracted:
“Such a quiet child. Sometimes I forget he’s there.”
The boy doesn’t move. He just watches his brothers, playing, laughing, arguing.
And he smiles — small, wistful.
Because even then, he loves them.
---
The vision fades.
We’re back in the infernal chamber — silent, breathless.
Gavin’s face is ashen. Farro looks sick.
They stare at Sorien — the real Sorien — who stands motionless, eyes fixed on the fading flame.
He finally speaks.
His voice is low, steady.
“I never hated you,” he says. “Not once.”
Gavin flinches. “You should have.”
Farro can’t meet his gaze. “We didn’t know.”
“I know,” Sorien says. “That’s the point.”
He turns slightly, the light catching on his face — calm, resolute, but something raw glimmers beneath.
“You both needed to be seen. I only wanted to help. And if the only way to love you was to endure you…”
He exhales slowly. “Then I did.”
No one answers.
The silence between them feels like a lifetime.
Even the flames seem to hesitate.
Finally, Gavin says, voice rough: “You’re still weak.”
Sorien almost smiles. “Then I’ll carry you anyway.”
---
I can’t help it.
My throat tightens.
For once, I don’t mock them.
I just stand there, watching the three princes — broken in different ways, bound by something older than pride or duty —
and think maybe this trial isn’t about survival.
Maybe it’s about remembering who you were before the world burned it out of you.
The hellhound rises, its molten eyes bright again.
It growls softly — not a warning, but a summons.