CH. 41 The Trial of Integrity, Part I
The Resanarum feels different this morning.
No fire. No screams. Just still air and sunlight pouring down like honey — too sweet, too calm. I don’t trust it for a second.
The floor gleams brighter than usual, as though the arena itself’s been polished to impress someone important. The runes circling the center pulse lazily — faint gold, not red this time.
Something about that color feels wrong.
Farro grins at me from his spot beside the Princes.
“Morning, ugly.”
I smile sweetly. “Good morning, disappointment.”
Sorien coughs into his fist, which I think is his royal way of hiding a laugh. Gavin looks like he swallowed one instead.
Before I can think of another insult, the air ripples — the Seer appears, banners lifting in a wind that doesn’t exist. His voice fills the arena like a low hum through glass.
“Princes of Resan. You have faced courage, wisdom, and spirit.
Now, the time comes for the weighing of hearts.
This is the Trial of Integrity — where truth and temptation share the same tongue.”
His white eyes flick toward me.
“Lady Alenia and Lord Arec still dwell between worlds. Their spirits have not yet recovered. Therefore, in this trial, only the Princes shall enter. Drew of the Black Hollow will remain as witness.”
My stomach sinks.
“Witness?” I echo. “Is that just fancy Seer-talk for ‘cheerleader with better seating’?”
The Seer ignores me — standard procedure — and gestures toward the arena floor.
The black stone beneath the Princes ripples, glowing gold. The light spreads outward like sunlight through water, forming a great circle beneath their feet.
“Within the Resanarum lies the mirror of the soul,” he says.
“There, your integrity will be measured — not by word, but by choice.”
Then, he strikes his staff once.
The world folds.
---
The arena melts into a vast, golden chamber — like a throne room built from sunlight.
I’m no longer standing with them but watching from a ledge high above, surrounded by faceless figures — echoes of nobles, courtiers, judges. Their whispers hum like bees.
Down below, the three Princes stand in the center.
And then the first illusion begins.
---
The light bends, shaping itself into a familiar place: the King’s private council chamber.
Gavin’s shoulders stiffen immediately.
He’s there — younger, proud, dressed in crimson robes that still fit him perfectly.
Across from him, a trembling servant kneels. A chest of gold sits between them, half-open, brimming with coin.
The illusionary King speaks, voice low but sharp as steel:
“You will take this to the border, my son. A bribe for peace. A necessary sin.”
The young Gavin hesitates. “It’s treason.”
“It’s diplomacy,” the King snaps. “Do as I command.”
The light flickers, and suddenly, we’re watching two futures unfold — one on each side of him.
In one, Gavin obeys, handing over the gold, saving the realm, but the guilt follows him — a stain that never fades.
In the other, he defies the King, exposes the plot, and watches the war erupt — thousands dead, his family’s wrath eternal.
Both choices burn him alive in different ways.
The real Gavin watches, jaw set tight.
He looks older now, even though the scene belongs to his youth.
The Seer’s voice hums from nowhere:
“A lie that saves. A truth that destroys.
Which path keeps a soul intact?”
I can see the conflict in Gavin’s face — not arrogance, not cruelty this time, but exhaustion.
Finally, he speaks to his illusion.
“No. You don’t lie to win peace. Not when it’s built on rot.”
The illusion freezes — then slowly fades, gold dissolving into ash.
Gavin lowers his head. For once, he looks like a prince who’s learned something painful.
---
Up above, I cross my arms, whispering to myself, “Well, would you look at that. Integrity does exist. Took him only four trials.”
Farro elbows Sorien below. “Your turn, hero.”
Sorien doesn’t respond. The next illusion is already forming — this one for Farro.