Chapter 11: The Trial of Three Questions
Layra and Rayvaris stood before the twin bird statues, their carved forms rising from the forest floor like silent sentinels. Emerald eyes caught the dim light filtering through the canopy, gleaming with an unnatural polish. Even the wind seemed hesitant here—leaves stirred softly, as if unwilling to disturb the place’s solemn quiet.
Rayvaris studied the statues for a long moment.
“…Layra,” she asked at last, voice low, restrained, “what are those?”
Layra followed her gaze. “They are merely statues, Your Highness.”
Rayvaris frowned faintly. “They don’t feel ‘mere.’”
“That is because they mark the boundary,” Layra replied. Her tone remained even, practiced. “Beyond them lies the Tabu of the First King.”
A pause.
“…And what am I supposed to do?” Rayvaris asked.
Layra turned to face her fully. “You must enter.”
Rayvaris blinked. “Enter?”
“Yes.”
She glanced once more at the statues, then at the empty space between them. “That’s it? No ritual? No words? No preparation?”
Layra shook her head. “You need only walk between them.”
Rayvaris stared at the gap. Then, quietly, “So I just… go in.”
“That is all,” Layra said.
Another silence settled.
“Layra…” Rayvaris asked, her voice careful, restrained. “Do you think I will pass?”
Layra did not answer at once. She lowered her head in a formal bow, hands folded before her.
“Your Highness… the future is not something mortals may see,” she said. “If God Auriviel wills it, you may be granted fortune. But the Tabu…” Her words slowed. “…it is unlike any trial recorded in our histories.”
The pause lingered.
Rayvaris felt it settle in her chest, cold and unwelcome. Unlike anything, she repeated inwardly. That was not comforting. That was a warning dressed in courtesy.
She drew in a quiet breath, steadying herself. Her fingers curled once at her side, then relaxed.
Fine,she told herself. Then I won’t think. Thinking never helps at moments like this.
She shut her eyes.
And ran.
The moment her hand brushed the air between the statues, resistance bloomed beneath her fingertips—soft, fluid, unreal. The barrier rippled like disturbed water, yielding without force.
Then she was through.
Her foot met solid ground. Her balance wavered. Her heart struck hard against her ribs.
Rayvaris opened her eyes.
She stood within a perfect white cube.
There were no seams. No edges. Every surface shimmered softly, reflecting light that had no visible source. The glow was uniform, absolute—so complete that depth itself felt uncertain. The air pressed faintly against her skin, dense and humming, as if saturated with restrained power. Tiny motes drifted through the space, slow and deliberate, like suspended sparks awaiting command.
And before her—
An old man.
He hovered slightly above the floor, robes falling straight despite the absence of legs beneath them. His form was thin, composed, unmoving. His eyes, however, were deep—too deep—holding a weight that did not belong to any living age.
Outside the barrier, Layra halted mid-step.
Her breath caught. Her eyes widened, mind struggling to reconcile what she had witnessed—Rayvaris vanishing into nothingness, swallowed by unseen law. Shock struck first. Duty followed immediately after. She turned sharply and ran, boots striking earth as she moved to report to Sylvaris without hesitation.
Inside the cube, Rayvaris swallowed.
There isn’t even a shadow in here, she thought, heart racing. Except him.
Her gaze lowered instinctively—then lifted again.
…What is he?
“Child of the Elowen family,” the old man spoke.
His voice did not travel through the air. It pressed through her, resonating in bone and breath alike.
“You possess the qualifications to enter. Therefore, I shall present to you three—”
“Wait. Wait,” Rayvaris said quickly, lifting a hand before she could stop herself. “You’re… floating. And you don’t have legs. Are you alive? Or are you some kind of spirit? Or—” she hesitated, searching for the word, “—jinn?”
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The old man paused.
One brow twitched.
“Child,” he said evenly, “I am not alive. This is the form of my soul. And I am unfamiliar with the term you just used.”
“Oh.” She nodded once. “Then forget it.”
A brief silence followed.
“…Just tell me when the questions start,” Rayvaris added, frowning faintly, as if the matter were settled.
The old man exhaled—a long, measured breath.
Bold,he observed inwardly. And restless.
“Very well,” he said aloud, posture straightening though he had not moved. “I shall ask you three questions.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Here is the first.”
He spoke slowly, each word measured, carrying weight beyond sound.
“When your strength falters before a mightier foe,” he said, voice firm and resonant, “what shall guide you—the power of your blade, or the clarity of your mind? Speak with honesty. Your answer will reveal the nature of your soul.”
Rayvaris blinked once.
“…Your voice changed,” she said. “Just now. It got… heavier.”
“Child,” he said sharply, the space itself seeming to tighten, “do not waste words. Answer, if you possess one.”
She lifted both hands in a placating gesture. “Alright, alright. But a hint wouldn’t hurt. Just a small one.”
“No,” he replied at once.
The single word struck like a closed gate.
Rayvaris clicked her tongue softly. “You know, you sound like someone who asks questions they’re not entirely sure about.”
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then—
“Child,” he said, eyes widening a fraction, “I know the answer. That is precisely why I ask.”
She bit the inside of her cheek.
So even the legendary First King can be provoked,she noted inwardly, barely suppressing a smile.
He inhaled slowly. When he spoke again, the edge had softened, discipline reasserting itself.
"Can you repeat the question?"
“When your strength falters before a mightier foe,” he repeated.
Rayvaris straightened.
“The blade is only a tool,” she said, voice steadier now. “Without thought, without technique, it is useless. Strength alone may win battles—but clarity of mind decides wars. Strategy allows weakness to survive, and sometimes… to prevail. The mind guides the blade. Without it, power has no direction.”
The old man regarded her in silence, gaze sharp and penetrating.
“…This,” he said at last, “is your answer?”
“Yes,” she replied without hesitation.
A pause.
Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth lifted—not into laughter, but into something approving.
“It is,” he said, “not wrong.”
Rayvaris stiffened.
Not wrong?
Relief flooded her chest before she could stop it. A quiet laugh slipped free, barely more than breath.
Good. I’m still alive. And it looks like I’ll be here a while.
She exhaled, shoulders loosening.
Perfect.
“Then… the second question,” Rayvaris said, unable to keep the note of anticipation from her voice.
“Listen carefully, child,” the First King replied. His tone deepened, formal once more. “I will speak it only once—”
She hesitated, then gestured vaguely at the surrounding space. “Could you write it instead? On the air. Or the walls. Or… anywhere, really.”
For a moment, he regarded her in silence.
Then a faint, restrained smile touched his lips.
“Very well,” he said. “Observe.”
Light gathered before her.
Glowing blue letters formed in the air, each line unfolding with deliberate precision, as though the space itself were being inscribed:
"A ruler is feared, yet respected… or respected, yet feared? Tell me—what manner of king or queen shall you be, That your people may thrive and your reign endure?"
Rayvaris stared.
“…You can do whatever you want in here, can’t you,” she murmured.
“Child,” he said calmly, “focus. We may have a year for discourse. The trial, however, is now.”
She nodded, eyes returning to the words. Reading them aloud steadied her breathing. When she finished, she drew in a slow breath.
“Ruling through fear breeds resentment,” she said. “It may enforce obedience, but it will never earn loyalty. Respect creates trust. I would rather be respected than feared. My people come first. I would guide and protect them—even if doing so costs me more than I can afford.”
The First King inclined his head slightly. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes softened.
“Your answer holds truth,” he said. “It aligns with the path I would commend.”
Rayvaris leaned forward a fraction. “So… is it correct?”
“It is,” he answered simply.
Rayvaris could not stop herself from shifting on her feet. “Alright. Third question,” she said, a little too quickly. “Let’s finish this.”
The First King’s expression settled into solemn stillness.
Light gathered once more. Words took form in the air, slower this time, heavier—each line pressing into her sight as if demanding to be remembered.
"If the lives of your people are threatened, and the kingdom itself stands on the brink of ruin— what will you choose to save? The land, or the lives bound to it? And if your own blood is weighed upon the scale, will your heart bend… or will it hold?"
Rayvaris read the words aloud. When she finished, she did not hesitate.
“If my people are in danger,” she said, voice firm, “I would choose them. Land can be lost. A crown can fall. But a kingdom without its people is nothing. If sacrifice is required, I would give myself first.”
Silence followed.
The First King studied her without expression. Within his gaze, something faint stirred—approval, tempered by restraint.
Her heart is aligned, he observed inwardly. But her certainty is sharp. Too sharp.
The silence stretched.
So did his restraint.
Barely audible, carried only by the cube itself, the First King murmured, “All three answers… correct.”
Rayvaris’s head tilted. “…What?”
He straightened at once. “Nothing.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You said something.”
“I did not.”
She took a step closer, peering up at him. “You just admitted it, didn’t you. My answers. They’re right.”
The First King looked away.
Just slightly.
“Old man,” Rayvaris said, suspicion creeping into her voice, “don’t do this.”
Silence.
“…Tell me my answer is right,” she pressed.
The pause that followed was deliberate. Measured. Almost ceremonial.
At last, he spoke.
“And your answer,” he said evenly, “is… wrong.”
Rayvaris went still.
“…What?”
Her breath caught. “No. That’s—that’s what I believe. That’s the right answer.”
A sound escaped him—soft, restrained. Not laughter, yet close enough to unsettle her. His voice rolled through the cube like distant thunder contained by stone.
“Child,” he said, “in truth… your answer is correct.”
She stared at him.
What is this old man even saying? she thought.
“…So,” Rayvaris said carefully, “my answer is correct.”
“No,” he replied at once. “Your answer is wrong.”
Her eye twitched. “Then what is the correct answer?”
“I will not tell you.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Why?” she demanded.
“Because,” he said evenly, “this question must remain unanswered.”
She folded her arms. “That makes no sense.”
“It must endure,” he continued, unbothered. “So that I may ask it again—to the next who stands where you stand now.”
Rayvaris stared at him in silence.
This man ruled an empire,she realized. That explains everything.
A faint smile touched his face. “Do not allow certainty to harden into pride.”
She exhaled slowly. The tension bled from her shoulders, leaving behind something unsteady but lighter. A short, uneven laugh slipped free.
Unbelievable,she thought. Absolutely impossible.
Still, she inclined her head.
“…Fine,” Rayvaris muttered. “I’ll accept that.”
The space seemed to settle, the weight within it easing.
The three questions had ended—each cutting against a different edge of her resolve. Yet she remained standing, steadier than before.
Stronger.
More certain.
Within the flawless white cube, beneath drifting light and the unwavering gaze of a soul that had once ruled an age, Rayvaris understood one thing with quiet clarity:
She would endure the First King’s Tabu.
And she would not leave unchanged.
