The trial chamber felt like a tomb.
This was the third time I had stood before the High Priests, but now the weight of their eyes was almost unbearable.
Malrik walked a step behind me, solemn and silent.
The eldest priest's voice rang out, sharp as a hammer on iron:
"Ark. Twice you have refused. This trial will be your last. Either prove your gift, or you will be judged."
His words were final.
---
The youngest priest sneered.
"We waste our breath. He clings to childish morals, afraid to bear the burden of his power."
I clenched my fists, struggling to find words.
"I'm not afraid—"
"Then act!" he snapped, slamming his hand against the dais.
"Call upon this miracle you claim to hold! Revive what is lost, or accept your fraudulence."
I opened my mouth, but my throat closed.
I couldn't do it. Not like this. Not under their commands.
---
The sharp-eyed priestess leaned forward, her cold gaze cutting into me.
"You misunderstand your position, boy. We are not asking—we are judging. Power left unchecked becomes chaos. A child holding the key to life and death is a threat to all."
The heavyset priest raised a hand in protest.
"Or perhaps a blessing. The boy has shown restraint, unlike many adults with far lesser gifts."
"Restraint?" the priestess hissed. "Or weakness?"
Their voices clashed like steel, and I stood frozen in the center, trembling between their arguments.
---
The eldest priest raised his hand, silencing the quarrel. His voice dropped low and heavy.
"Bring the condemned forward."
The doors creaked open. Guards entered, carrying a man shackled at the wrists and ankles, his skin pale and breath shallow. A criminal, judging by the irons that bit into his flesh.
They laid him on the stone before me.
"This man is sentenced," the eldest priest said. "Already bound for death. End his life, Ark. Then return it. If you can."
The words echoed like thunder.
---
I froze. My chest tightened so hard I couldn't breathe.
"No…" I whispered. "No, I can't."
The youngest priest stood abruptly.
"Still you refuse?! Then you are no Sage—only a coward, unworthy of the gods' gift!"
My head spun. The priests' faces blurred, their voices pounding in my ears like drums.
Malrik's hand touched my shoulder, steady but firm.
"Ark. Remember—this is your choice, not theirs. Decide not as a tool of the council, but as yourself."
His words steadied me, but only barely.
I stared at the dying man at my feet. His eyes fluttered open, hollow and mocking.
"Well, boy? Gonna play god with me? Or stand there until I rot?"
---
My heart screamed against itself.
If I killed him—if I revived him—what would that make me?
A savior? Or a monster?
The silence pressed harder. The priests leaned forward, waiting, measuring me like a blade on the forge.
And just when my hands began to shake, the chamber doors slammed open.
---
"YOU SELF-RIGHTEOUS FOSSILS!"
Narsh's voice tore through the hall like lightning.
She stormed in, eyes blazing, and for the first time that day—the trial broke.