After the feast, all of the siblings went their separate ways, either out to the city or to their rooms. Gavirel, on the other hand, waited outside the hall, waiting for Orien so that they could go to the Artifact hall. He stared at the painting adorning the walls of the family landing, a photo of Orien in his teens.
It was weird to see him without that beard; it might've even been like that for his siblings, but more importantly, he was standing next to his father—an old, wrinkled, but somehow intimidating man wearing the Cloak of Jewels. Gavirel noted that it has significantly fewer jewels—they only reached to his waist instead of his feet.
Gavirel continued to stare at the painting, not being able to keep his eyes off the man staring deep into his eyes. The more he stared, the more he could feel his heart sink—and eventually it felt like the eyes were looking back at him.
Before Gavirel had the time to think about it, Orien opened the door, following his gaze to the painting.
"They don't call me The Divider of Life for no reason, Gavirel."
"I can see that."
Gavirel turned towards Orien, looking him directly in the eye as if challenging him.
"Do you think I would ever be able to beat you?"
"Haha! In your dreams, maybe!"
Orien just laughed loudly, grabbed him by the shoulder, and began to walk with him. They walked down the halls of the castle as Orien greeted every maid he walked past by name.
Gavirel, on the other hand, looked almost disappointed—but he only had one month of training; maybe he was getting ahead of himself. With his training, he was already thinking about beating the king—but it was good to set his sights on something for motivation.
"Now, what artifact do you look forward to getting?"
"Maybe a sword?"
"A sword? Sorry, but we don't have those. We only have one."
Gavirel narrowed his eyes as if trying to catch a lie, even raising an eyebrow when he didn't find any. The king, princes, and princesses of the world managed to have only one sword artifact? Then what did the others use—
"Why only one?"
"Excalibur was the first sword ever crafted, given to us by the God of Eclipses."
"So then, where is the sword?"
Orien paused for a second, not hesitating—but his smile did dim for a slight second.
"Alarin has it."
"But isn't he in the Sakura Prefecture of Auroria?"
"That doesn't mean the sword doesn't belong to him, Gavirel. The king must choose an heir to give Excalibur to—and it just so happened to be Alarin, who our Father chose."
The fact alone that Orien wasn't the one who got Excalibur must really have been a representation of power. The youngest son of seven, getting the most valuable Artifact of the family instead of the king, seemed like Alarin really did deserve the name of The Crownless Prince.
Orien led Gavirel down to the basements of the castle, where the Artifacts were held. The hall smelled of metal and dust—and was larger than Gavirel had imagined as he looked around at all the weapons. He saw gauntlets, rapiers, staffs, and even scythes.
At first, he thought about getting a scythe—but when he tried to pick it up, it was incredibly heavy. The way that people described it, he would've thought they were no more than ten pounds. Disappointed, he put it back, wiping his hands.
"Take your time, Gavirel. I'll be here if you have any questions."
Gavirel searched the hall long and hard, going through almost every weapon he thought was interesting one by one. Everything he tried out didn't feel quite right—or didn't suit his expectations.
He leaned against a wall as he couldn't find anything, thinking of just using his hands for fighting—until he landed his eyes on a wooden staff with a blue flosgem at the end of it. Picking it up, at first trying to make it absorb his Lemmavis—but that didn't work.
From that, he knew that it was a repel gem—and began to spin it in circles until suddenly a sharp, crushing sound ripped through the air. A silver blade came out of the base of the staff, aiming straight for his throat.
He hurriedly dodged it. The blade had barely missed his throat—and made a small scratch on his cheek.
He sighed before realizing that the blade was held to the staff by a retracting obsidian chain. He wrapped the chain around him, grabbed the staff by the handle and the blade by the chain—and began to walk around.
At first, he just studied how far the blade could reach, then decided to see what exactly he could do. He put one foot in front of the other, thrusting the blade forward before taking another step, swinging the chain in a circle so the staff would wrap around it.
Instinctively, he forgot to dodge—and the staff hit him in the back of the head, making him wince in pain.
"Ow..."
Pain aside—the weapon was perfect. Gavirel could defend himself with the flosgem of the staff—and attack with the blade. He went back to the entrance of the basement, showing the weapon to Orien, making him raise an eyebrow.
"That old thing? It's lost more of its owners' lives than it's taken, but okay. It's going to need polish. I'll take it to a blacksmith early in the morning."
Gavirel nodded, handing the staff to Orien before following him out of the basement.
"You remember everything about the trial, right, Gavirel?"
"Yes—step one is to defeat the shadow of yourself. Once I do that, I'll be able to choose from the blessings of the god I worship."
"And if you fail?"
"Do I have to say it?"
"It's important that you know the consequences of your actions."
Gavirel paused, groaning slightly. He knew deep down that Orien had the right to tell him this—to keep him cautious of what would happen if he lost—but he'd prefer not to think about it at all.
Reluctantly, Gavirel opened his mouth again, not looking Orien directly in the eye this time.
"If I fail either stage, either by losing to my ghost or choosing a blessing that is taken—I die."
Orien nodded his head, flipping the staff around so that the dagger would go back into the base. After that, he began to walk, expecting Gavirel to follow behind him—and he did.
"You should go back to your room, Gavirel, you need as much rest as possible. Although it may seem like only a few seconds from the outside, the trial could take days to complete."
"I understand, goodnight."
"Goodnight."
Gavirel made his way to his room, falling onto the fluff cushions that he melted into like clouds. The luxury of sheets, pillows, and a mattress was almost enough for him to forget the stakes—almost.
He barely even got to think about anything else before he fell asleep on the bed—waking up to Seralius' Paradise yet again.
"Ah! It's good to see you, Gavirel. I was just expecting you."
"Really?"
"Yes, I wanted to tell you about the Blessings that aren't taken, although there aren't many of them that aren't."
Seralius looked up in thought for a while, humming as he did so, shaking his head from time to time—as if dismissing possibilities.
"What do you think would suit you, Gavirel? Defense or offense?"
"I thought you needed a balance between both? Or do you mean which one do I excel in?"
"I meant, which do you excel in. Sorry, I should've been clearer."
Gavirel could only run his hand through his hair, chuckling.
"Both... I train defense one day, then offense the next day, so I don't think I'm better at a single one."
Seralius nodded, bringing his fingers to his chin, looking Gavirel in the face now. He lifted his leg, putting one on top of the other inside the chair of thorns.
"When you drink the elixir from The Rest of Everything, you should make sure to think about morality whenever you do beat your ghost."
"Okay, but I've been meaning to ask, how does the second step work?"
"Mortals tend to simplify it, but in short terms, you have to make a connection with a god, which shouldn't be too hard since we already have one. What you see is specific to each person, but there will be multiple blessings you can choose from if you choose wrong—"
"Yeah, yeah, I know, no need to say it."
Gavirel rolled his eyes, but more importantly, he let the words repeat in his head. Every piece of information that he could get was critical to his life—and he made sure to cherish all of it.
"Thank you, Seralius. Is there anything you wanted to talk about?"
Seralius covered his mouth, trying not to laugh—different from his usual tone, but it was somehow less weird than Gavirel expected.
"You like Rosalina, don't you?"
He so did not! Why was this Seralius suddenly teasing him? Who did he think he was?! Gavirel blushed intensely, stammering over his words to the point where the only thing that came out was complete gibberish.
"I'm just joking—calm down, but you should seriously think about marrying a lady if you're going to be a noble man."
"That's not funny, Lucien would have my head! But you are right, but I'm not just gonna marry someone who just throws themselves at me."
"Smart. In the meantime, focus on your training. You can't be a noble if you're dead."
Gavirel wanted to say more, but Seralius got up from the chair, approaching him faster than he could even open his mouth, whispering in his ear.
"Return."
The next thing Gavirel knew, he was back inside the lavish room of paintings—and turned over, screaming into his pillow. He knew he shouldn't dwell on it—but he still had so many questions to ask that he might not get for at least another week.
Reluctantly, he got up from the mattress—getting ready for the days ahead of him. The more he trained, the more he couldn't stop thinking about the trial—especially now that he had to practice with a new weapon.
Throughout the next four days, he did just that—and he did so vigorously, making sure that everything he had improved on it. These days, he found out the staff was useful for repelling Lemmavis—and he could increase the power and speed of the dagger by strengthening the chain.
Before he knew it, it was finally time for the trial. As he got out of the bath, he nervously looked into the mirror, taking in the noticeable cuts he had gotten through the trial and error of his weapon etched into his skin.
He slapped his face with both hands, shaking slightly after looking into the mirror one more time.
"You can do this. You can do this...You have to do this."
He exhaled before finally getting dressed—going outside the castle and into the carriage, where Orien was already waiting for him. Throughout the entire ride, not a single word was uttered between them—although Gavirel did mutter to himself from time to time.
He muttered the same words over a thousand times—before they got to the Rest of Everything, A large, manor-like building with dual stairs that led up to a big oak door. The words he muttered even as he entered the building were "You will win," but the more he said it, the more the idea became distant.
The building on the inside was beautiful, with the story of the gods engraved into the walls, and every surface had a new painting or a new symbol for a god. In the middle of the manner was a big fountain of a golden liquid, with a plain bronze goblet next to it.
There was at least one person from different churches with their respective sections to sit and wait for their turn. It ranged from The Goddess of the Moon, The God of Light, and even The God of Stars.
Gavirel sat down as the first brave soul approached the fountain, grabbed the goblet, and drank from the elixir. It didn't take long—maybe even a few seconds—before the boy who had drunk from the elixir began jerking uncontrollably, bleeding from his eyes as he screamed wretchedly.
Eventually, his eyes popped out—but apparently that wasn't enough to kill him, and he began to throw up his guts. He choked, spattering his own blood and falling over. Nuns immediately carried the body out, mopping and getting up any traces of blood in seconds.
Gavirel held in his puke, forcing himself to swallow it down—but unfortunately, others weren't as lucky as he was. Many threw up, some even fainted—either way, he didn't blame them. It was a horrible sight.
As Gavirel watched, many died—only a few getting their blessing. The most noticeable was a polite-looking girl with brown hair and hazel eyes from the church of The Goddess of The Moon, as a miniature moon now followed her around.
Eventually, there was no one left inside the building except Gavirel. Knowing he now had no choice, he climbed down from his seat, taking a drink from the goblet hesitantly.
The taste was insanely bitter—but more importantly, it went down his throat like slush. Everywhere it passed through, he could feel it leaving behind a light fuzz.
It felt as if he was descending deep into a trance—and as he did so, voices began to fill his head. The room around him became completely black, and the surface under him disappeared, making him float midair.
Millions of voices—some prayed, many screamed, and even more sang. Gavirel couldn't help but scream as millions of glass shards appeared in front of him, making him hold his head.
This is not at all what Orien said the trial was like. Gavirel was supposed to be fighting a manifestation of himself, not floating in some empty void of glass shards.
If he didn't find a solution, he was going to go crazy from all of the voices. The voices were overloading his brain, and he could feel himself going dumb.
Screaming—he swiped his hand, shattering at least half of the shards of glass that fell into the black void beneath him—and the others turned silent.
Breathing heavily, he noticed one shard was still talking—and he began to listen intently to the commanding, old voice.
"I have a child? Why would I care that brat is half mortal? He wouldn't awake to his Primordium even if he tried his hardest. Fuck him, fuck earth—but most importantly, fuck their whores."