Chapter 3 — The Lantern Trial

The silence in the Court of Lanterns was unlike any Eolan had ever known.

It wasn’t absence—it was containment, like the pause of a predator just before the strike. The masked courtiers stood in small, still clusters, their silks whispering faintly when they shifted. Lanternlight painted their masks in shifting amber and red, turning human expressions into something more unreadable, almost otherworldly.

Eolan stood before the dais, feeling the gaze of the three masked figures seated above him. The center one—the speaker—tilted their head slightly, as if weighing the taste of his presence.

“You have your mother’s eyes,” they said at last.

The words struck sharper than he expected. He had no memory of her face—only her voice, a lullaby in a language he’d never been taught—but he had heard enough in whispers to know her name was both blessing and curse in this hall.

The figure to the speaker’s left raised a slender, gloved hand. “Shall we waste no more time?” Their voice was smooth as glass, but it cut all the same. “If he is to stand among us, he must pass the Lantern Trial.”

A murmur rippled through the hall. The speaker nodded once, and the third figure—the silent one—rose from their seat. Without a word, they descended the dais and gestured for Eolan to follow.

Arwyn stepped forward. “He isn’t ready.”

The speaker’s gaze turned to her. “If he is not ready, then the city will know. And it will make its own judgments.”

Something cold passed between them—years of unspoken history condensed into that glance. Then Arwyn stepped back, jaw tight.

Eolan followed the silent figure out of the main hall, through a narrow side corridor lit only by pale blue lanterns. The air grew cooler with each step, and the marble gave way to black stone worn smooth by centuries of passing feet.

They emerged into a circular chamber deep beneath the Court. The ceiling was lost in shadow, but hundreds of lanterns floated in the air above, their flames wavering without smoke. In the center of the floor lay a wide circle etched with sigils, inlaid with threads of silver that glimmered faintly.

The silent figure finally spoke, their voice low and resonant. “The Lantern Trial measures more than skill. It reveals truth—yours and the city’s.”

They stepped back, and a portion of the floor shivered. The silver threads brightened until they blazed like molten metal.

“Step inside,” they said.

Eolan hesitated only a moment before crossing the threshold. The air inside the circle felt heavier, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. The lanterns above flickered, and shadows began to stretch across the floor—shadows that did not match his form.

From them, figures began to rise. Not solid, but not entirely insubstantial either—smoky shapes with hints of eyes, mouths, weapons glinting faintly in the dark. One by one, they closed in.

The first lunged, a blade of shadow sweeping toward him. Instinct moved him before thought could—he stepped aside, twisting as the edge grazed his cloak. His hand went to his belt, finding the short blade Arwyn had insisted he carry.

The second came faster, its form shifting as it struck. Eolan ducked low, driving the point of his blade upward. The shadow dissolved into black mist, but the others pressed closer.

Their whispers filled the air now—fragments of sentences, voices he recognized and didn’t. Some sounded like his own.

You will fail.

You are only here because others died before you.

Your bloodline is cursed.

Each word hit harder than the strikes, shaking his focus. He stumbled as one of the shadows landed a blow across his ribs, the pain sharp and real.

Something inside him—something he had felt in the sanctum—stirred. Heat pooled low in his chest, curling up his spine. Without thinking, he let it rise.

His shadow beneath him shifted—lengthened—until it flared outward like a living thing. Dark tendrils lashed from it, striking at the shapes around him. Each one it touched burst apart, scattering like smoke in wind.

When the last dissolved, the circle dimmed. The silver threads cooled.

The silent figure stepped forward. They regarded him for a long moment before speaking. “So. The blood still runs true.”

Eolan caught his breath, his ribs aching where the shadow’s strike had landed. “What was that?”

“The city’s memory,” they said. “And its judgment. It has seen you. Now it will decide what to do with you.”

Back in the hall, the murmurs were louder. Faces turned toward him as he reentered with the silent figure. The speaker on the dais leaned forward once more.

“You live,” they said simply. “For now, that will suffice.”

But Eolan saw something else behind the mask—an interest sharper than approval.

The court began to disperse, but Arwyn was already at his side, her hand gripping his arm.

“You’ve put yourself in their game now,” she said under her breath. “And they never play for small stakes.”

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