"Welcome Princess Lysandra and Prince Joshua. I will be your guide today."
The realm of memory stitched itself together like shards of glassing gluing back into place. They stood on a polished white marble platform and surrounding them were infinite mirrors as far as the eye could perceive.
And directly in front of them—
"Feel free to address me as Clint."
Joshua's vision cleared as the world fully took form. The form was human in his mid-twenties. He possessed a dignified yet innocent appearance. Black hair that swept long around his neck, and golden eyes that watched him with an unwavering seriousness.
"A guide—?" Joshua started.
"Who are you?" Lysandra materialized next to him, her crimson eyes full of suspicion.
Clint let out a polite smile. "I am the one who leads all royal candidates. There is a binding vow once you enter that you cannot speak of what happens here. So, it's not surprising that you have not heard of me." He let out a small bow. "I assure you; I mean no harm."
[Hey… Joshua. Do NOT get on this guy's bad side…it wouldn't end up well.]
Who is he then?
[ I cannot scan him for more information. He would… know if I tried.]
Clint's eyes flicked to the prince wearing the same polite smile. "Let's focus on what's in front of us, yes?"
"Right..." Joshua agreed quietly.
Clint clapped his hands together, his golden eyes lighting up with genuine enthusiasm. "Okay that's enough introductions! It's been ages since I've had proper company. You have no idea how tedious it gets here—just me and the mirrors for years on end."
He gestured grandly at the infinite reflective surfaces surrounding them. "Do you know how many conversations you can have with your own reflection before going mad? I've counted. It's precisely four thousand and thirty-seven."
Lysandra's suspicion deepened. "How long have you been here?"
"Oh, time works differently in this realm. Could be decades, could be centuries. Hard to say really. This is the worst assignment they've posted me at to date…"
"They?" Lysandra asked.
Clint waved dismissively. "That's enough about me! You two are here for the trials, yes? Marvelous stuff, truly transformative. Though I should warn you—most candidates find the experience rather... overwhelming."
"Overwhelming how?" Joshua managed to ask.
"Well, the Trial of Memory is good at digging any traumatic memories you have. Something like 'facing your own demons before facing the demons of your future kingdom' sort of deal."
[This guy…]
"And the Trial of Soul?" Lysandra demanded.
"Oh, that's where things get really interesting! But even I have been forbidden to speak about that."
Clint gestured to a glowing archway that materialized behind him. Beyond it, darkness mixed with blue like paint, swirling in a cyclone.
"But don't worry—I'll be right here waiting when you're done! Assuming you make it through, of course."
He beamed at them as if he'd just described a pleasant afternoon picnic.
"Now then, shall we begin? The Memory trial is through that archway. Just step through together and—oh, this is exciting—I get to watch!"
Joshua felt Lysandra's hand find his, her grip tight.
"Together," she whispered.
They stepped toward the archway. As they crossed the threshold, Clint's cheerful voice followed them into the darkness.
"Do try not to break completely! It makes the Soul trial everrr so much more difficult!"
The world dissolved into shadow, then reformed into something achingly familiar.
***
The Royal Palace - Twelve Years Ago
Joshua was eight years old, small even for his age, standing in the center of a wooden training hall.
His brothers formed a loose circle around him. Marcus the younger prodigy held a training sword with his cruel smile. Adrian flexed his already impressive muscles, and Garrett the youngest of them all, spun a practice sword with casual expertise.
"Again," came their father's voice from the observation balcony. King William's tone held no warmth, only cold disappointment.
Young Joshua raised his wooden practice sword with trembling arms. Bruises bloomed across his skin, lining down his arms and traveling up the lower part of neck. Never the face though. Joshua needed to be able to hide his injuries and put on a princely performance.
"I don't understand why we're wasting time on him," Marcus sneered, twirling his own weapon. "He'll never amount to anything."
"Everyone deserves a chance to prove themselves," their father replied, though his voice suggested he agreed with Marcus. "Begin. Joshua you may make the first blow."
Joshua lunged forward, putting everything he had into the attack. Adrian casually sidestepped and brought his sword down across Joshua's back, sending him sprawling to the cold stone floor.
Laughter echoed through the hall.
In the shadows, Lysandra watched. But eight-year-old Joshua couldn't see her—he was trapped in this moment, living it again.
"Get up," Marcus commanded. "You're embarrassing the family name."
Young Joshua tried to rise. His legs shook.
"Father," Adrian's voice cut through the air like a blade. "If I'm to be king in due time, I refuse to have a brother who brings shame to our name. I think it's time Joshua learned a real lesson."
The room went quiet.
"A lesson about what happens to princes who can't defend themselves."
No. Lysandra's hands clenched. Don't.
"Continue the training," the king said after a pause. "But this time, show him no mercy. Treat him like an enemy."
Marcus grinned. "With pleasure."
The first strike cracked across Joshua's ribs. The eight-year-old crumpled with a strangled cry.
"Fight back!" Adrian kicked him in the stomach. "Defend yourself!"
But Joshua couldn't. Every time he tried to raise his weapon, one of them would hit him. Marcus from the left. Adrian from the right. Garrett withheld his sword, watching in silence.
They weren't training him. They were breaking him.
"Please," Joshua gasped, blood running from his nose. "I can't—"
"Can't?" Marcus grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head up. "Then maybe you should learn what happens when you're useless."
The beating got worse. They kicked away his sword. Held him down. Took turns.
Through it all, their father watched. Silent. Unmoved.
This is wrong. Lysandra pressed against the wall, her own breathing ragged. This is torture.
"Please!" Joshua sobbed. "I'll do better! I promise!"
"Promises from weaklings don't matter," the king said coldly.
Joshua tried to run. Crawled toward the door on his hands and knees, tears streaming down his face.
"Please," he whispered. "I want mother."
The silence that followed was deadly.
Marcus started laughing. "He wants mommy. The little prince wants his dead mommy."
"Mother's not coming," Adrian said with a grin. "She's six feet under, remember?"
Something inside Joshua just... stopped. Lysandra could see it happen. The exact moment when hope died in his eyes.
He curled up on the marble floor and didn't fight anymore.
"Enough," the king finally said. Like he was bored.
As his brothers left, laughing, young Joshua stayed on the ground. He didn't cry now. Couldn't cry. Just stared at nothing.
"Clean yourself up," his father commanded. "Dinner in an hour. You'll attend. You'll smile. And if you ever speak of this..."
He didn't finish the threat. He didn't need to.
The memory started fading. But Lysandra saw something that caused her chest to clench.
Young Joshua staggered upright, swaying. He dragged his sleeve across his face, smearing blood instead of cleaning it. Then he lifted his sword, catching his reflection in the dull metal.
He tried to smile.
It twitched. Collapsed. He tried again.
This time, the smile stayed.
But his eyes didn't change at all.
Lysandra realized, with a cold sinking in her chest, that he wasn't trying to feel better. He was learning to look fine.
Learning the skill he still uses today.
The scene dissolved.
Now I understand, Lysandra thought, her chest tight.
Why he could survive anything she threw at him.
This wasn't new for him.