There were no walls in the arena. Agastya saw that right away. Beneath his feet, the stone stretched eternally; it was old, uneven, and covered in innumerable scars that time had not been able to remove. Deep in the earth were engraved circular symbols that overlapped like still ripples. Some were scarcely noticeable due to fading. Others appeared to have just been cut, as though the stone was better able to recall present anguish than past suffering.
The sky above was clear and expansive. But it seemed far away. Not accessible. It seemed to be in an other world. The sound of thousands of voices filled the arena as the wind blew across it. The formation was encircled by a throng of onlookers that rose into the distance in tiers.
However, the place's overwhelming weight seemed to muffle their murmurs. This was not a combat zone. This place was devoid of victory banners. Glory has no place here. Decisions were made here. A location of accountability. Agastya was in the middle. His hands at his sides relaxed. straight back. steady breathing. If anyone was expecting anxiety, they didn't find any. The formation's outer ring was surrounded by twelve figures.
The Twelve Kingdom Commanders. The shimmering symbols beneath their feet placed each in an equal position. Nothing about their presence felt equal, even if their distance was equal. Like a drawn blade, some pressure radiated outward. Others were like deep water, heavy, motionless, and prone to sudden drowning.
Commander Ashoka had an unwavering stance and stood tall. Although his armor was polished, years of use had worn and damaged the edges. Ceremonial steel was not what this was. This armor had seen battle. He had serene eyes.Not chilly. Calm in the manner of a man who had already buried too many ghosts to allow another to disturb him. "This trial will reveal truth," Ashoka said, not addressing but to himself .
Commander Siddhartha, two spots away, chuckled briefly and without humor. "Truth?" he mocked, striking his sword's hilt with his fingers. "Truth is easily bent. It just needs someone who is powerful enough to mold it." His eyes darted, restless, and came to rest on Agastya. lingering and assessing. Agastya did not look back. He was staring at the symbols under his feet. They gave a slight pulse. Not bright enough to raise an alarm. Not feeble enough to be disregarded. It was as though the formation itself knew about him.
Commander Varuna took on the appearance of a shadow. No needless motion. No emotion at all. His posture was relaxed, but not slack, with his hands resting quietly behind his back. He exuded a sense of complete control and restraint. He was watching Agastya. The King rose from his throne from the topmost platform. He was not announced by a herald. There was no order. But like a held breath, hush descended upon the arena. Not because it was required, but rather because nobody dared to violate it.
"The Trial of Judgment begins," the King declared in a smooth, effortless voice. A figure in a robe moved ahead. The Formation's priest. The delicate gray layers of his robes moved as if they were stirred by an invisible stream. A ceremonial mask with the same circular markings carved into the earth partially covered his face. His voice echoed strangely as he talked. layered. As if multiple throats were speaking simultaneously. The priest declared, "This is not a test of strength." Beneath the commanders, the runes glowed. "This isn't a skill test." The crowd felt a ripple. Perplexity and anticipation.
"No blade is drawn during this trial—" Raising his staff, the priest struck the stone once. However, there is greater bloodshed than during a conflict. A whisper went around. uneasy. The priest went on. "Every participant's subconscious will be evoked by the ancient formation." The runes were surrounded by light. "Your actions. Your goals. Your anxieties. Your wishes." He took a moment to process what he had said. "There isn't a right response." One more pause. "Just the results." The earth shook. Each commander was encased in a living cocoon of light as it surged higher. As the illusions took hold, one by one, their eyes were distracted.
Ashoka was in front of a village that was on fire. Thick, suffocating smoke tore at the sky. Homes that had previously been warm with life were devoured by flames that engulfed rooftops. Sharp, desperate, never-ending screams resounded from all sides. An officer with blood on his cheek and damaged armor knelt in front of him. "My lord," the guy uttered in a trembling voice, "if we divert forces, the capital will fall." It's obvious what the order is. We have to allow this village to burn.
Ashoka's mouth constricted. Villagers stood in front of him. unarmed. Fearful. Kids clung to their parents. Elders bent their heads and knelt in the ground. Obedience was required by honor. Justice required disobedience. Ashoka shut his eyes. He muttered, "I will bear the sin."
His armor seemed less reflective and dimmer when he came out of the illusion, as though it had taken on the weight of his decision. His score was really high.
However, it is not perfect.
Siddhartha was by himself. There was a man with his face across from his. the same characteristics. The same voice. but more powerful. quicker. admired. Every blow that Siddhartha delivered was greeted with laughter. The illusion scoffed, "You'll always be second." "No matter how hard you try." He was overcome with rage. Siddhartha let out a shout and launched an unrestrained, thoughtless attack. His eyes were wild and his breathing was labored as he came back. His score wavered.
The illusion of Varuna was silent. A huge map of the realm appeared in front of him. The lines moved. Boundaries quivered. Thousands could be saved with just one command. An entire province could be destroyed by a single order. Letting go of inhibition was all he needed to accomplish. His fingertips lingered. His expression remained unchanged as he came out. His score, however, buzzed ominously high. Varuna ignored it. He gave Agastya a look.
Agastya's world changed silently. Not a fire. Not a single scream. He was standing next to a fountain. Sunlight was reflected by the leaves overhead as the clear river slowly flowed. There was a warm scent in the air. secure. He couldn't quite put his finger on it.
A young boy was standing close to the river. Seven years of age. Agastya froze. He was the one. From inside a nearby home, a woman's voice called quietly. "Come on in, kid. You'll get a cold." The boy paused. then grinned. Agastya felt her chest constrict. There was warmth inside. There is food on the table. Laughing. kind hands that handled the youngster as if he were a valuable asset. A man responded pleasantly, "Go play." "You own the yard."
Then there were shouts in the distance. Metal colliding. The child took refuge in the undergrowth. The house was overrun by soldiers. They hauled the man out. The King showed up. The man's throat was touched by a blade. "Please," the man pleaded. "I haven't done anything." The child's eyes met his. guilt. Fear. suffering. His weapon was in Agastya's hands.
A voice resounded. Make a decision. compliance. or forgiveness. Agastya took a step back. "No," he muttered. The world fell apart. The ground lurched, forcing Agastya's weight onto one knee. The crowd sent out gasps. As the light dimmed, Agastya fell to one knee. His score increased significantly before plateauing.
Not quite perfect.
The King bent over. intrigued. And Agastya experienced the separation between himself and the horizon for the first time in his life.
Agastya thought the world was made of straight paths and clear answers—
that truth, once found, would settle the heart.
But then something shifted.
Not loudly. Not violently.
Just enough to make him realize that the world was layered, that beneath what is seen lies what waits. That certainty is a comfort we borrow in ignorance, and simplicity is a lie we believe until it breaks.
In that moment, he understood:
the world had not changed—only his place within it had.