The Hidden Relic of the Trickster (III)

Chapter 17: The Hidden Relic of the Trickster (III)

The Trial of the Forgotten Path

Darkness swallowed the chamber.

For a moment, there was nothing—no sound, no light, no sensation beyond the weight of the stone fragment in Noctis's hand. It was an abyss, vast and absolute, stretching beyond the vault, beyond the physical world itself.

Then, the whisper returned.

"You would seek what was hidden... but do you understand what it means to see?"

Noctis felt the world tilt beneath him. His mind reeled, his body untethered, as though the very concept of space had unraveled. A cold wind—impossible in the sealed chamber—brushed against his skin, carrying the scent of something ancient, something forgotten.

Then, light.

Not from the torches, not from anything tangible, but a dim, flickering glow that revealed shapes forming in the darkness. Shadows coalesced into something more than mere absence—jagged ruins, broken pillars, and an expanse of shattered stone stretching endlessly into a void.

The ruined temple.

Noctis exhaled sharply, his pulse steady despite the strangeness. He recognized these ruins from his research, from the stolen texts and whispered legends. The Trickster's last known sanctuary, the place where his presence had been erased from history.

He turned, scanning his surroundings. Though the temple was fragmented, its foundations lost to time, the weight of something powerful still clung to the stones. And at the heart of it, atop a crumbling altar, sat the rest of the artifact—a larger, unbroken form of the fragment he held.

And between him and the prize…

A figure stood waiting.

Noctis's eyes narrowed as the form took shape—a silhouette shifting between identities, never settling on a single appearance. At one moment, it was a regal noble draped in finery; in the next, a cloaked rogue, a scholar, a beggar, a soldier. Faces flickered in and out of existence, too fast to grasp, yet each felt as real as his own.

Then, the figure stilled.

And from the shifting mass, a single presence emerged—golden eyes gleaming with amusement beneath a shadowed hood. A smile, knowing and sharp, curled the Trickster's lips.

"You are persistent," the god mused, voice rich with humor. "Most would have turned back by now. Most would have known better."

Noctis remained motionless. "Most are fools. They do not understand the value of what was lost."

The Trickster's gaze flickered, interest sparking in those too-bright eyes. "And you do?"

Noctis lifted the fragment in his palm. "I understand that history does not forget on its own. That power is never truly lost—only buried. And that those who dare to dig must be willing to pay the price."

Silence stretched between them.

Then, the Trickster laughed.

It was not cruel, nor was it kind. It was simply laughter—genuine, delighted, as though Noctis had just performed a trick of his own.

"Clever," the god admitted, tilting his head. "But knowing the cost is not the same as being willing to pay it."

The air around them shifted. The temple darkened, the edges of the vision fraying like ink bleeding into parchment. The fragment in Noctis's grasp burned cold.

The test was not over.

"Tell me, little heir of shadows," the Trickster murmured, stepping closer. "What is it you seek? The relic? Power? Or something more?"

Noctis met the god's gaze unflinchingly. "Knowledge."

A pause.

A slow smile. "Dangerous."

Noctis did not look away. "So is ignorance."

The Trickster regarded him for a long moment. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the god gestured toward the altar.

"Then prove yourself."

The relic pulsed with power, waiting. But as Noctis stepped forward, the ruins around him came alive. Shadows coiled, taking shape—figures emerging from the darkness.

Noctis's breath slowed as he recognized them.

Figures from history. From myth. From legend.

The enemies of the Trickster. The ones who had erased him.

And they were watching. Waiting.

The challenge had begun.

Noctis had known this would not be simple. The Trickster did not give. He challenged, he toyed, he tested.

And if Noctis had come seeking his favor, he would have to earn it.

A snap of fingers.

The space around them shifted again.

The ground beneath Noctis's feet moved, the obsidian splitting into a series of floating platforms suspended over a yawning abyss. The stars in the fractured sky above seemed to shift and swirl, forming runes he could not read.

"This," the Trickster said lazily, "is the Forgotten Path. A place between places. A test of wit and will."

The platforms stretched before Noctis, leading into the distance where a faint, flickering light awaited. But something felt wrong. The air between the stones shimmered, and the moment Noctis stepped closer, he saw why.

The path was not stable.

The platforms flickered, some vanishing and reappearing at random. Others twisted, shifting direction when not observed directly. The rules of movement were erratic, unpredictable.

Noctis did not hesitate.

The Trickster would not grant him the luxury of time.

His eyes flickered across the shifting platforms, cataloging their erratic movement, their flickering instability. Patterns existed in everything, no matter how chaotic they seemed. It was only a matter of finding them before they found him.

The first step was easy. A single leap onto the nearest platform, which remained solid beneath his feet. The second, less so. The stone pulsed beneath him, and a fraction of a second later, it vanished, reappearing two spaces ahead.

A trap.

Noctis pushed forward, letting instinct take over. He jumped as the platform beneath him flickered out of existence, landing on the next—only for it to tilt sharply beneath his weight. His muscles tensed as he readjusted, balancing on the edge of oblivion.

Laughter echoed in the distance.

"You are quicker than most," the Trickster mused, his voice curling around the space like smoke. "But I wonder—are you quick enough?"

The platforms shifted again. Their movements were no longer random; they were reacting to him.

Noctis's lips pressed into a thin line.

A game, then.

He crouched, studying the way the stones blinked in and out of existence. They weren't simply appearing elsewhere—they were rearranging themselves. He had assumed they followed their own patterns, but now he saw it. They followed his.

Every step he took altered the layout.

It was not just a path—it was a puzzle.

If movement altered the platforms, then the key was not to chase stability, but to force it.

Noctis exhaled, shifting his approach. Instead of moving forward blindly, he took a step back. The platform beneath him shuddered, hesitating as if confused.

Interesting.

He stepped sideways. Another flicker, another hesitation.

A grin ghosted across Noctis's lips.

The Trickster had crafted a game of misdirection, but Noctis knew misdirection better than most. The fastest way forward was not to move forward at all.

Noctis twisted suddenly, jumping toward an empty space.

The Trickster's eyes gleamed with interest as, just before Noctis fell, a platform materialized beneath him.

A laugh. Low, knowing.

"Ah," the god murmured. "Now you understand."

The path was a lie. A trick of perception. If he anticipated its shifts, if he manipulated it before it manipulated him, he could force the platforms to appear where he needed them.

Noctis continued forward, no longer reacting but controlling. A step in the wrong direction to make the right one appear. A pause to disrupt the rhythm. A deliberate misstep to force stability.

The once-unpredictable path became a map only he could read.

At one point, a platform flickered beneath his feet, threatening to vanish. He anticipated the shift and adjusted his stance just in time, using the momentum to propel himself forward.

He was close now. The final platform lay just ahead, the flickering light glowing faintly beyond.

Then, the Trickster spoke.

"One last step."

A whisper of power curled through the air.

And suddenly, every platform vanished.

Noctis did not think.

He acted.

His mind seized the fragments of logic he had unraveled, the shifting nature of the realm, the way the Trickster's domain bent around perception.

The path was never real.

Not in the way the mortal mind perceived it.

It was about belief.

So he did not fall.

He stepped forward—onto empty air.

And the world caught him.

The light surged.

And then, at last, he reached the final platform.

A single bridge extended to the altar at the end of the path. The flickering light Noctis had seen before was no longer distant—it was waiting.

Noctis stepped forward, but the Trickster's voice halted him.

"You learned quickly," the god mused. "But tell me, little heir of shadows—did you ever wonder what this path was meant to forget?"

The fractured sky pulsed. The runes above shifted.

And suddenly, Noctis saw them.

The reflections.

In the smooth obsidian beneath his feet, shadows moved. Not his own. Not tricks of the light. They were watching.

Noctis turned sharply, his mind racing. The Forgotten Path. A place between places. A test of wit and will.

But the Trickster did not test without purpose.

"What did you hide here?" Noctis asked, voice calm but sharp.

The Trickster only smiled. "What did I lose?"

The runes pulsed again. The reflections stirred.

And Noctis understood.

This was more than a trial. It was a prison.

The shifting platforms were not just a challenge—they were a barrier. A maze meant to keep something contained. A puzzle designed to make anyone who entered focus on the game, not what lay beneath it.

Noctis looked down.

The reflections no longer copied his movements.

They were waiting.

Waiting for someone to reach the end. Waiting for someone to open the door.

And Noctis had just found the key.

A Trick of Fate

He turned back to the Trickster, whose expression was unreadable.

"You never intended for me to win," Noctis said.

The god chuckled. "Didn't I?"

A pause. A heartbeat of silence.

Then, the light at the end of the path pulsed.

And the shadows rose.

The Forgotten were waking.