The Second Riddle

The cavern was still again, lit only by the faint glow of the runes and the not-so-gentle breathing of the enormous reptile that was apparently now my life coach, therapist, and game show host.

The Serpent's golden eyes narrowed as it coiled tighter, head tilting like it could hear my thoughts or worse, judge them.

"You've tasted guilt," it hissed, almost fondly. "Now comes the second poison."

"Oh good," I muttered, "my emotional buffet continues."

Its tongue flicked out once, then twice—like it was savoring my anxiety.

"Let's see how you fare with the second riddle, little priest," the Serpent purred, its voice coiling around my spine like smoke.

I raised a finger, mouth opening—ready to deliver something biting, something witty, something deeply inappropriate for a life-or-death situation.

But I never got the chance.

The runes beneath my feet blazed to life, a blinding gold-white that crackled and surged upward like a tidal wave of light.

"Oh, come on—" was all I managed to shout before the world was yanked out from under me like a rug in the world's worst magic trick.

I braced myself as the same sensation from the first riddle surged through me, because I was falling. Again!

Just like last time, there was no wind, no sensation of weight or velocity—just the eerie feeling of my thoughts unspooling like thread, reality peeling away in soft, shimmering layers.

And then—

Applause.

A thunderous, echoing round of applause erupted around me as my boots touched down on smooth marble. Then I slowly opened my eyes.

Stone gave way to gold. Endless halls of polished marble stretched around me, etched with murals—no, not murals—portraits.

Hold on—Of me?! What in the seven heavenly bodies is going on now?!

For a moment, I couldn't comprehend what the portraits were showing. But as I focused—deliberately, hesitantly—I began to see.

One showed me wielding a staff ablaze with divine power.

In another, I stood over a fallen Valtor like some triumphant hero.

I don't understand, I thought.

And in the last—crowned, cloaked, eyes glowing—I towered above a sea of people bowing at my feet.

"Oh no," I said flatly as realization hit me. "This is my nightmare. I've walked into my own fanfiction."

As I moved forward, the grand hall seemed to stretch infinitely, the echoes of my footsteps bouncing off the marble floors and towering columns. At the center of the room, seated on a throne that exuded an aura of ancient power, was someone who looked strikingly familiar. It wasn't 'me' in the literal sense, but a version of myself that had aged with a grace and authority I could only dream of.

This older, broader-shouldered figure radiated a regal presence, his dark brown hair now streaked with pristine stripes of white, as if he had walked through the corridors of wisdom and emerged with a touch of the divine. His eyes, sharp and discerning, seemed to hold the secrets of countless lifetimes. The way he sat, with perfect posture and an air of unshakable confidence, made it clear that he was a ruler not just by title, but by the very essence of his being. It was as if I were looking at a future self, one who had navigated the trials of life and come out not just unscathed, but transformed into something greater.

He stood slowly, like he'd been expecting me this whole time. His eyes gleamed—light and shadow in perfect balance.

His entire presence screamed confidence. His eyes radiated power and certainty. I hated how his hair was sleeker than mine. His jaw was sharper, too—rude. And he had the kind of smug aura that could make mirrors shatter out of sheer self-importance.

When he finally stood, towering over me and casting dramatic shadows like he rehearsed them in front of a mirror, I noticed how every movement was deliberate, calculated, and even. Then, all of a sudden, he gave me a bow so theatrically smug that my eyes physically hurt. I think I actually winced.

"Welcome, Your Majesty," he said, voice smooth like silk dipped in arrogance.

"...Please don't call me that," I muttered, already feeling like this was going to be worse than the desert.

So much worse. The throne version of me gave a small chuckle, the kind that said 'Oh, you'll understand soon enough, peasant'. Which, again, was me.

So, technically, I just insulted myself?

The Serpent's voice returned—not around me this time, but within me, threading through my thoughts like smoke curling through cracks.

"Weren't you the one asking about shortcuts, little light?" it whispered, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. "In front of you lies the shortcut you were hoping for."

I swallowed hard and blinked twice.

I looked around—not just at how pristine this place was, but at everything. All around me, the chamber shimmered, surreal and surrealer by the second. Clouds swirled above, forming a ceiling made entirely of gold. Literal gold. And then—it began to rain.

Not water. Not fire.

Treasure!

Gleaming coins, goblets encrusted with emeralds, royal regalia that looked like they belonged to unknown gods, not kings. It poured from the heavens like blessings, catching the glow of the room until I was bathed in warm, impossible light. My eyes—traitors that they were—drifted toward it.

"You don't have to continue these ridiculous riddles," the Serpent cooed, its voice honeyed, coaxing. "I could make you king. Now. No more trials. No more burdens. No more doubt."

The chamber swayed. My skin felt too warm, my thoughts too slow, the Serpent's words too reasonable.

I staggered a step forward, dazed. I'd never had wine in the Priesthood of Knowledge—I was too young back then, apparently—but if this was what being drunk felt like, then maybe I was already gone.

"What should I do, then?" I heard myself ask before my brain could even file the question.

The Serpent chuckled. It slithered in front of me, smooth and slow, rising to meet me eye-level.

"You're more powerful than all of them," it said, its voice no longer a hiss, but a silken whisper that wrapped around my thoughts like velvet chains. "Valtor hides behind discipline. Seraph masks his insecurity with laughter. Elara clings to loyalty like a lifeline. Herold fears being forgotten, fading into the backdrop."

My breath caught.

I wanted to protest, to shake it off and roll my eyes like I always did when someone tried to get under my skin. But my tongue stayed still, and so did I.

Because somewhere, deep, deep down—I knew it was working.

Not just the words. The presence. The atmosphere. This place. It was doing something to me.

My mind felt... loose. Like I'd been drinking some sweet, heady wine I never asked for. I was upright, eyes open, lips pressed together—but I didn't feel entirely present. I wasn't steering the ship anymore.

It was subtle, not a takeover, but a nudge. Like the Serpent wasn't taking control, but handing me reins to a chariot I wanted to drive, and whispering where it could take me if I just let go. And a part of me wanted to listen.

Then, it moved closer.

"But you?" the Serpent tilted its head. "You've never belonged. You've clawed your way into a world that was never meant for you. And yet—look where you stand."

I didn't answer. I couldn't.

"Why shouldn't you be the one above them?" it asked, softly now. "They doubted you. Feared you. Mocked you. And yet, you were trying to save them. And it would happen again and again. It never ends."

The Serpent leaned in, its voice slithering into my ear like a secret I was never meant to hear—soft, insidious, and far too seductive.

"They follow you not because they were ordered to," it murmured, each word dripping with silk and venom, "but because deep down... they know they should worship you."

I shivered. Not from cold, but from how right it sounded. How dangerous that rightness felt.

All around me, the chamber pulsed with impossible grandeur—columns of light, golden clouds, treasures spilling like rainfall from the heavens themselves. The throne stood at the heart of it all, high-backed and regal, calling to something deep in my chest I didn't know had a voice.

This could be yours, The room seemed to hum.

And the Serpent? It didn't need to shout, didn't need to demand. It waited—patient, quiet—because it knew. Knew it had already begun to weave its coils around my will. Knew that some small, treacherous part of me was already listening.

My fists curled at my sides before I even realized it. A reflex. A flicker of resistance. But I wasn't sure if I was clenching in defiance... Or desire.

And that? That scared me more than anything.

The Serpent slithered closer, its eyes gleaming with a sick kind of joy. "Why not take the throne, little light?" it coaxed, smooth as wine. "Why not lead them? You could. You will. If you let the others fall away—just for a little while. Just long enough to rise."

My lips parted. "No," I said—barely a whisper. Not brave. Not defiant. Just there.

"No?" the Serpent echoed, its grin widening. "You've saved them. Protected them. Outshone them. You've proven yourself again and again. You deserve the crown. Not by birth, but by force of will. Through pain. Through sacrifice. Through power."

It circled me now, slow and methodical, voice low and near-ecstatic. "Why shouldn't they kneel to you?"

My throat tightened. "Because I didn't come here just to rule."

It stopped. The stillness was thunderous.

"No," it said finally, the word like a hook through my heart. "You came here... to hide. Don't you?"

That silence hit harder than any scream. Worse than any monster.

"Hide behind your guilt. Behind your duties. Behind clever words and old grief," it hissed. "But deep down, you want it. The crown. The glory. The power. Admit it."

I didn't answer.

I couldn't.

Because I was looking past the Serpent now—past the golden illusion, past the applause, past the empty throne, past my future self.

To the portraits, where I stood taller than everyone else. Where I ruled alone. Where no one questioned, and no one stayed beside me.

And for a moment, I felt it.

That dangerous thrill.

That spark of what if.

The one that said, maybe this isn't so wrong.

But then—

I thought of Seraph—laughing with his mouth full, throwing lightning just to impress squirrels. Loyal, ridiculous, brilliant Seraph. His laughter was infectious, his antics endearing, and his loyalty unwavering. He had a way of making the mundane magical, turning every moment into an adventure. Seraph was the spark that ignited our group, always ready to leap into action with a grin and a wild idea.

Then there was Elara, always calm, always there—my anchor when I drifted too far from who I wanted to become someday. She was my friend, the most caring one I've ever had. Her presence was a soothing balm, her wisdom a guiding light. Elara had a quiet strength that grounded me, her gentle words and steady gaze reminding me of my true self when I felt lost. She was the heart of our group, the one who held us together with her unwavering support.

Herold, whose illusions masked the sharpest truths I've ever known. The one who saw through everything, yet never left. His ability to weave illusions was unmatched, but it was his insight that truly set him apart. Herold could see through the facades we all wore, revealing the truths we often hid from ourselves. Despite his piercing gaze, he remained a steadfast companion, never judging, always understanding. He was the mind of our group, the one who challenged us to see beyond the surface.

And then there was Valtor. Infuriating, flawless, impossible Valtor. Who challenged me. Who matched me. Who saw me. Always at my side, even when I wished he wasn't. Valtor was the mirror to my soul, reflecting my strengths and weaknesses with unflinching clarity. His perfection was maddening, his presence a constant reminder of the heights I could reach. Yet, he stayed because he, too, wanted to understand me. And I think he was the fire that tried to forge me, to push me to become better, stronger, more than I ever thought possible.

I barely knew them, but they slowly changed my perspective about the Royal Court. Each of them brought something unique to the table, their personalities and strengths weaving together to form a tapestry of camaraderie and growth. There was so much more to learn, and I was eager to uncover the depths of their characters and the knowledge that the Royal Court holds.

"I don't need to be above them," I said, my voice low but steady, like it had taken root again. "I need to stand with them."

I met the Serpent's eyes—if they could be called that—without flinching. My voice didn't tremble. My resolve had never felt clearer.

"And the answer to your riddle," I said, "is Pride."

The Serpent reared back, visibly startled. For the first time since entering this strange, golden trial, it faltered.

It hissed, confused. "But... I didn't even ask the question. I never gave you a riddle."

I tilted my head, calm. "You didn't need to. This—" I gestured around the room, to the throne, the illusions of grandeur, the golden sky, the crown waiting to fall upon my brow, "was the riddle."

I stepped forward, steady.

"And I've already seen the answer play out before me."

The Serpent went quiet, as if listening.

"You tried to tempt me with power. With the idea that I was better than them. That I deserved more. But what you don't understand," I said, voice gaining strength, "is that this past week—my first week as a crowned heir of Valerya—hasn't been a story of me rising alone."

I thought of the mission we were sent to. The long nights. The danger. The way we moved, together.

"I barely knew them at the start," I admitted. "But during this expedition, I watched them—how they functioned, not as competitors, not as obstacles, but as people. As equals. We didn't need to force leadership or dominance. We didn't have to take pride in who led or who followed. We adapted. We listened."

My voice softened.

"Even Valtor—God, especially Valtor—who never lets a moment go by without commanding the room. I used to think it was arrogance. But now I see it was conviction. His constant reminders, his urgency... he never forgot our mission. And that kept me focused."

I smiled, a real one, a tired one.

"It humbles me. How capable they are. How they fight. How they care. Even when no one's watching. Even when no one's there to praise them."

The Serpent slithered in place, twitching slightly—tense, uncertain.

"I'm proud of what I've done," I admitted. "But I don't take pride in it. Not in the way you wanted me to. Because I didn't do it alone. And I don't want to rise above them. I want to rise with them. To learn with them. To become better because of them."

I took a deep breath and looked the Serpent dead-on.

"You said I came here to hide. But that's not true. I came here to understand. To help build something stronger. Not just for myself, but for the Kingdom of Valerya. For the people who live in its shadow. For the justice I've spent my entire life seeking."

The chamber dimmed slightly, as if the illusion was tiring.

"And you were wrong about me," I said. "Yes, I have pride. But that's not what anchors me."

I stepped closer, unshaken.

"It's my humility. My ability to see what I lack. To ask for help. To admit I'm not enough—yet. And my hope? Is that they'll help me become someone who is. Not for power. Not for glory. But because we owe it to those who can't stand here and speak for themselves."

A beat of silence followed. A heavy one.

Then I finished, voice unwavering.

"That's why I won this trial. Not because I denied pride, but because I understood it."

And for the first time, the huge reptile had no reply, and it looked ridiculous.