The Third Riddle

The platform split open beneath me!

I didn't even have time to scream!

The air punched out of my lungs as I plummeted into the void, arms flailing like a confused squirrel. And let me tell you—free-falling into magical darkness? Zero out of ten. Do not recommend!

No visions. No dreamscape illusions. Just stone, gravity, and the sinking realization that the laws of physics were, in fact, still a thing down here.

When I landed—hard—on ground so cold it might've been judging me—I made a sound I'm ninety percent sure only dying whales can replicate. Then, every rib, every bone, every stubborn inch of my spine lit up with pain like, "Hey! Remember us? We exist!"

I groaned and rolled onto my side, coughing and gasping and maybe sobbing a little with dignity, obviously.

I looked up. The platform above me? Gone.

And then—because the universe is nothing if not dramatic—the torches lit themselves, one by one, like I'd walked into a haunted opera house that wanted to set the mood before murdering me.

"Great," I muttered. "Fantastic. Mysterious cave lighting. That's never gone badly for anyone in the history of ever."

I pulled myself to my feet, boots skidding slightly on damp, moss-stained stone. Everything smelled old and forgotten. Like an ancient tomb plus wet socks. Not a great combo.

What is wrong with this place? I thought brushing dust off my sleeve like that would somehow help.

I waited for the Serpent's voice. Expected it, actually. Some smug hiss. A snide, "Welcome to your doom, little heir." But... nothing.

Just silence.

Which, frankly, was worse.

And then—because my life is basically one giant horror story—the walls began to move.

Not crumble. Not shake. No, that would've been too normal. They rippled! Like someone had dunked the hallway in water.

My heart thudded once—loud enough for me to hear—and I just stared. And then the walls breathed.

Faces.

Dozens. Hundreds. Pressing out from the stone like souls caught in a very enthusiastic rug. Their features stretched beneath the surface—eyes wide, mouths open in silent screams, like they were trying to claw their way out but forgot how hands work.

Some wore royal garb. Other robes. And one had my hair.

"What the..." I whispered because when confronted with supernatural horror, eloquence is optional.

The hallway pulsed again.

A long, guttural groan echoed down the corridor, rising from the walls themselves. It wasn't just sound. It was breath. Like the stone had lungs. Like the mountain was alive and exhaling around me.

That's when I heard it—the clank.

Metal, slow and deliberate. A sound carved from cathedrals and soaked in battlefield blood. Reverent. Deadly. Final.

I spun toward the far end of the hallway.

I couldn't see anything—not at first. Just flame-lit stone and shadow. But I felt it. Like a ripple in the magic, like gravity leaning forward.

Something was coming.

And then it stepped into the torchlight.

A knight.

No—not a knight.

A relic. A revenant. A curse bound in armor.

Its plating was rusted and blackened like dried blood, edges jagged, runes glowing faintly along its chest and limbs, pulsing with sickly red light. Its helmet bore no eye slits. No mouth. Just a blank, obsidian void. A mirror for a soul that no longer existed.

And it ran at me.

The air warped as it moved, dragging shadows behind it like a shroud.

I barely dodged. Its sword cleaved through the space where my head had been a heartbeat before. Sparks burst behind me as metal screamed into stone.

I staggered back, nearly falling.

What was this thing? A guardian of the riddle? A punishment for daring to survive the last?

The knight turned. Its presence pressed down on me like a memory too heavy to bear. Its blade trembled with restrained rage—not its own, I realized. Mine.

The corridor pulsed again. The walls cried out silently, faces straining against the surface like hands against glass. All the while, the knight advanced.

I didn't think—I reached inside.

Toward the light. The darkness. Whatever it was that made me... me.

The power surged.

And I feared—just for a breath—that it would consume me. That it would crack my ribs open and spill everything I was into the dust.

But it didn't.

It rose with me.

Not like fire devouring wood. Like a sword finding its sheath.

My hand lifted. The magic surged up my spine, across my chest, down my arm. Into my breath. Into my words.

Not in the language of the old priests. Not in forgotten incantations whispered in candlelight.

This was mine.

"Blade of shadow, light and wrath... Accerso ensis lumen noctis!"

The corridor shook.

Air split apart with a thunderclap.

Light blazed to life in my grip, coalescing into the shape of a sword—long, double-edged, seething at the seams. The blade was forged of both dawn and eclipse. Flame flickered along its edges like a heartbeat. The hilt fit my hand perfectly, like it had always been waiting for me to claim it.

The knight lunged again, faster this time.

But now, I was ready.

Our blades collided. Sparks flared. My arms shuddered from the impact, but I held my ground. I twisted, ducked under its guard, then pivoted hard.

And drove the sword straight into the knight's chest.

Its armor cracked. The runes flared—once.

Then died.

The knight staggered backward, collapsing to its knees.

Ash poured from its wounds. From its helmet. From its soul.

Until nothing remained but a hollow suit and the echo of war.

I stood over it, panting. My sword was still in hand. My heart is trying to remember how to beat normally.

The corridor was still again.

The hallway pulsed again. I took a cautious step forward, half-expecting the ground to dissolve into lava or teeth. At this point, either seemed plausible.

But the stone held. The torches flared brighter, guiding me deeper into the dark.

That's when I heard it—laughter.

Not the Serpent's. No hissing, no slithering smugness. This was... warmer. Lighter. Familiar.

Wait, is it mine? I froze.

The laughter echoed, bouncing from the walls like it was trying to mock me and comfort me at the same time. I followed it without meaning to, drawn forward like a moth to a very suspicious flame.

Then the hallway opened.

One blink, I was in the corridor. The next—I was standing in a great chamber.

Gold shimmered across the floor in intricate patterns. Pillars reached toward a ceiling I couldn't see, draped in velvet banners and threadbare silks. A banquet table stretched across the room, overloaded with food, jewels, and goblets that seemed to refill themselves with every blink.

And seated around it... were nobles.

Not quite real. Not quite an illusion. Their bodies flickered like candlelight, translucent and faded—but their hunger? That was solid. Their hands gripped everything—goblets, gold coins, rings—like they were afraid someone would take them away. They laughed, mouths smeared with wine and oil, their eyes hollow and desperate. A man shoved another aside for a better seat. A woman stabbed a fork into someone's hand for the last piece of roast.

No one flinched. They just kept gorging.

Their faces looked familiar, too. From paintings in the palace. From portraits in books. They were the ones who ruled before—kings, queens, lords.

Heroes, supposedly.

A reflection flickered across the polished floor.

Someone was standing at the head of the table.

Someone wearing black and silver robes. A pendant shaped like a sun and moon rested against his chest.

Me.

I blinked.

He—I—turned, slowly. Smiled. But it wasn't my smile.

It was too polished. Too cold. It didn't reach the eyes.

"You made it," he said, voice like mine but deeper. Sharper. "Took you long enough."

"I don't know what this is," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "But you're not me."

He tilted his head. "Aren't I?"

The nobles didn't seem to notice us. They kept eating. Clawing. Laughing.

"You're smarter than them," he continued, gesturing lazily to the table. "You see it, don't you? They want everything. Power, control, legacy. And when they couldn't get it... they passed it on. To people like us."

He stepped closer. The air grew colder.

"They never asked what you wanted, did they? They never gave. They just named you. Threw you into their legacy and said, 'Here, bear it.' And now you do. But why carry something if you could claim it?"

I clenched my fists. "I didn't ask for any of this."

"No," he said. "But you kept it. That's what matters."

He lifted his hand. A sword shimmered into it—just like mine. Light and shadow, flame-edged. A mirror made real.

"I'm not here to take anything from you," he said.

Then his smile sharpened.

"I'm here to see if you're ready to take it for yourself."

He lunged.

I barely had time to react.

He moved like I did—no, faster than I ever had. His sword was already in motion, arcing toward me in a silver flash. I twisted, the blade grazing my shoulder with a heat that singed through my jacket and into flesh. I stumbled back, breath ragged.

He didn't press the attack.

Just smiled.

"Come on," he said. "You're not going to let yourself win that easily, are you?"

I didn't answer. My hand burned as I lifted my own sword. The same flash of energy, the same weight in my grip. But this time, it felt heavier. Like it knew what I was about to fight.

"You're not real," I muttered. "You're a spell. A trick."

He circled me slowly. "I'm everything you've hidden under your clever little thoughts. All that judgment you throw at the others? That noble act? You wear it like a mask. But deep down, you want it too."

I swung.

He blocked it with ease.

Steel rang in the chamber like a bell tolling judgment.

We clashed again and again. Our blades struck sparks, shadows dancing along the golden floor. Each strike revealed more of him—his posture perfect, too confident, too clean. No pain in his eyes. No doubt. Just a version of me who knew exactly what he wanted and had stopped asking if it was right.

"You could rule," he whispered as our swords locked. "Not just survive. Not just serve. Rule. They'd all kneel. Even him."

He meant Valtor.

That made me angry.

I shoved forward, broke the lock, and swept my blade low. He jumped, spun, and landed behind me. I felt the heat of his breath.

"You don't get it," I said. "I don't want a throne."

"You're lying."

"I don't care about legacy."

"You do."

"I care about—"

I stopped.

My blade faltered.

He tilted his head again, curious.

"About what, Aric?"

I looked at him.

And for just a moment... I saw the same tired weight in his shoulders that I carried every day. The same scars on his hands. The same flicker of something uncertain in his eyes. Just buried deep.

I didn't answer him with words.

I moved.

I dropped low, feinted right, and with a roar, brought my sword up—not to kill—but to knock his blade aside and slam the hilt into his chest.

He staggered.

I followed through, slamming him to the ground, pinning him there. Our eyes met—mine wide with breathless disbelief, his finally... still.

"Maybe you are part of me," I said. "But I get to choose who I become."

The gold flickered.

The nobles stopped laughing.

And the version of me beneath my sword dissolved—smoke curling away like a bad memory, finally let go.

I stood in the silence. Alone.

The banquet faded. The chamber cracked. The floor groaned beneath my boots.

And far above—so faint I could've imagined it—I heard the Serpent laugh.

Low. And pleased.

The silence after the illusion broke was heavier than any scream.

I stood still in the empty chamber, my blade dimming to embers in my hand, and for the first time since the Serpent dragged me into this nightmare, I wasn't afraid.

I was thinking.

The Serpent hadn't returned—not yet. But I knew better than to believe this was over. It was watching. It always was.

And as I breathed, piecing together the scattered remnants of the riddles, I began to understand what this was. What was all of this was.

These weren't just riddles or trials, I knew that since then. And I knew that they were traps.

Twisted riddles, not meant to be solved but to lure me away from myself. From truth. Not the kind written in ancient stone or buried in some forgotten ruin—but my truth.

I sat down—just for a moment—on the cool, cracked stone, and went through them one by one.

The first riddle was Guilt.

It wasn't about monsters or visions. It was about dragging me backward—back to Varethiel. To that terrible day, when everything fell apart. When I ran, when I couldn't save them. The Serpent knew what it was doing. It wanted me to unravel under the weight of memory. To believe that my past was my prison. That the guilt I carried was too heavy to move forward.

But I had moved forward.

I didn't forget them. I never would. But I wouldn't let sorrow chain me. That was the answer, wasn't it? Not to let guilt define me, but to remember it... and keep walking.

The second riddle was Pride.

It felt so much easier than the first. Too easy.

The Serpent tempted me not with fear—but with praise. It let me see my own rise: from the boy who scrubbed temple floors and translated dusty scripts, to a prince crowned before nobles who scoffed at my name. It fed me compliments like honey, just sweet enough to forget the poison underneath.

Because pride feels good.

It wants you to stand tall—but only so you don't notice how far you've drifted from humility.

If I'd accepted that trial's flattery without question, I'd start thinking I deserved this crown more than the others. That I'd earned the right to lead alone.

That kind of thinking?

It ruins kingdoms.

And the third...

I stood again, brushing dust from my coat as I turned my eyes to the spot where my reflection had vanished.

The third riddle... was a lie dressed as light.

The Serpent said that if ever I win this, it will give me the answer. Just one. Not all. Truth is like fire, too much and it burns. But a flicker? A flicker can light my way.

I almost believed that.

I thought chasing the truth—any truth—was noble. That if I dug deep enough, I'd find the answers I needed: about the shadows, about the Priesthood, about me. But that was the trick.

It wasn't offering the truth.

It was feeding obsession.

That twisted version of me, the banquet, the nobles clawing at gold and jewels—it wasn't just about wealth or power. It was about the hunger behind them. The hunger for more. More knowledge. More power. More control. More meaning.

The Serpent wanted me to spiral.

To forget why we came to these mountains at all.

Our mission wasn't personal. It was for the kingdom. To uncover the truth behind the disturbances—yes. But not to reclaim my past. Not to answer every question that's haunted me.

Because if I chase only what I want to know, I'll lose what I need to protect.

The Kingdom of Valerya.

I clenched my fists, grounding myself.

"I'm not only here to chase shadows of myself," I whispered into the darkness. "I'm here to stop whatever's threatening our people. That's the truth I choose."

The Serpent did not reply.

But the air shifted—barely.

Like it had heard.

And for the first time... it didn't mock me.

It waited.