Chapter 4: The Cursed Invitation, Prison of Sand and Secrets (PART 4)

The Cradle did not sleep.

Even after the shattering of reflections and the reassembly of memory, the glass citadel at the centre of the maze continued to pulse like a sentient thing—breathing through corridors and shadows, whispering echoes of truths long buried. The arena they now stood within was unlike anything found in the waking world. It was formed of clarity, not merely in structure but in intent—a crucible built to test not flesh or sword, but the very architecture of soul and lineage.

The floor beneath Lysander's boots was smooth crystal, almost frictionless, etched in runes that shimmered with silver-blue light. They traced out not words, but flowing lines—ancestral calligraphy that predated language. He recognized the shapes not through study, but through blood. His palm itched where the twin-winged crescent had once flared. The resonance was back. Stronger than before. Louder.

He turned slightly. Across the vast reflective floor, Seraphine stood with Mira beside her, one hand protectively resting on the girl's shoulder. Their features mirrored in the crystal beneath them were slightly offset, as though the Cradle refused to replicate truth in perfect form. The air hummed between them—an almost imperceptible tension, like the breath before a verdict.

"I didn't think we'd meet again so soon," Seraphine murmured, her voice too calm, too still. But the tremor in her fingers betrayed what the tone did not.

Lysander offered no smile in return. "Neither did I."

Above them, the dome of the arena shimmered and convulsed—fracturing into a radial bloom of prismatic veins, like light refracted through an ancient lens. Glyphs spun into visibility, then vanished. A thousand mirrored panels rotated one by one, until they aligned into a single eye overhead: the sigil of judgment.

The Eye of Law.

And it blinked.

Lysander drew his sword. Not in threat—but in ritual. The blade burned cold in his hand, its edge tinged with frost and black flame both. It was the same sword that had witnessed the unravelling of Veylan. The same one that had sliced through lies layered over memory.

But here, it felt... heavy. Not with weight, but with significance.

The Cradle accepted its presence. And responded.

A voice—not Seraphine's, not Mira's, and not his own—filled the space.

"Who claims their truth?"

It came from nowhere and everywhere. Not just a sound, but a pressure behind the eardrums. A voice etched into the structure of the space, the question older than the court it mimicked.

Lysander stepped forward.

"I do."

The Eye pulsed.

"State your lineage."

He hesitated. Not from doubt. From knowing the answer now bore consequences.

"I am Lysander of the Hollow Crown. Blood of Azrael. Flame-born. Descendant of the broken pact."

The floor beneath him glowed, a sigil lighting up in full beneath his feet. Twin wings. A crown of thorns. A serpent's coil. The glyph was both alien and familiar, as if it had always waited for someone who could stand within it and not break.

"State your grievance."

This time, his voice carried force.

"My people were erased. My memories altered. My inheritance is sealed behind lies and courts that rewrite history in blood and silence. I claim what was stolen. I seek the truth they buried. And I will tear down what was built on our bones."

The light spread from his feet, running toward the dais at the centre of the room, coiling around its base like a binding spell being undone.

Then came the second voice.

"I answer the claim."

Seraphine.

Her hand had never left Mira's shoulder. But now she stepped forward, eyes locked on Lysander—not with hostility, but something harder to parse. Resolve. Pain. Recognition.

"I, Seraphine of the House Val, last of the Flame Garden line, bearer of the Broken Sigil and child of the court, invoke my right to counter-claim."

The floor beneath her lit up. But instead of the demon glyphs, it pulsed with celestial script—softer, almost musical, forming petal-shaped patterns that radiated outward like a lotus blooming on crystal.

"On what grounds?" the Cradle asked.

"On the grounds that his truth is incomplete. That his grievance, while justified, does not absolve what was also lost by the blood I carry."

A long silence followed. The mirrored arena held its breath. Even Mira froze, eyes wide, flicking between them.

Lysander's voice came low and cold. "You're saying I'm wrong?"

"No," she replied, stepping onto the same plane. "I'm saying you're not the only one who lost everything."

They stood now less than ten paces apart. Their reflections on the mirrored floor had begun to blur—not into one, but into many. Countless versions of them echoed in all directions. One pair stood as lovers. Another as enemies. One bled. Another reached for each other. Another died in mirrored flame.

The Cradle was not showing possibilities.

It was showing outcomes.

All of them.

Mira whimpered and dropped to her knees. She clutched the jade pendant to her chest, eyes scrunched shut. But the reflections didn't leave her alone. They grew sharper. Mira standing on a throne. Mira lying in a bloodied field. Mira screamed with the same eyes her mother had died wearing.

The Cradle did not spare children. It did not coddle heirs. It simply remembered.

Lysander's voice broke the stillness.

"Then speak your truth."

Seraphine stepped forward, and the pendant at Mira's chest pulsed once. Her voice was softer now. But firmer. It struck deeper than any blade.

"You think I served the Celestial Court. That I was raised by them, protected by them. You're wrong. I was imprisoned by them. Trained to kill what I used to love. Taught that my sister died a traitor. That my blood was poison. And I believed them—until I saw you. Until I saw your fire burn like hers did."

Lysander stared. "Then why lie? Why hide?"

She took another step. "Because truth doesn't heal. It destroys first. I wasn't ready for that. But I am now."

The Eye overhead pulsed again.

The voice returned. "Then let the Cradle bear witness."

Without warning, the centre of the arena split open—not with force, but with seamless grace. From beneath the mirrored floor, a pillar rose. Upon it sat a cube of glass—perfectly clear, humming with contained energy. Within it, memory swirled like smoke sealed in crystal.

A repository.

The Cradle's final test.

The cube rotated slowly.

"One may offer truth. One must bear it."

Lysander moved toward it.

So did Seraphine.

And Mira stepped between them.

"I'll take it."

Both froze.

The girl's eyes were no longer afraid. They glowed—soft gold, with flecks of mirrored violet. The pendant at her chest shimmered, lines of celestial and demon script forming a braid of sigils across her skin.

"I carry both truths," she said. "Let me show what neither of you can."

The cube pulsed.

And accepted her.

A beam of light erupted from its core, swallowing her whole. Memory flared—not in images, but in emotions. Loss. Fury. Hope. Guilt.

As Mira vanished into the core's light, a secondary pulse lanced outward—arcing toward Seraphine.

She cried out, collapsing to one knee.

When the glow receded, a symbol had seared itself onto her throat—pale silver and unmistakable.

The Eye of Law.

She touched it, breath sharp. "No… I'm not one of them…"

But the Cradle knew better. It had judged her blood already.

Threads of two bloodlines unravelling and tangling again.

As the Cradle's light dimmed for a moment, the centre platform shifted. A crime scene unfolded—an illusion yet tangible.

A figure lay crumpled on the glass: a horned noble, runes carved across their neck, sigils of fire branded onto their back. The wounds were too precise.

Lysander stared in frozen recognition. This was no generic illusion. The execution style—the marks—it matched the rebellion files he'd studied. The massacre that ended Azrael's reign.

"This is... the King's inner circle," he whispered.

Grendel's laughter echoed. "Oh yes. Your trial is merely a rerun. But don't worry—this time, you get to solve it."

The arena trembled.

And above, the Eye of Law split.

It did not shatter.

It opened.

And within, behind the lens of judgment itself, the face of Vex smiled.

Not physically. Not yet. But through the Cradle's mechanism. A sliver of his will embedded in its very bones.

A voice echoed. Not the Cradle's this time. But his.

"Well done, little heir. Now that you remember… let's see if you survive what comes next."

Grendel's voice rose above the chaos, low but unshakable.

"You thought this was a copy?" he said, lips curled into a crooked smile. "Some simulation of a war long past?"

He stepped into the centre of the arena as if the ghosts themselves parted for him.

"No. This isn't an echo. This is the original. Vex's masterpiece. His memory prison. Everything you've forgotten—every life rewritten—started here."

And now, the doors had reopened.

The cube shattered.

Mira collapsed.

And from every mirrored wall, a reflection stepped forward.

Not illusions.

Not ghosts.

But pasts have given shape.

All of them were armed.

All of them were angry.

And the true trial began.