“You saved him,” said Leonis without hesitation.
“Of course.”
“Mine…” The big man sighed and leaned back in his chair, causing the wood to creak. “I was at a massive coliseum. Tens of thousands of people in the stands, the nobility and royal family gathered under purple awnings. My uncle was on the sands below. He wore a copy of my father’s armor. The armor of the king. I’d just learned that my father had died on campaign. I was to inherit the throne, but my uncle defied me. Called me weak, called me soft, and began the ceremony before the people of our capital city to anoint himself in my place.”
Neither Scorio nor Lianshi spoke. Leonis’s gaze had turned inward.
“My councilors urged me to allow the spectacle to take place, told me that it was a hollow gesture with no legal standing. That we would have him arrested when he left the coliseum and tried for treason. And I could tell they were correct. But I also knew that I’d lose the respect of the people. I had to decide in that moment what to do: wait and crush him later, or challenge him there and then. My mother…”
Leonis’s voice trailed off, and he frowned. He thought for a moment, then continued briskly.
“So I descended to the sands and challenged him to trial by combat, which was what he’d hoped for.”
“His plan was to trick you into a fight?” Lianshi’s tone was skeptical. “I’d like to see the man who’d think that was a good idea.”
Leonis’s smile was wistful, sad. “I was only twelve.”
Lianshi blanched and jerked back as if struck.
“He was my favorite uncle. But he faced me across the sands and did his level best to kill me before our family, our friends, our people. I slew him, and Nezzar appeared to me, marking me the true king.”
“Damn,” whispered Scorio. “That feels similar to my trial. A question of heart and loyalty over… I don’t quite know how to put it.”
“Calculation,” said Lianshi softly. “Rationality, perhaps. Logic.”
Scorio nodded slowly. “And we both ended up with a close-quarters power. My claws, your Nezzar.”
“What of you, Lianshi?” asked Leonis. “You don’t have to share if you want. But did your trial fit the same mold?”
“It did,” she said and lowered her gaze suddenly to her fingers, which were pulling golden threads from one of the cushions.
“And your ability is also close-quarters,” said Scorio. “True invulnerability. A physical power. So if we’d picked otherwise? Gone with the more… calculated option?”
“Those who make that choice develop ranged powers,” said Lianshi softly. “Such as Hera’s turrets, or Feng’s cone of slowness. Seems to be rarer, though.”
“Ravenna’s ability to hurl rocks,” said Scorio, and a frisson of excitement washed over him. “Which would mean she picked the rational, calculating option in her trial. Which reveals something of her nature.”
“Massamach’s cratering attack,” added Leonis. “Which is strange. Given his size and power, I always felt like he was a more emotional guy, but no. When his moment came, he chose the rational option.”
“Fascinating,” said Scorio, leaning forward. “But why is this kept such a big secret? Why can’t we tell the Cinders?”
“Why?” Lianshi’s smile was lopsided. “Because knowledge as to the nature of the test skews the results. You might decide ahead of time that you want to attack from a distance, and then that will influence your decision in the moment. Resulting in a power that’s not true to your nature.”
“But what would be wrong with that?” asked Scorio. “We’d just have a different means to attack.”
“Think about it,” said Lianshi, tone clinical. “Say you’re temperamentally suited to closing in with the enemy and lashing out with your claws. But your power is the ability to—oh, I don’t know—hurl spheres of light at them from a hundred yards away.”
“Fine, right,” said Scorio with a frown. “But then why is it a trial? If we’re just suited to make one clear choice, then why not simply call it… something like a rite of passage?”
“Because we don’t always make the same choice,” said Lianshi, and inhaled deeply. “Sometimes we make the other choice.”
Scorio narrowed his eyes. “That doesn’t make sense. I’d never leave my brother to hang.”
“Perhaps not. But I’ve discovered sections of my journals that were written with a mana technique that I can only read now with my Emberling senses. And it discusses this. Most times I’ve made a certain decision like I did this time. But perhaps one out of every three times I make the other choice, as hard as it is for me to believe.”
Scorio could only shake his head in denial.
“It depends on the life we live leading up to the trial,” she continued. “It’s a lot more formative than we think. Which is why the Academy tries to standardize everything, so that they can predict how we’ll come out. What powers we’ll manifest. But at times the Academy has lost control of the situation. Tragedies have occurred before we make Emberling, accidents that mark us. Warp us. Make us prefer the other approach. I don’t know. I can barely explain it to myself. But it’s clear, written here in my own hand.” And she stared down at the open pages. “We make different choices at times, and that changes the whole course of our lives.”
Scorio stared at her and saw his brother fall through the trapdoor. He tried to imagine a Scorio who would just stand there and watch him die.
“I can believe it,” said Leonis. “When I chose to descend to the sands and kill my uncle, I felt outraged, yes, but also a sense of… I don’t know how to put it. I thought of you both, which felt… very strange in the moment. But thinking of you both made me want to stand up to my uncle, to defy him, his betrayal. I’m not saying I’d have let him go through with the ceremony if I’d not met you both, but…” He shrugged uneasily.
Scorio rubbed at his jaw. “I see. It’s just… strange. To think we’re that variable, or influenced by our surroundings.”
Lianshi watched him, lips pursed, looking somehow helpless.
“What was your trial?” asked Leonis quietly.
She glanced down at her journal, then closed it and set it aside. Brought her knees up to her chin, curled her ebon hair behind an ear, and then wrapped her arms about her shins. “I was…”
She paused, as if running out of determination, then tried again.
“I was a member of a religious organization. A death cult, I think. I was an orphan. Raised in those cold stone halls. We were trained, molded, from a very young age. Shaped to be… I’m not sure, exactly. Embodiments of our god’s virtues and ideals, which revolved around… something like derealization. Ceasing to think of ourselves as individuals, and more like vessels for his… fury. His blessings. We were to exercise his judgments on those who transgressed. And I… well. This night, the one from the trial. A sister of mine—a fellow acolyte, I suppose—came to me with a confession. She had fallen in love with me.”
Lianshi smiled, a twisted, broken expression. “And she wanted me to decide what she should do. We were close, she and I—had entered the church together at the same time, the same age. She trusted me. If I decided she should tell our Mother Superior, she would do so. But if not, she confessed that she was going to try and run away. And wanted me to run away with her.”
Lianshi curled a lock of hair behind her ear once more, the gesture nervous. “But she could also have been testing me on behalf of the church. We were often faced with such tricks. To see how we would act in private, when we thought we were unobserved. If it were such, and I chose to flee, the punishment would be… severe.”
Scorio couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t imagine the world she described. Could only listen, eyes wide.