The Trial of “Goodness” was the second gate in the threefold test of Truth, Goodness, and Beauty, a lantern after dusk that led into deeper waters.

If the “Beauty” ball had been a courteous appetizer, this was the first main course, plates set, smiles bright, and under the table the river already ran swift.

By rule, “Goodness” sounded simple—a trolley problem dressed in philosophy, a candle held to one’s moral compass.

Whoever gathered more assent would see their support swell like a tide under a full moon.

Yet, as with the “Beauty” ball, that well-meant test warped once Queen Dreamlan fell into slumber, an orchard left untended to the winds.

The great families preached that talk alone was mist and show—without deeds to anchor words, every insight was a paper kite in a storm.

The crowd embraced that creed at once, like wheat bending to a steady wind, and few noticed the blind spot where the reeds tangled.

To prove one’s moral clarity, most turned to charity, the sunlight path of social contribution, but charity itself wasn’t a fruit plucked by good heart alone.

Any charity big enough to stir public sight burned resources like a forge under a mountain, embers devouring ore.

Compared to relief that marshaled people like an army of ants, or spearheaded new medicine like lightning bottled in a jar, or pushed reforms like glaciers carving valleys—helping one person at a time was kind but small, raindrops against a drought.

That standard, sharp as a winter blade, quietly cut away anyone without a family’s backing, freezing small ships before they left harbor.

Adelaide stood exactly in that wind, her cloak thin against the frost.

This year’s “Goodness” question was: Why do we fight?

Its tilt was plain as a banner in noon light, aimed at the rising powder-smoke between two peoples.

With a topic that favored them, the Carne Family moved fast, policy like geese in formation flying toward the border.

They pushed better pay for boundary soldiers, bronze coins clinking like hail, and their conclusion wrote itself: Our warriors fight to guard home and keep our people safe from harm.

Stale, yet snug to public nerves, like old tea poured hot on a cold night.

If Adelaide had had their reach, she might have chosen a similar path, oars catching the same current.

But the Carne Family would never cradle a pure conservative’s rival, frost on iron gates.

Now Bingxia wanted results first, aid later, drawbridge raised until dawn.

In the quarters the Fana Family provided, Adelaide sat at her desk, chin propped on a hand that held a pen like a willow stem.

Scrolls stacked like bamboo towers offered nothing but rustle and dust, and her breath left in a sigh, a cloud in a cold room.

“Um… Adelaide, is there anything I can help with?”

Qingning had just carried in a fresh bundle, and hearing that sigh, her cheeks colored like peach petals, apology soft as rain.

Adelaide shook her head, a gentle tide against the shore.

“Please don’t look like that, Miss Qingning. As your lady said, whatever the difficulty, we’ll find a path through the trees.”

“Eh… Sarat is always so optimistic,” Qingning’s lips still drooped, but light returned to her eyes like dawn.

“But optimism’s not bad; it’s a pillow at night. Sleep well, Adelaide, and trust our planning team—they’ll give it their all.”

Adelaide smiled her goodnight, and when the door closed with a hush, the curve faded, a crescent swallowed by cloud.

Ha… this is rough, she thought, the thought a stone in deep water.

She didn’t doubt the Fana Family would bend every bowstring for this rare chance, but their history was a sapling barely a century old, rings thin in elf years.

Their industries were scattered like seeds in wind, and most current resources were anonymous gifts from Bingxia, a snow-fed stream that kept them from drought.

By themselves they’d bleed into deficit, lantern oil going thin, let alone marshal a grand charity, drums on every hill.

Even a master cook can’t simmer a pot without grain; in a political feast, a pretty tongue and a bit of heat won’t feed the hall.

Her thoughts hit the twin cliffs of money and power, peaks cold under starlight.

In the empty room, she sighed again, set the bamboo scroll aside, and pinched the magelight candle out, darkness pouring in like ink.

She didn’t crawl into bed to flee by sleep, a fox into brush.

She had another way to ease the pressure, a hidden spring under stone.

She slid open the drawer, but her fingers went to the secret latch beneath, a practiced touch on wood joints like a lock on an old chest.

A soft click whispered, and a letter lay in her palm, pale as a moth.

Dim red gleam flickered, a coal in night, and she lifted the seal, the ward’s threads loosening like knotted reeds.

Words glowed on the paper, fireflies across a field.

—Dear Sister Adelaide, are you well?

At the first line, her smile warmed like tea, as if Mira’s voice, gentle for her alone, filled the room.

They couldn’t meet freely, yet they found a path, letters like birds flying every few days.

Despite living only miles apart, writing felt odd on the surface, but to her it was balm, a small shrine of calm.

She leaned back, reading the neat strokes in her heart, pacing each line like steps on a garden path.

As expected, this letter began with Anta—without the official teacher, how should Mira stand in, a topic they plucked often like a favorite lute string.

It was a bit ironic, a thorn with a rose; Mira had saved the child to replace her, and the girl proved good stock, green and bright.

Yet Anta became a bridge for them, a plank over a brook, and now Adelaide felt no sting, only warm breath in winter.

After Anta, Mira would add her own days, simple as bread, but more moving than the world outside.

Adelaide pictured Mira moving through each note—pouring tea, lighting lamps—and plotted her reply like constellations, little knowledge she’d gleaned.

She’d write about Moonwatch Spur, where the skyline looks cleft by a blade of silver moon.

About the World Tree blossoms that burst, each bloom heralding a new elf’s first breath, pollen like stars.

About a Forging Hammer driven by a whole volcano, a ten-thousand-ton titan that falls like thunder.

None of it would help win the trial, but she still recorded every wonder inside the Sealing Array, beads on a string.

If she could win that rose, she would take Mira to see them, hand in hand under wide sky.

She didn’t know fate would bring them to witness one of those wonders soon, horizon rolling like a wave.

For now, the dreams felt distant as cranes beyond mountains, and the stone in her chest reminded her she had no answer yet.

Even Mira’s handwriting pressed the ache down like a warm cloth only for a while.

At the final stroke, the bubble popped, a small sound like a reed breaking.

She couldn’t even keep the paper, luxury like silk in a poor season.

Too many paparazzi and watchers hovered like crows, and she couldn’t repeat the mistake that outed her Blood Magic in the Empire.

As much as she wanted to treasure her sister’s hand, she had to burn it, ash to ash, to avoid the Carne Family pointing a finger—colluding with the banished, they’d cry like cold bells.

She bit down, spoke a syllable, and blood-red fire licked the bottom edge, petals opening into flame.

Watching the letter crumble to grey, she felt more than sorrow pulsing in the hearth.

Hunger rose, not for bread, but for a deeper crimson, a river under ice.

It wasn’t that the Fana Family starved her; a midnight feast would have meant nothing, dishes shining like moons.

Her thirst wasn’t normal thirst; it was that craving born after the monster flower attack, a call for blood like drums in fog.

She could hold it in under usual skies, but separation stretched it taut, rope creaking under weight.

After nearly a month apart, to avoid losing control in public, she had bound herself with hypnotic fetters, chains of thought in the dark.

It worked, mostly—until she watched Mira’s letter, invisible to all but her, burn away like snow in spring.

Possession flared, a wildfire leaping fences, and in her mind she heard it—snap—the chain breaking.

Damn… should’ve found a chance at the ball and taken a bite, a fox’s regret under moonlight.

Her fangs ached; she ground them, itch sparking from tips to mind, then running down her spine like rain on bamboo.

She couldn’t help it—her hand trembled, moth-wings frantic, and it drifted toward her lower belly, where soft pink sigils glowed like dawn.

“Mmm… ah—!” The touch drew a gasp, breath like steam, her waist twisting, foot jerking and striking the desk with a thud.

Pain mixed with that other sensation, storm and tide in the same hour, sweeping her tight, then limp, tears pricking like needles.

She had no other path, so she bit her lip and kept stroking the glowing lines, breath ragged, clinging to a rock in surf.

Just bear this minute, and you’ll be calm for a while, whispered a small angel by her left ear, a candle in the wind.

On the right, another voice chuckled, oil to flame, temptation like honey and knife.

If it’s torment anyway, why not enjoy it? You know how, said the shadow, smoke curling under a door.

Her mind reeled, a tug-of-war on a rope bridge, and the right-hand voice won in that fog.

Her fingers dipped, mind blank, instinct like a river taking its course—

—until the window beside her flew open with a crisp whoosh.

“Waa—!”

On any other night, she’d have her Bloodsword at an intruder’s throat, steel cold as winter.

Tonight was the worst timing; her mind was a white sheet, and her flushed face blazed into iron-blue, mortified like a maiden caught by moonlight.

She screamed like a true sheltered lady, cry rising to ring the Fana Family courtyard like a bell.

It cut off halfway—someone clapped a hand over her mouth, palm warm, scent clean as pine.

“Shh, don’t yell!”

The voice was familiar, a string plucked true.

By the window’s pale light, Adelaide saw narrow eyes of vivid gold and those round, tufted ears—marks like moonlit leaves.

“Varie?”