Trial of Truth—the final gate in the Flower Dancer election, the most decisive stage, for it exalts a rare theme: an unending chase after truth, and the lifting of facts buried under history and dust.

As the closing trial, its intent rings true; it urges the first candidates into unwalked depths, to dig at bedrock where gods pressed creation marks before Elves rose, like dawn warming fossils in shadow. Myths and legion-tier spells resurfaced like stars after rain, new blood flowing into a society long set like clay.

Yet, like the Trial of Goodness, that bright intent bent in the wind. Some contenders found that instead of trekking into unknown lands and old myths, dragging a rival’s hidden ugliness into the sun also counted as “truth,” and it cut faster than any shovel.

Show yourself as a pursuer of truth, glow like a torch, and yank your opponent off their horse at the same time—why waste breath turning stones and brushing dirt? So the Trial of Truth curdled into a feud of factions, a harvest of skeletons from locked closets.

And just as the open and hidden knives were about to flash—

“The dragonslaying hero who cleansed the Amei River graces us—my humble hall blooms with glory.”

“Why are you all still standing? Please, sit.” A radiant smile, a warm voice. The charming host flicked her flowing side twist braid like a willow branch and waved Adelaide and Mira to their seats, with no trace of hauteur.

The sweeter the welcome, the colder the room. Everyone knew this wasn’t a victory feast. Mira’s fingers tightened like frost biting a leaf.

Adelaide, by contrast, moved easy as a breeze. She slipped her hand from Mira’s arm, gathered her skirt, and sat—serene, as if blind to the pressure in the air. Her fingertips brushed the centerpiece bouquet, eyes shining with the simple joy of beauty.

“I’ve long heard Silan’s name for her grasp of beauty across the continent. Seeing it now, the fame stands like a mountain.” Pink-orange petals and pale-yellow stamens trembled under her touch like ripples. She smiled. “No wonder your people quietly agree you should plan the fireworks gala. In that, Qingning and her lot fall short of you.”

In that? In every way, Silan is the best! You snide outlander— Before Adelaide’s words settled, a short-haired Elf with a fiery look shouted. Silan simply snapped her red fan shut with a crisp clap, lifted it to her lips in a hush gesture. The short-haired Elf, face still flushed, sealed her mouth and turned away.

“Pay it no mind. These youngsters speak before they think. Let’s continue.” She crooked a finger. “Why are you dawdling? Tea for our honored guests.”

The attendants stepped in; hawthorn-colored tea streamed into porcelain like amber rain. Silan’s gaze stayed on Adelaide, cheek resting on her hand, a cat’s patience.

“I am curious, though. You say my taste beats the others’—what exactly do you mean?” Her tone turned playful. “And please be honest. If it’s empty flattery, I’ll be upset.”

Adelaide hummed, thinking, then answered after a beat. “Though a human like me has crude taste and no right to judge, even I can see your craft in how you pair blossoms.” She nodded toward a side bouquet. “You set a warm, vivid red base with peonies and wintersweet, then glide through the gradient of dahlias and soft yellow hearts. You bridge it with petals as pale as cicada wings—so gentle. Ah, and this ring of Butterfly Orchids around the center, crossing heights with the clivia at the core, forms a clean guiding line for the eye. That’s your stroke of dragon upon the scales.”

She shook her head with a rueful smile. “If it were Lady Bingxia, she’d just tie forget-me-nots in thick bundles and stack the hall like newly cut scallions. I don’t mean to be cruel, but she’s the kind who understands neither contrast nor lead—”

Her words cut off like a thread snapped. Adelaide covered her mouth, as if realizing she’d misspoken.

“Ah—sorry. I shouldn’t speak of Lady Bingxia like that in front of you.”

Silan’s fan hand paused in the air, then flowed back into calm. She reclined lazily, like a cat stretching in sun. “You think I should fume and toss you out of the realm because you sassed my old roommate? Relax. I don’t shield my own that far.”

It was spoken as a joke, yet the air went still for a heartbeat. Even Mira, silent by instruction, glanced at Adelaide.

Silan and Bingxia aren’t just rival leaders; they carry a knot of older threads.

Both are First Generation, born a few continental cycles after Queen Dreamlan. They grew up together like two saplings in the same soil. The Elven population was small then; they shared the same lessons, the same food, the same roof and path.

In that long, lonely time, Silan’s feelings ripened like fruit. She confessed. The answer returned with Bingxia bringing home a princess of the Nacha Tribe, and Silan entered the Carne Family—an action in opposition that slammed a final bar on her heart. At least, that’s what she says.

But the First Generation’s long devotion is known like a legend carved on stone. Silan never sought another partner. Many Elves whisper she never let go. Conspiracy-minded folk claim her harsh border closures against the Nacha Tribe hide a personal wound, a blade turned policy.

That, exactly, is why Mira’s gut clenched like a fist. Adelaide painted Silan as someone who won’t hear a bad word about Bingxia. Between the lines, that hints Silan’s administrative hand mixes private feeling.

Their relationship could be gold to mine in the Trial of Truth. But they’re in her house. To prod like this on another’s stage—will angering her help anything?

A chill pricked Mira’s heart; she stole a look at Adelaide.

If she saw her sister calm as winter glass, she’d know she was worrying too much. Her sister senses people like rain feels leaves; Adelaide would be prepared. If she acts, there’s a reason.

But the glance crossed, and Mira saw something she hadn’t pictured.

Yes, Adelaide looked prepared. Yet in those blood-red eyes, not only calculation glinted—anger did, and…fighting spirit.

Mira blinked. Years with her sister taught her to see below the serene mask. What she saw now, under the gentle grace, was less schemer, more warrior; a flame of challenge, as if to prove something to someone across the room.

Who is that someone?

Silan? Mira felt a snag of wrongness, but the moment didn’t allow thought to ripen.

Prodded like this, Silan struck back as expected.

“More than A-Bing’s habits, I’m surprised by your training as a human. You guessed most of my thought in pairing flowers.” She flicked the red fan open with a whoosh; the breeze teased leaves and petals into gentle motion. “Honestly, you were an inch away from saying it all.”

“Oh? Which part did I miss?”

“You called the Butterfly Orchid the finishing touch, but—this is embarrassing—my red bellflowers got worm-bitten in the rear garden. I used Butterfly Orchids to patch the color.” She sighed, a soft autumn wind. “I’ve never liked this flower. It’s a reluctant choice for palette only.”

“Not like it? But they’re beautiful.”

Silan shook her head.

“Beautiful, yes. But this beauty is stolen.” A small regret curved her lips. “Butterfly Orchids… they have the delicacy of a butterfly’s body, but they can’t lift wings. They’re a fine… counterfeit.”

She hid half her face behind the fan, as if covering the smile that tried to curl, yet her gaze slid, bright as a needle, to Mira.

“By the way, Miss Adelaide, aren’t you curious why I asked you to bring this ‘Elf’ little sister again?”

She used the Elven word for “Elf,” letting the syllables ring like a bell. Her card was clear. Under the table, Mira’s hand clenched like a trapped bird.

Then, like a palm over water, a gentle hand closed on hers.

“Oh? I hadn’t thought about it. Are you interested in my partner?” Adelaide kept the mask of innocent white. She tilted her head, as if truly puzzled.

Seeing no panic, Silan’s eyes narrowed for a flicker, and she played on. “I am very interested in this mysterious sister. At the Trial of Beauty’s ball, the first sight of her hair hooked me like moonlight on a river.”

“My hair… what about it?”

Targeted, Mira lost control for a beat and broke Adelaide’s instruction to stay quiet. It fit Silan’s rhythm like a drum hit.

Silan feigned surprise with a soft ah.

“My bad. Since the World Tree’s archives show no record of this sister, you must have been gone long, long enough to forget this. To outsiders, our hair looks the same. To us, it’s a mark like fingerprints.”

Her fan twitched. A wind of magic rose like invisible hands, lifting Mira’s tips of hair into the air for inspection.

“But no fear. I’ve lived long. My memory and miles aren’t Queen Dreamlan’s, but I can still read hair—”

Adelaide cut the invisible grip with a sharp flick, dispersing it like smoke. She looked at Silan, a spark of irritation.

“Please don’t touch her so casually. She’s my partner. No matter your interest, I won’t hand her over.”

“My, how loving.” Silan’s eyes flashed a blink of annoyance at the interruption, then settled back into the old fox’s smile. “I was rude. As compensation, let me share a little gossip unknown to humans of the Empire, the sort only an old immortal like me heard.”

You know Emperor Belior, the one you treat like myth? He was infertile—she dropped her voice like nightfall. Adelaide widened her eyes, wearing shock like snow on lashes.

“Not only that, I saw him once. He wore a thick mask, yet through a slit I glimpsed his hair and eyes… and what a coincidence. Same colors as you, Miss Adelaide.”

“Eh? Same as me?”

“Yes. Like you—glacial white and blood-red. Not the blond and blue of his heirs. Want to guess why?”

Her smile spread, confident as a cat with a caught bird. She didn’t wait for guesses.

“The answer sits with what I said. He seemed unable to sire children. Here’s the part the Empire won’t tell: his heirs were forged by fusion with the World Tree—Elf-human hybrids. That’s where the blond comes from. The Elven blood left its trace.”

Her full hand lay on the table. Mira felt her heart falter, a beat stilled.

“And just now, a rumor drifted in. A border seal was breached; out of mercy, we accepted humans harmed by the disaster. Some slipped deeper into our realm with unknown purpose. Chilling, isn’t it? What do you think, Miss Adelaide? And you, this ‘Elf’ sister?”

She weighted the last word—“Elf”—like a stone in still water; by now Mira understood even without the splash.

The opponent had already stripped her mask, like wind peeling fog from stone. Even without the sin of posing as an Elf, the picture was damning.

A foreigner with probable imperial ties slipped into the Elven Realm, then backed a once-unknown human to meddle in Elven politics. No proof needed; that identity is tinder.

It alone could become her sister’s fatal crack in the Trial of Truth.

From the start, the blade aimed for her, a knife under silk. In this banquet that hid an ambush, the sharpest threat to her sister wasn’t another—it was Mira herself.

Mira’s nails bit into her palm like thorns; regret pooled cold, a rain she couldn’t stop.

What could she say now, what could she do to salvage the scene? Her mind fogged.

She almost turned to her sister for help, yet fear snapped her sideways—fear of seeing disgust bloom because she was a drag.

She drifted rudderless, until she felt it: under the table, her sister’s palm still giving warmth, a hidden hearth.

Her sister didn’t let go; she soothed her, gentle as a tide smoothing sand.

Why? The question fluttered like a moth to flame. Mira finally lifted her face.

Adelaide’s expression held no disdain, like a lake unruffled by wind.

More than that, her bright eyes carried no shock; they rested on Silan like still water, a faint ripple of puzzlement rising.

“Hmm...? I haven’t heard that rumor, but it’s probably just wind-blown gossip, isn’t it?”

This time Silan froze; “still playing dumb?” was written on her face like ink. Adelaide’s next line slammed her mouth shut like a door in a gale.

“After all, mere humans can’t stroll under the guards’ noses into the Elven Realm; that’s a bedtime tale spun from mist. Ah, I get it—the ones who hate you must be smearing you. Besides, this term the border watch sits with the ruling Carne Family, a wall of spears against night.”

“To invent a scandal of the border failing—how despicable.” Adelaide spoke with righteous heat, a drumbeat in the room; by then, Silan’s assured poise had ebbed like a tide.

But the line that followed washed the blood from her face like a wave pulling sand.

“However, I did hear this—you showed great mercy, rain on hard ground. You took in a convoy of disaster survivors from Tatapakari Village, and even waived their checks. You set aside your station and rushed, urgent as fire, to see each of them yourself. One by one, you asked and learned every detail of that massacre in the human village.”

Adelaide paused; with the words hanging like incense in the air, the subtext needed no tongue.

“Right, Silan—why does that massacre prick you like a thorn under silk?”