The Divine Tears

YEAR 7

Two years after the ceremony of the last two hundred students, a trial crawled its way nearer. The students were unprepared for what this trial came to be.

On the day of the trial, students were led to the far side of the castle, there they were led to many steps, it grew darker with each step, the torches aided little. Through three steel gates they halted, the paladin leading them told them not to move. The paladin would take a single student with him, he'd lead them far off through a dark hall towards an old wooden door. The other students sometimes heard screams in the distance from where the student was led to. A panic amongst the students once broke out but Detla came from the shadows to calm them. One by one the students were led into the dark, none returning. The students knew among them that this was a trial, yet they felt a great unease.

'Boy,' the paladin signalled at Daarion. 'Come.'

'Good luck, my friend,' Erwan pressed Daarion's shoulder as Daarion hesitantly followed the paladin.

Daarion's mouth was dry, his heart thumped like a battle drum, his palms; moist.

'In you go,' the paladin opened the door.

Daarion entered a large room, nearly as large as the throne room itself, it was well lit with torches along the walls with two chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Two wooden doors were on the other side of the room, along with a large door on another side. A wooden block was placed in the center of the room.

'Daarion,' Detla called. 'Please stand beside the block.'

A large man stood beside Detla, hidden behind a black rug over his face with two eye holes cut out. He was leaning on a long broad sword. He smelled horribly, as if he was soaked in death itself.

'Do you know where we are, Daarion?' Detla asked.

'No.'

'Beneath the city,' Detla growled. 'And right above us, is the prison.'

Daarion rubbed his sweaty hands on his shirt, not noticing his trembling hands.

'Do you know what this room is?' Detla asked again.

'No.'

'It was once a great hall for kings,' Detla put his hands on his hips. 'But in the great war, it was used as an execution room by the dark elves and dwarves.'

Daarion began realising why he was in that very spot.

'Today, you shall use this for that very purpose,' Detla had no emotion on his face. 'Welcome to the Trial of Justice.'

Daarion felt his heart thump in his chest, his head felt dizzy and his eyes dry. He quickly thought of all the possibilities, only hoping for not what was to come. He questioned himself if he truly had the heart for this trial.

'Bring in the prisoner,' Detla shouted.

A paladin entered the room from the large door, pushing a man. The man had a bushy beard with unkempt long hair. The paladin pushed the man in front of the wooden block and left the room promptly. The man was calm, with eyes of a lost soul, unmoved, and unbothered.

The executioner gave Daarion the broad sword. The sword was already bloody, some dried, and some slithering down to the edge. Even with all the training the young man went through, the blade was heavy and uncomfortable.

'You are to judge if this man is deserving of this fate,' Detla said. 'Then you are to kill him.'

The executioner pushed the man to his knees.

'I cannot kill this man,' Daarion said with a heavy heart and an unsettling mutter.

'If you cannot prove that you can take a life, you shall be sent home,' Detla said angrily. 'Whether or not you kill him, he is a criminal. Your task is to judge if he deserves this fate.'