The bazaar sang with life, colors swirling like spices in air.
A soft voice called from within a shaded stall.
An old merchant, cloaked in robes of crimson and clay, gestured him close.
On the table before him
sat three small boxes:
one of jade,
one of obsidian,
and one of simple silver tied in golden thread.
“One box holds what is yours,”
the merchant said.
“The others, more than you need.
But none are marked.
To choose rightly, you must climb.”
He pointed, a mountain cloaked in mist.
Arthur nodded, heart steady,
and set off alone.
Days passed. He braved frostbitten winds, slippery stone, and the weight of silence.
At last, on a ledge carved by time,
he found the three boxes again—
placed in a circle of ancient stone,
just as before.
No merchant. No watchers.
Only his own shadow.
He looked to the jade,  its gleam proud and sharp.
Then to the obsidian, quiet and commanding.
Then to the silver, humble and plain.
No glory in it. No certainty.
“What is meant for me is enough,”
Arthur whispered.
He chose the silver.
And in a blink, the wind stilled, the mountain crumbled to mist, and he stood once more in the bazaar.
The merchant smiled as if no time had passed.
“The path tests the soul
when no eyes are watching,”
he said.
“And yours has passed.”
The silver box unfolded,  a fragrant bloom of rose and wild strawberry, of candied citrus.
The third spice floated into Arthur’s hand, glowing warm.
The Trial was complete.