The Last Star-Bearer: Heir of the Shattered Light

CHAPTER 7: THE TRIAL

Gorath’s deep voice boomed, “We have felt the tremor of your magic. It is unlike any we have known. Yet, you appear without lineage, without oath. How did you cross from the mortal realm without the Old Dark Oak portal, which is the only known passage?”

Tristan asked, ”Mortal realm? Is it what you called the human world where I came from?”

Nymira spoke and said, ”Yes. The mortal world is where a powerless creature resides. You're here now at Lumen, the realm of light. While those dark creatures you see are from Lleh, the realm of shadows and darkness. Now answer us!”

Tristan’s mind flashed back to the night sky over Thorndike, the flash of white and gold as the portal tore apart. “I do not know,” he admitted, a bitter edge to his words. “A blinding light suddenly emerged. I was pulled through…by the same forces that tore it. I have no memory of how I arrived, only that I must act.”

A sudden gasp rippled through the hall. From the crowd stepped a woman cloaked in amber light... Seraphine, the very person whose life Tristan had saved. Her eyes, now bright with unshed tears, locked onto Tristan’s.

“Enough,” Seraphine said, her voice resonant, “to speak of prophecy and fear. Tristan stood in the midst of death and gave me the breath of life. He fought the shadow monster that would have devoured us all. He did not ask for a reward; he asked for none.”

She turned to the scholars, her hands trembling. “He is not a weapon. He is a man who chose to protect us despite not knowing us. Let us not condemn him for the unknown.”

Her words hung heavy in the air, and a soft sigh escaped Lirien, who lifted her hand, letting a gentle breeze swirl around Tristan’s shoulders. “The moon has always guided those lost in darkness. Perhaps this is why he appears now.”

Ignis eyes flickered, the ember within them crackling. “Your magic... sun and moon, has illuminated the very walls of this hall. It is true that such power has not been seen. Yet we cannot ignore the danger of a force we cannot control.”

Nymira, ever the voice of reason, stepped forward. “Control is achieved through understanding. If we bind Tristan, we may lose the very thing that saved us. If we embrace him, we may open ourselves to the Necrolord’s return. The council must choose wisely.”

Silence fell, thick as stone. The scholars exchanged glances, their pens hovering, their brows furrowed. The Archmages lowered their heads, the weight of ages pressing upon them.

Lysandra leaned close to Tristan, her voice barely more than a whisper. “You have been judged already, child of two supreme symbols. Whatever they decide, the heart of Lumen will hear your truth.”

Tristan closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He remembered the cold looks of the people of Thorndike, the way they had turned away from his help, as if his misfortune were contagious. He remembered the ache in his chest each time his kindness was repaid with suspicion. ”He's a freak! An anomaly!”

He opened his eyes, steady and clear. “Archmages,” he said, “I do not ask for freedom, nor for exile. I ask only to be allowed to exist... to survive.”

A rumble of approval rose from the scholars. One, a gaunt man with a scar across his cheek, shouted, “Let him sit among us! Let his light guide our studies! Make the vacant thrones... fill them with this new hope!”

The air in the Grand Trial Hall was thick enough to be carved, heavy with the scent of ancient stone and ozone. Nymira cast a water shield to mask their arguments. The Archmages of the Grand Circle started to debate the fate of Tristan.

He was an impossibility, a mortal who had touched the raw, untamed Aether and survived, not as a hollowed-out vessel, but as a conduit. The initial verdict, born of fear and precedent, was execution. An anomaly of such magnitude could not be permitted to exist.

“He will destabilize the Circle,” Ignis had argued sharply, fingers drumming against the arm of his throne.

“Or expose how fragile our order truly is,” Nymira countered, her voice brittle with unease.

“We cannot allow sentiment to cloud law,” Gorath insisted. “History is clear on this matter.”

But Archmage Lirien, whose eyes held the wisdom of a thousand winters, had argued for a different path. “Fear has ever been the enemy of understanding,” he had intoned, his voice echoing off the obsidian walls. “We are not executioners; we are guardians of knowledge. To destroy him would be an admission of our own failure. Responsibility must replace fear.”

A murmur had rippled through the chamber at that.

“Responsibility?” someone scoffed. “You would place that burden on a boy?”

Lirien’s gaze had hardened. “No,” he replied calmly. “We place it on ourselves. We cannot reveal to him his importance yet not until we are sure who he is.”

His words had swayed the Circle. And so, the sentence of death was commuted to one of life, under the strictest supervision. Responsibility had indeed replaced fear, a mantle far heavier than a crown.

Nymira removed the water sphere so everyone can hear them again.

The Archmages exchanged serious looks then nodded. After a heartbeat, Ignis lifted his staff, the ember at its tip flaring brighter. “If the council grants us permission, we shall assign Tristan to the Hall of Confluence in the Aetherstone University of Magical Arts, where he will study the interplay of elemental magics just like every apprentice wizard. He shall be watched, guided, and—if he proves trustworthy—trusted.”

The chamber erupted in a mixture of relieved sighs and cautious applause. Seraphine stepped forward, placing a hand gently on Tristan’s shoulder. “Welcome home, Tristan.”

The sun‑and‑moon sigil on the empty thrones began to glow, a soft, golden‑silver light that bathed the hall. The archmages placed a simple robe upon Tristan’s shoulders, its fabric woven with both sun‑gold thread and moon‑silver. As he stood, the ward that had once held him in the tower dissolved into a cascade of sparkling dust, drifting upward to join the luminescent currents of the city.

Outside, the city of Lumen pulsed brighter than ever. The living magic of the elements sang a chorus of wind, fire, water, and earth, weaving together in harmony. For the first time in a millennium, the ancient prophecy seemed less a threat and more a promise... a promise that hope could rise from the shadows, even when the world had once turned its back on a boy who carried the sun in his heart and the moon in his veins.

Tristan looked up at the vaulted ceiling, the four Archmages’ eyes following his ascent. In that moment, he felt a fragile, trembling peace settle within him. The fear that had always trailed him, from Thorndike’s icy streets to Lumen’s gleaming towers, began to melt like snow under a sunrise.

He turned to Lysandra, whose smile was as gentle as the night breeze. “Thank you,” he said, voice barely audible over the hum of the city’s magic.

She nodded, eyes bright with unshed tears. “You are not the weapon they feared, Tristan. You are the bridge between what was and what can be. You dictate your own fate.”

He stepped forward, onto the marble of the Grand Hall, the council’s verdict had been rendered, the trial concluded. He survived for now.

.... Unbeknownst to everyone, while most is celebrating Tristan's new profound life to prove his self... someone lurking behind the shadows locks its eyes on Tristan.

The glass shattered from his very tight grip. With seething hatred in him he said, ”I will make sure you won't succeed, mortal. You need to go back from which hell of a realm you came from. There can only be one star of the Lumen... and that's me.”