Chapter 24 Trial Of Wit
“The Trial of Wit" the principal continued, “is not merely a puzzle hunt. It is a labyrinth of knowledge. The clue in your hand is but the first thread. Follow it, and it will lead you to another… and that to yet another… until you discover the resting place of the Golden Quill.”
A ripple of excitement of dread passed through the students.
“There is only one Golden Quill hidden within these halls,” he said, lowering his tone into something reverent yet severe. “A relic of Gravenmoor’s founders… and a symbol that your mind is sharp enough to carve through illusion. Whichever person retrieves it before the sands fall from the hourglass” he gestured to the tall iron-framed hourglass beside him, glittering white sand suspended in poised stillness “will be the victor, not the group. Be wise.”
A teacher stepped forward and turned it over.
The first grain fell, crystalline and soft, like time giving its first warning.
“You must follow your clues with speed, precision, and unerring logic,” Greaves warned. “A single wasted second may cost you everything. Overlook a symbol, misread a number, ignore a shadow and you may wander the academy halls until the final grain seals your failure.”
He paused. Even the wind seemed to still.
“Students,” he said, “unveil your clues.”
My fingers tingled as I unfolded mine. The ink shimmered faintly, like dark gold shifting under water.
The riddle read:
“At dawn, the sum of three shadows equals one truth.
Seek the point where (12² + 9²) ÷ 3 meets the cube root of 512.
There, numbers sleep in marble veins.
When the clock and compass agree, the answer shall reveal the path.”
A cold breath stroked down the back of my neck. For a moment the characters on the page seemed to pulse, almost alive, leaning, urging, whispering.
Vincent leaned over my shoulder. “Is that math? Oh, great,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Because nothing says ‘fun’ when it comes to calculations.”
Principal Greaves’s voice rose again, loud and resonant beneath the watchful gargoyles.
“The Trial of Wit begins now.”
The hourglass bled its sand with quiet inevitability.
And I clutched my clue, feeling the beginning of something vast and dangerous unfold beneath her fingertips.
“This is trash,” Vincent muttered, leaning forward against the water fountain, his frustration echoing off the marble.
“You should mind the vocabulary you use. This is Gravenmoor Academy,” Melanie corrected sharply.
“I bloody knew that, lass, you don’t need to tell me,” he snapped back.
His gaze shifted to me, standing a little distance from them. “Anything coming on board?” he asked.
Absolutely nothing was coming. I remained fixated on the mathematical clue, staring so hard it felt as if the answer might materialize from pure will. I didn’t respond. I only kept examining the numbers, desperate to make sense of them.
Vincent exhaled loudly and gave up waiting for my answer. He slid down the fountain wall to sit on the floor. “We’re cooked. We’re definitely going to fail this round.” He dragged a hand through his hair, defeated.
“No, we’re not. Melanie…” He stood abruptly. “Yeah, Melanie!”
I walked closer and extended the clue toward her. She looked first at the paper, then at my face.
“Take it. Maybe that overly-brainy head of yours will give us something,” Vincent said.
She hesitated, then lifted her right hand slowly and took the paper. She stared at it as though it were staring back, as if there were a secret embedded in it that only she could hear.
“The square of 12 is 144 and 9 is 81. So 144 plus 81 equals 225. Then divide by 3 that gives 75. Seventy-five is the first answer. And that meets the cube root of 512, which is 8.”
She placed the paper gently back into my hand. “That’s all I can help with.”
“Seriously, we’re fucked,” Vincent groaned, turning away and clutching his forehead.
I continued studying Melanie. She was holding something back. She knew more.
“Okay, then,” I murmured, walking toward the fountain. “We’re going to lose this trial.”
“Really?” Vincent snapped.
“I’m not interested in politics or becoming president of anything. I didn’t ask to be chosen. But if we fail and prove the other groups right, that we’re born losers, then we become the very thing they say we are. And…” His voice caught, tightening with emotion. “You know what that means in this Academy.”
Melanie sighed heavily.
My eyes drifted back to the clue. The first line read: At dawn, the sum of three shadows equals one truth.
“I understand, Vincent. But…” I murmured, staring at the words.
“But what, Lexie?” he asked.
“Three shadows.”
They both blinked. “What?” they said together.
“At dawn, the sum of three shadows…” I repeated.
“Do you know what that means?”
“…equals one truth,” I whispered. “What creates shadows at dawn?”
“Sunrise?” Vincent shrugged.
“The sun. Exactly.” My voice brightened. “This is referring to sundials. How many sundials are on school grounds?”
“I think there are two,” Melanie said.
“Three,” Vincent interjected instantly. “There are three in the Academy. I’m sure of it.”
“Then that fits. The sum of three shadows, three sundials. Only one will reveal the next clue, the ‘one truth.’ Where are they located?”
“I’ve seen one on Aurelius Nox’s portrait,” Melanie replied.
“The founder’s portrait, in the main hall,” I noted. “And the others?”
Vincent scratched his head, struggling to recall.
“The water fountain and the tower,” Vincent supplied.
I gestured behind me. “You can’t be sure it's that fountain, there are at least six fountains in Gravenmoor Academy.”
“Then what do we do now?” Vincent asked.
“We check them one by one,” Melanie answered.
Vincent opened his mouth to protest, but I cut him off. “No, we don’t have time.”
“Thank you,” he said sarcastically. “We wasted an hour just figuring out what the clue meant. We probably have an hour left… or less.”
I looked down at the paper again. “This clue might be pointing to the right sundial.”
Vincent stepped close behind me to peer over my shoulder. “What about the second line?” he asked.
I paused, then turned to Melanie. “What were the answers you got earlier?”
She sighed, clearly losing interest. “Can’t we just give up? There’s nothing left for us to do…”
Vincent stormed toward her, voice raised. “What is wrong with you? Are you nuts?” He shoved her shoulders in anger.