The pillar pulsed once, softly. Not with light, but with certainty. Merlin knew the trial wasn't done.
The room didn't relax. The walls didn't move further. They just… waited.
The eighth riddle arrived without fanfare.
This one wasn't poetic. It was surgical.
"You're told two friends will die. You may save one. The other will not remember you. Which do you choose?"
Merlin's breath caught, but not from indecision.
It was the framing.
It didn't ask who. It didn't care about names. It wanted a pattern.
He felt the eyes again. Not the group's. Not Nathan's.
The gods.
'They're not testing intellect anymore. They're dissecting preference. Loyalty. Attachment.'
The others still didn't hear it. They just watched him.
And for a moment, he felt the weight of their silence like it was made of knives.
He answered quietly.
"The one who remembers."
[Correct.]
The walls didn't move.
But something else shifted.
Flint's arms crossed tighter.
