In The Trial of Nikiforos, Pando’ Spiros, and Gaslord Nikoko, three figures confront mirrors of their past and the choices that define them. Nikiforos faces the ghosts of children he failed to save and a dark reflection of his own guilt; he does not return, only a voice remains, marking the weight of his unresolved burden. Pando’ Spiros, a tactician haunted by the cost of victory, is forced to make a brutal, immediate choice — sacrificing lives without context — and emerges changed, trailed by something unseen. Nikoko enters a false tavern of eternal praise and temptation, only to reject the lie of former glory and pour out the drink of self-deception. He returns humbled, no longer a Gaslord, but a man at peace with what he left behind. Each trial strips away illusion, revealing who they truly are — or who they choose to be.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Trial of Nikiforos – The Weeping Cloister
When Nikiforos stepped through the dark threshold, the door did not close — it vanished.
He found himself in a stone corridor, narrow and damp, lit by flickering candles that dripped black wax. Monastic chanting echoed around him, yet no mouths sang. The air smelled of iron, ash, and incense long since extinguished.
He took a cautious step forward, his sandals wet against the stone.
Then the weeping began again.
Small. Distant.
Childlike.
“Please… father Nikiforos… please don’t let them take us.”
His face paled.
He knew this sound.
He followed it down the corridor, and the candles snuffed one by one behind him. Soon, only darkness remained — until a massive wooden door loomed before him, carved with holy symbols.
He pushed it open.
Inside: a sanctuary — or what was left of one. Crumbling pews. A shattered altar. A pool of dried blood forming a halo beneath a headless statue of a saint.
At the center of the room knelt a group of children, shivering, translucent. Ghosts.
And standing above them — a mirror.
Not a creature. Not a priest.
Just a perfect glass, floating mid-air.
Nikiforos stepped closer.
In the mirror, he saw himself — not as he was now, but as he had been.
Younger. Pure. A monk with eyes full of light.
Then the figure in the mirror spoke.
“You could have saved them.”
Nikiforos clenched his jaw. “I did all I could.”
“You turned your back.”
The reflection darkened. The robes turned black. The eyes bled shadow.
“You chose survival over salvation.”
The children turned to look at him now — each with hollow, bleeding eyes.
“Why?” they asked in unison.
Nikiforos backed away. “I didn’t know— I was told to— I was told to wait!”
But the door behind him was gone.
And the mirror stepped out of itself.
A dark copy of Nikiforos stood before him — calm, righteous, cold.
“Then let us finish what we began.”
The room warped — the floor cracked, candles burst into green flame, and the shadow-Nikiforos drew a blade forged from scripture and guilt.
Outside — In the Main Room
Patsir’ I.0., pacing: “He’s been gone too long. What is this, theatre?”
Doc Pitoros: “It’s time manipulation. They could be gone a second — or a lifetime.”
Gogos, eyes on the mask: “Or we could be the ones in a box… watching ourselves.”
Suddenly, Nikiforos’s door reappeared, slowly… but he didn’t step through.
Instead, only a voice echoed out:
“Next.”
The next sigil lit.
Pando’ Spiros.
He looked around — calculating. Then walked through without a word.
The Trial of General Pando’ Spiros – The Labyrinth of the Thousand Plays
As he stepped through the portal, Pando’ Spiros expected darkness. Instead, he found… a war room.
Huge.
Circular.
At its center: a round table carved from obsidian, its surface etched with moving battle maps, glowing faintly red. Around it stood dozens of shadowy figures, generals with no eyes, whispering in languages both familiar and alien.
Above them, the walls reached into black infinity, where strategies lived and died mid-air — floating, looping, crumbling, reforming. Diagrams of war played themselves out in ghostly light.
The entire room was thinking.
Then, a voice. Familiar. His own.
“Sit, Pando.”
He looked to the chair at the head of the table.
In it sat another Pando’ Spiros, older. Eyes cold. Armor cracked.
The true Pando narrowed his gaze. “What is this? A test of ego?”
The elder copy smiled thinly. “No. Proof of failure.”
Suddenly the maps on the table shifted — showing scenes from his past:
- The Siege of Mar-Aktesh, where he let 3,000 die to secure a flanking route.
- The Southern Rebellion, where he had planted false hope in his allies just to break the enemy’s morale.
- The Day of the Twin Betrayals, where he sacrificed both spy networks to win a minor skirmish.
“You play long games,” the doppelgänger said, “but do you know how many of them actually ended in peace?”
The shadows around the table began to speak. All at once. All the generals, all the voices from his career:
“You speak of outcomes. We speak of lives.” “You knew we would die, and you let us.” “He calculates cost in numbers. Never names.”
The elder Pando stood. “You built yourself as a legend. Now answer the question that matters.”
He leaned forward.
“Was it all worth it?”
Pando didn’t blink. “It always is. If the realm stands, the toll is justified.”
Suddenly the voices stopped. The shadows vanished.
Only one door appeared on the far end of the room.
The elder self stepped aside. “Then prove it. One final play.”
The table glowed again — this time with a live scenario:
The inn. The people inside it. A catastrophe beginning.
The inn. The people inside it. A catastrophe beginning.
Ten lives. One survivor. You must choose now. You have 60 seconds.
No explanation. No background.
Just faces. Friends. Allies. Strangers.
The map clock began ticking.
Pando’ Spiros did not hesitate.
Outside – In the Inn
As the others stood in waiting, Pando’s door reappeared — not slowly, like Nikiforos’s, but violently, the wood splintered at the edges, as if from pressure inside.
The general stepped through, calm, composed… and pale.
He looked around, then to Gleg.
“Who’s next?” he asked.
But Gleg was staring at him — not with fear, but caution.
“Something followed you out.”
Pando froze.
And behind him, just before the door vanished again, a whisper slipped through:
“The game continues.” Few trials are as tragic — or as unpredictable — as the one that awaits Gaslord Nikoko. Once a proud knight, now a fragmented soul drifting through ale and regret. But the trial cares not for what was lost… only what remains.
The Trial of Gaslord Nikoko – The Hall of Hollow Cheers
The moment Nikoko passed through the door, he heard it.
Laughter. Applause. Clanking mugs. Songs of his name.
He stumbled forward into what looked like… a tavern?
But not Gleg’s Inn.
This one was massive — endless — chandeliers of golden fire, tapestries embroidered with scenes of his greatest victories. All around, revelers cheered for him. They toasted. They shouted verses of ballads.
“Nikoko the Thunderblade! Slayer of the Howling Hills! Lord of the Ale-Drakes!”
He blinked.
His armor was polished again. His beard braided. His paunch gone. He looked down and saw his old self — proud, regal, powerful.
And in the center of it all, his throne. A mug of divine mead resting atop.
He stepped forward, dazed.
One step…
Two…
And then — a cough.
A rough one. Dry. Ragged.
He turned.
In the corner, slumped and barely visible in the candlelight, sat another Nikoko. This one old, disheveled, bloodshot eyes and shaking hands. He held a half-broken mug.
“Don’t drink it,” the old one rasped.
Nikoko hesitated.
“Why not?”
“Because if you drink it, you never leave. This place… feeds on the parts of you that miss being loved. The more you drink, the more you forget why you ever stopped.”
The revelry began to grow louder.
The illusions shouted:
“Come now, Nikoko! The Brewmaster Champion! Don’t you remember the arena of Skarthis? You drank the gods under the table!”
His hand hovered over the mug.
“You never did,” said the old version. “You lost. You were broken. You crawled away from glory. But you survived.”
Nikoko stared at the golden mead. It shimmered like sunlight on a calm lake. It smelled of love.
“You drink that, you die loved. But you die a lie.”
Silence.
And then…
Nikoko smiled.
He picked up the mug.
Walked to the center of the tavern.
Lifted it high.
Then poured it out onto the floor.
The entire illusion screamed.
The tavern shook. The fire dimmed. One by one, the faces of the revelers twisted — melting — revealing shadowy leeches of memory clinging to his soul. The throne cracked and rotted.
The old Nikoko nodded once, then faded into light.
And a door appeared.
Outside – At the Inn
Nikoko stumbled out — wet with phantom mead, but standing.
Gaslord no longer.
Just Nikoko.
He turned to Gleg, who offered him a towel and a beer.
Nikoko snorted. “Gods… a real one this time.”
He sat down heavily near the hearth, where Gogos raised an eyebrow.
“Did you win something in there?”
Nikoko grinned. “I lost everything I didn’t need.”
