It was the second day of the tournament. In a smaller hall, a select group had gathered. On the program: Princess Belara’s second challenge.

  At the center stood Prince Malgorn. On one bench sat three accused men; a richly dressed, middle-aged merchant stood nearby, clearly a man of wealth. Princess Belara herself was present, along with her trusted friend, the diplomat Jhalen.

  Belara broke the silence.

  “Prince Malgorn, are you ready to face your first task?”

  “Yes, Princess,” the prince replied.

  “As you know, you’ll serve as judge. Before you sit three accused men, tied to a crime. Your task is to question them and decide the culprit. Whether you’re certain or merely guessing is up to you. A little physical persuasion is permitted… and I suspect you’ll make use of it.” She smiled faintly. “Jhalen will now read the details.”

  At her gesture, Jhalen stepped forward and unrolled a scroll.

  “Two nights ago, alabaster dust was stolen from this merchant. A rare and costly powder used in painting. That same night, a night watchman was found dead inside the warehouse—he had just begun his shift. Two pouches of alabaster dust were missing: a small blue one, and a larger red one. The blue pouch was later recovered. The red one is still gone.”

  He continued:

  “Here sit the three accused and the reasons for suspicion.

  First:the personal servant. The stolen blue pouch was found among his belongings.

  Second:the merchant’s son. Two days before the theft, the servant overheard him in a heated argument with his father, shouting he’d one day rob him blind.

  Third:the young apprentice, serving the merchant only a few months. That very night, the merchant himself saw him lock the warehouse doors.”

  “Your task: question them and name the culprit. A correct judgment earns you a point. But you won’t know right away if you’re correct—the true culprit must remain hidden, as the other princes will face the same trial after you.”

  “Prince Malgorn, are you ready to sit in judgment?”

  “Yes, Diplomat.”

  Jhalen nodded, rolled the scroll, and stepped back beside Belara, who smiled slightly.

  “Could I ask you to repeat the details once more?” Malgorn suddenly asked.

  Jhalen glanced at Belara, surprised by the request. She gave a nod. So the young advisor read the account again, while Malgorn listened intently, rubbing his chin in thought. When Jhalen finished, the prince thanked him and turned toward the accused and the merchant.

  His first question went to the servant. Malgorn’s voice was calm, almost gentle.

  “You claim they found one of the stolen pouches among your things—the small blue one. Is that right?”

  “Yes, my lord,” stammered the servant, an older man, even older than the merchant himself.

  Then Malgorn’s voice snapped like a whip. Loud, sharp, commanding fear.

  “And you expect me to believe that?!” He closed the distance in two strides, glaring straight into the man’s eyes.

  The servant nearly crumpled under the pressure, tears welling up.

  “Please, my prince! I know nothing! That night my master dismissed me early, so I went to my room. I found the blue pouch and meant to return it immediately. I swear, I know no more!”

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  The old man fell to his knees, babbling his innocence.

  “How long has he served you?” Malgorn asked the merchant.

  “Many years.”

  “And in all that time, no trouble?”

  “He has his flaws, as all servants do. But he has been loyal. If he truly committed this crime, I’d want to hear why.”

  “My lord,” the servant sobbed, clinging at his master’s feet. “I’ve never wronged you, never! You’ve always treated me well—why would I ever repay you with betrayal?”

  “Enough!” Malgorn barked. “Back to your seat. I’m done with you.”

  Then he turned to the merchant again.

  “When exactly did you dismiss him that night?”

  “About an hour before I saw the apprentice lock the warehouse. I sent him to fetch my supper. He was gone no more than half an hour.”

  Malgorn rubbed his chin.

  “Hmm…” Then he shifted to the merchant’s son. “So, you’re his boy?”

  “Obviously… unfortunately,” the young man sneered.

  “Mind your tongue, brat!” his father roared. Malgorn silenced him with a raised hand and a cutting glare. The merchant muttered into his beard, “Ungrateful wretch…”

  Malgorn ignored him.

  “I hear nothing but contempt in your voice for your father. Why?”

  “He’s a miser,” the son spat. “All he ever cared about was coin and that damned powder. My mother wasted away under his greed. He’s not a good man.”

  He spat on the floor in his father’s direction. The merchant clenched his fists, but Malgorn’s stare froze him in place.

  “Interesting,” Malgorn mused. “Two days before the theft you supposedly swore you’d rob him blind. And then robbery and murder happen. How do you explain that?”

  “I killed no one. I stole nothing.” The son’s tone was flat.

  “That’s your defense?” Malgorn scoffed.

  “I don’t care,” the son said, shrugging. “And neither does he.” He jabbed a finger toward his father.

  Malgorn narrowed his eyes. Defiant, yes. But a murderer? It didn’t quite fit.

  “Describe the warehouse,” he commanded.

  The son leaned back, more composed.

  “A wooden shed. One door, three locks. By day we use one, by night all three. Windows are tiny and high—only a cat could squeeze through.”

  “And inside?”

  “Shelves bolted to the walls. Compartments filled with chained chests. Each opens differently, no lids, no keys. You have to know the trick, or you’ll never get in.”

  “So, if I gave you one now, you could open it?”

  “As a boy I spent hours with them. I could take them apart and rebuild them blindfolded.” The son smirked.

  Malgorn stroked his beard.

  “He knows the mechanism. He could’ve opened it clean, stolen the pouch without a trace. Why smash wood and make a racket? And if he wanted more, he could’ve taken several. No—too sloppy for him.”

  He dismissed the thought and moved on to the apprentice.

  “Now you. When you locked the warehouse, the guard was likely already dead inside and two pouches gone. What do you say?”

  “I swear I’m innocent. That night I was given the keys. I locked the three locks and returned to the workshop.”

  “And the keys? What did you do with them?”

  “Returned them.”

  “Where?”

  “On the workbench.”

  “Keys to a warehouse full of valuables just lying on a bench? Don’t make a fool of me.”

  “It’s true! I put them back on the table.”

  Malgorn stepped closer, towering over him. He sensed something hidden, but the apprentice stayed stubbornly silent. With sudden violence, Malgorn’s hand shot out and gripped his throat. The boy gasped and clawed for air, his face turning red under the prince’s iron hold.

  “So… what about the keys?” Malgorn growled.

  “I—I put them on the table… then my master took them.”

  “Oh, you have a master, do you?” Malgorn released his grip. The boy coughed and nodded, desperate for breath.

  “Shame he’s not here to confirm your story.”

  Jhalen stepped forward. “Prince Malgorn, the master isn’t present, but we can summon him if you wish.”

  “Excellent.” Malgorn folded his arms, still eyeing the accused with calculating intensity.

  Soon, the old master craftsman of alabaster dust arrived—an elderly man, near the servant’s age.

  “Master,” Malgorn greeted him. “Thank you for coming. I wish to verify your apprentice’s words. He claims he locked the warehouse and left the keys on the workbench. Is that true?”

  The old man nodded. “Yes.”

  “And you took the keys?”

  “I did.”

  “And you kept them afterward?”

  “Yes. They never left my hands.”

  “Did anything that night strike you as unusual?”

  “Not much. Perhaps… only that it seemed to take him longer to lock the doors. But then, the locks are old and stiff. Each has its own peculiar way. And it was his first time. Naturally it took him longer.”

  “So you think the servant was gone longer than expected?”

  “Maybe. Hard to say. I was busy with work. I only noticed it felt longer.”

  “Thank you, Master.” Malgorn turned back to the accused, lost in thought.

  He pressed the apprentice once more.

  “When you locked the last bolt and turned around, did you see anything unusual? Tell me exactly.”

  “Well… as I finished, I turned toward the workshop. I saw my master standing at the window, looking my way. Then I went inside.”

  “So you know he saw you. If you had stolen or killed, you couldn’t be sure what he witnessed. That explains why the blue pouch was found with the servant—planting evidence to divert suspicion. But the red pouch… where is it?”

  Malgorn studied each face.

  The servant had no reason. The son had the skill but not the recklessness. The apprentice… yes, the apprentice fit. He had the time window, the opportunity. And the missing pouch? Likely still with him.

  The prince turned to Belara.

  “To earn the point, I don’t need to solve the mystery of the missing pouch, correct?”

  “Correct. A strong suspicion is enough. The red pouch is irrelevant.”

  Malgorn raised a hand and pointed at the apprentice.

  “He is guilty. Thief and murderer. The second pouch must still be on him.”

  “Very well, Prince Malgorn,” Belara declared. “Your judgment is noted. Your second trial is complete.”