Chương 133: Chapter 131. To War - Part I

08: 30 AM The merchant vessel Siren's Coin docked at Arkhos with a gentle thud against the weathered pilings. Kell stood at the rail, his travel-worn cloak pulled tight against the morning chill. The harbor sprawled before him—a forest of masts and rigging, stone piers extending like fingers into the blue-gray water. Today was special. Today was the Crown Prince's trial. The thought settled in the air around him like a fine mist. Not spoken, but felt.

Kell hefted his single bag over his shoulder and joined the disembarking passengers. The gangplank creaked beneath his boots. He kept his movements unhurried, his expression mild. Just another traveler arriving in Arkhos. Nothing remarkable. The customs line moved slowly. Harbor guards in the silver-blue livery of Arkhos checked each arrival with unusual thoroughness. Papers were scrutinized. Questions asked. Bags occasionally opened.

"They're being careful today," murmured the elderly woman ahead of him in line.

"Not taking chances with troublemakers." Kell offered a noncommittal smile.

"Important day, I suppose." The woman nodded, her eyes darting around nervously.

"The whole city's been on edge for weeks. My daughter says you can hardly mention the prince without someone looking over their shoulder." When Kell reached the front of the line, a tired-looking woman with auburn hair pulled into a severe bun took his papers. Her eyes scanned the documents, then flicked up to his face.

"Purpose of your visit to Arkhos?" she asked, the words practiced and flat.

"Entertainment," Kell replied with an easy smile. Her eyebrow arched slightly.

"Entertainment?"

"I hear the city puts on quite a show." He leaned forward, just slightly.

"And today sounds particularly promising." The woman's mouth tightened. She stamped his papers with more force than necessary.

"Enjoy your stay," she said, not meaning it.

"Keep to the public areas. The Diplomatic Quarter is restricted to residents and authorized visitors only."

"Of course," Kell said, taking back his papers.

"Wouldn't dream of overstepping." As he moved away from the customs desk, he felt the guard's eyes lingering on his back. He didn't turn around. The harbor district buzzed with unusual energy—half festival, half funeral. Vendors hawked food and trinkets to the swelling crowd, but conversations were muted, faces tense. Imperial guards stood at every corner, hands resting on sword hilts. Kell wove through the press of bodies, noting the checkpoint ahead where the harbor district met the Lower Market.

Guards were checking papers again. Unusual. The citizens of Arkhos didn't seem to like it, judging by their expressions. A soft meowing caught his attention. A gray cat wound between his legs, nearly tripping him. Then another—this one orange with white paws—appeared on a nearby crate, watching him with unblinking yellow eyes. Kell paused, looking around. Cats everywhere. Lounging on windowsills. Perched on barrels. Slinking along walls. At least a dozen in his immediate vicinity, and more beyond.

"Friendly neighborhood," he murmured to himself. Kell leaned against the stone wall of the alehouse, counting seconds in his head. The meeting point—a narrow alley between the Harbor District and Lower Market—offered a clear view in both directions without exposing him. He withdrew a silver pocket watch, its face engraved with an intricate pattern of thorns. The second hand swept past the agreed time. Ten seconds late. Twenty. Thirty. A figure appeared at the alley's entrance—Morwen, looking slightly winded.

His scarred face scanned the shadows until he spotted Kell.

"You're late," Kell said before Morwen could speak.

"Guards redirected the street traffic. I had to—""Thirty seconds," Kell interrupted, snapping the watch closed.

"Thirty seconds is the difference between success and hanging from the city walls." Morwen stiffened.

"It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't." Kell pushed off from the wall.

"Where are we?"

"The Devoted are in position," Morwen said, lowering his voice.

"House Darrow's man is near the western gate. Lady Crestfall's two are at the market square and temple district."

"And House Thorn's daughter?"

"Insisted on the courtyard itself." Kell nodded, a faint smile playing at his lips.

"Good. Ambition suits her."

"The timing works. Midday for the trial. They're moving the prince from the prison to the Hall of Justice at the eleventh bell." Morwen glanced over his shoulder.

"That gives us three hours."

"You seem tense."

"The academy's closed. There are city guards on every corner. Half the nobility have suddenly remembered urgent business in their country estates." Morwen ran a hand through his hair.

"People know something's coming, Kell."

"Of course they do. It's the Crown Prince's trial. The entire empire's is holding its breath." Kell's voice remained even, almost pleasant.

"What looks like caution now will be chaos in three hours." A flicker of uncertainty crossed Morwen's face.

"And if they've increased security at the Hall itself?"

"Then our Devoted will have a more appreciative audience when they fulfill their purpose." Kell checked his watch again.

"Remember what's at stake."

"I haven't forgotten."

"Good. Keep the others ready." Morwen nodded and turned to leave. A gray cat darted across his path, nearly tripping him. With a curse, Morwen kicked at it, sending it yowling down the alley.

"Damned cats," he muttered.

"They've been all over the city lately. Getting annoying." Kell's expression didn't change, but something cold flickered in his eyes.

"Go. I'll make my way to the Hall separately." Once Morwen disappeared around the corner, Kell stepped out of the alley. The checkpoint ahead had grown more congested. Guards were pulling people aside, questioning them more thoroughly. He adjusted his posture slightly, softening his walk. Less purpose, more curiosity. Just another provincial come to gawk at royal scandal. As he approached the checkpoint, a town crier appeared on a nearby platform, unrolling a scroll.

"Hear ye! By order of the Imperial Council, all citizens and visitors are advised that enhanced security measures will be in effect throughout this day. Cooperation with city guards is mandatory. Large gatherings outside designated areas are prohibited. Violation of these orders will result in immediate detention." The crowd murmured, a mixture of complaint and nervous whispers. Something brushed against Kell's leg. A black cat sat directly in front of him, yellow eyes fixed on his face.

Unlike the others, this one didn't move. It simply stared. Kell stared back.

"Hello there," he said.

"Seeing something interesting?" The cat blinked once, slowly, then rose and padded away, disappearing around a corner. A prickle ran up his spine—not quite unease, but awareness. A black cat... People said a lot of things about black cats. That they were omens. Witches' familiars. Harbingers of misfortune. Bad luck in a sleek coat. And for some reason, he felt like there might be more to it than—no. Superstitions. When did he ever care about things like that?

He joined the line at the checkpoint, his face a mask of mild inconvenience, just like everyone else's. Inside, his mind raced through contingencies. Three hours. Multiple checkpoints. An entire city on alert. The pieces were in place. The Devoted were ready. Today, Arkhos would learn that even walls and guards couldn't stop what was coming. The line moved forward. One checkpoint at a time. One step closer. Kell smiled at the approaching guard, documents already in hand.

The guard—younger than most, with a neatly trimmed beard—took his documents with a flick of the wrist.

"Purpose in Arkhos?" he asked, eyes scanning the papers.

"The trial," Kell said simply.

"Quite the spectacle, from what I hear." The guard looked up, studying Kell's face. His eyes narrowed slightly.

"Your accent. It's not from here." It wasn't a question.

"Where were you born?" Kell maintained his pleasant expression.

"Aledia." The guard's posture changed—almost imperceptible, but Kell noticed. His shoulders lowered a fraction. The hard line of his mouth softened.

"I see." He handed the papers back with unexpected care.

"You've come a long way."

"Yes," Kell said, the smile fixed on his face while something hardened behind his eyes. The guard lowered his voice.

"My mother's family was from the eastern quarter. Near the old temple." He cleared his throat.

"They got out before the siege, but my uncle..." Kell nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Eleven years doesn't wash away much, does it?" the guard continued.

"The emperor never should have ordered—" He stopped himself, glancing at his fellow guards.

"Well. Safe travels in the city, sir. The western districts might be less crowded for viewing the procession."

"Thank you," Kell said, tucking his papers away.

"My cousin runs an inn on Silver Street," the guard added, almost too casually.

"Tell him Darin sent you. He looks after our own." Kell nodded again, the muscles in his jaw tight.

"I appreciate that." He moved past the checkpoint, his steps measured and unhurried until he was around the corner. Only then did he allow his shoulders to slump, just for a moment. Eleven years. Eleven years since Sundarian troops had surrounded Aledia. Since the emperor had ordered the city purged of his own brother, General Soren's 'sympathizers'. Since the fires had burned for three days while Sundarian guards blocked the gates of their own citizen.

Kell continued down the crowded street, his destination clear in his mind. By midday, the Devoted would ignite their own fires. A bell tolled in the distance. Two hours remained. Kell straightened his shoulders and kept walking.

11: 15 AM, in another part of the city... Tormin moved through the crowded market, silently reciting the Sixth Edict of the Neth'ir. From our blood springs salvation. From our death, rebirth. The Neth'ir demand no less than everything. His hand pressed against the crystal pouches strapped to his chest beneath his loose robe. They felt hot against his skin, though he knew it was merely his imagination. The activation wouldn't begin until he spoke the final invocation.

Sweat trickled down his spine despite the cool morning air. He'd been walking for nearly an hour, circling his assigned position. The western gate. Where the prince's procession would pass. Where the crowds would be thickest. The Neth'ir see our sacrifice. The Neth'ir will remember. A child ran past him, laughing, chasing after a paper pinwheel. Tormin flinched. He hadn't expected children. Not this many. He'd pictured guards, nobles, merchants—adults who'd chosen their allegiances. Not children with pinwheels.

"The innocent ascend directly," he whispered, repeating Lady Crestfall's assurance.

"They become pure energy in the Neth'ir's realm." He felt dizzy. The hour was approaching. People were already staking out positions along the route, jostling for the best views. A family with three small children spread a blanket nearby. The mother handed out pastries. Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators! Tormin closed his eyes. This is necessary. This is just. The empire built on blood must be washed away in blood.

The crystals felt heavier with each step. He'd studied the diagrams. When activated, their blast would extend precisely forty-seven feet in every direction. Quick. Clean. Transformative. Forty-seven feet included the family with pastries. Tormin turned sharply, needing to move, to think, to— His shoulder slammed into what felt like a stone wall. He stumbled backward, momentarily panicked that the impact might trigger the crystals. When nothing happened, he looked up. And up.

The man before him was enormous—well over two meters tall, with shoulders like an ox. His left arm ended at the elbow, but his right looked strong enough to uproot a small tree. Intricate tattoos of anchors and sea creatures covered his exposed skin. A freeman's marks.

"Sorry about that," the giant said, his voice surprisingly gentle for his size.

"Wasn't watching where I was going."

"No—no, it was my fault," Tormin stammered, desperate to end the encounter quickly.

"I wasn't paying attention."

"Hey buddy, you don't look so good!" The high-pitched voice came from... the freeman's shoulder? Tormin blinked. A white mouse beastkin perched there, no bigger than a child's doll, with twitching whiskers and bright, too-observant eyes.

"I'm fine," Tormin said, trying to step around them. The mouse hopped from foot to foot.

"Nah, you're sweating buckets! Got a fever or something? There's a nasty bug going around the harbor district. My cousin got it. Puked for three days straight. Thought he was gonna die!" He sniffed dramatically.

"Didn't, though."

"I really need to go—""Where you headed? Western gate? That's where we're going!" The mouse pointed.

"Best view of the procession, or so they say. Though my big friend here can see over most crowds anyway, can't you?" The freeman grunted noncommittally, his eyes never leaving Tormin's face.

"I'm just—I have an appointment." Tormin felt the sweat beading on his forehead. The crystals seemed to pulse against his chest.

"An appointment! Very mysterious!" The mouse bounced excitedly.

"Must be important to get you so worked up. Let me guess—meeting a lady friend? No, wait! Secret business deal? Ooh, or maybe you're planning to—""He said he has somewhere to be," the freeman interrupted, his voice low and steady. His eyes—a piercing blue—seemed to look straight through Tormin's robes, straight to the crystals beneath.

"I was just being friendly," the mouse protested, but settled down.

"Sorry for the trouble," the freeman said, stepping aside.

"Hope you make it to your... appointment." There was something in the way he said it. Though, he wasn't quite sure what... Did they... know? Tormin's hand twitched toward the small knife at his belt—his contingency plan if the crystals failed. The freeman's eyes flicked to the movement, then back to Tormin's face.

"Good day to you," he said, placing his massive hand on his companion's head to quiet whatever the mouse was about to say next. Tormin nodded stiffly and hurried past them, his heart hammering so loudly he was sure everyone nearby could hear it. The Neth'ir demand sacrifice. The Neth'ir protect the faithful. He didn't look back, but he could feel those blue eyes following him through the crowd. Thirty minutes remained until the procession. Thirty minutes until salvation.

He kept walking, mouthing the Seventh Edict, trying to recapture his certainty.

Meanwhile... Kalyon Vi Savarnis, Fourth of his Name, Ex-Crown Prince of the Sundarian Empire, sat on the edge of his bed in the Prison Tower's best cell. The furnishings were fine—silk sheets, carved furniture, even a small bookshelf—but they couldn't disguise what it was. A cage. Magical sunlight streamed through the narrow window, painting golden bars across the stone floor. For almost a year, he'd watched that light crawl across his cell. Today would be the last.

His fingers tightened around the small piece of paper hidden in his palm. Just a time, written in unfamiliar handwriting: 11: 45. Thirty minutes from now. Thirty minutes until whatever was planned would happen. His leg wouldn't stop twitching. They'd come for him at midday. The trial was a formality—the verdict had been decided the moment his father signed the arrest warrant. Treason. The word still tasted like poison. Kalyon closed his eyes, his mother's face appearing unbidden. He'd dreamed of her last night.

Which was odd. He hadn't for a while now. Not as she'd been in her final days, wasted and pale, but as she'd been in his childhood. Strong. Laughing. Her hands gentle as she adjusted his small crown for his seventh birthday.

"A crown is a burden, Kal," she'd said.

"Never forget that." She'd died three years later when Orc raiders attacked their summer palace. He'd been ten, hiding in a secret compartment while his mother's blood soaked through the floorboards above him. His Farmusian mother, with her copper hair and pale skin—so different from the Sundarian darkness he'd inherited from his father. She'd always been viewed with suspicion by the court, the foreign empress whose son was now accused of treason. Kalyon had only done what was necessary.

The Dragon's Breath wasn't a betrayal—it was insurance. A weapon powerful enough to keep the empire safe. His father couldn't see past ancient hatreds to the new world Kalyon was building. And now Kalyon would pay for that vision. Would the emperor come to the trial? Would his sister Marene be there, or his half-brother Ghorin? Would anyone speak for him, or would he face the Judges' Bench alone? Maybe he'd end like his uncle, Soren. Or his cousin, Morgana.

The lock mechanism clicked, startling him from his thoughts. He quickly slipped the paper into his mouth, swallowed it. Three guards entered—Captain Renn in front, flanked by two others whose faces Kalyon recognized but whose names he'd never bothered to learn. All wore the formal black and silver of the Imperial Justice Corps.

"It's time," Renn said, his voice neutral but his eyes hard. Kalyon had once had the man flogged for insubordination. Clearly, he remembered. Kalyon stood slowly, maintaining what dignity he could.

"Is my father attending?" None of the guards answered. Renn simply gestured to the wall.

"Hands." Kalyon extended his wrists without argument. The middle guard—younger than the others, with a pockmarked face—approached with a set of manacles. They weren't ordinary restraints. Runes etched into the metal glowed faintly blue. As if he were some common mage-criminal. The cuffs snapped shut with a sound like finality.

"Ankles too," Renn said. Kalyon's jaw tightened.

"Is that necessary? I can hardly run in these." He rattled the wrist restraints.

"Protocol for traitors," the pockmarked guard said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. Kalyon considered objecting further but recognized the futility. He stood still as they secured the ankle restraints, connected to the wrist cuffs by a short chain that forced him into a slightly stooped posture. The third guard—older, gray at the temples—approached with something that made Kalyon's stomach clench. A muzzle. A rune-etched metal contraption designed to prevent speech.

"Surely that's excessive," Kalyon said, taking a step back.

"I'm not a rabid dog."

"Some would disagree," Renn replied.

"You know the law. Traitors are prevented from speaking outside the Judge's direct questioning. To prevent... incitement."

"I'll go quietly. You have my word." Renn's laugh was short and bitter." Your word? Worth its weight in sand these days." The older guard held up the muzzle. Its runes pulsed, matching the rhythm of the cuffs. Kalyon straightened as much as the chains allowed. A final dignity.

"Get on with it, then." The metal was cold against his face. The guard worked efficiently, tightening straps, checking the magical seals. When it was done, Kalyon could open his mouth slightly, enough to respond to questions when permitted, but no more than that. The runes would silence any unauthorized attempt to speak. Renn looked him over, and for a brief moment, something like a smile crossed his face.

"Let's not keep justice waiting." They led him out, one guard before, two behind. The corridors of the prison were silent, which wasn't a surprise since he was alone in it. His boots echoed on the stone. Thirty minutes until 11: 45. Whatever was coming, he would face it like a Savarnis. Like his mother would have expected. The great iron doors at the tower's base swung open, revealing not a carriage but a line of Imperial Guards in full ceremonial armor. The sun, the real one, hit Kalyon's eyes like a slap.

"Walk," Renn ordered, shoving him forward. Kalyon's chains rattled as he stumbled. The ankle restraints forced him to take small, awkward steps. He looked up and understood—the route to the Hall of Justice wasn't through the private tunnels beneath the city. It was through the streets themselves. A mile of public humiliation. A crowd had already gathered outside the tower gates. As Kalyon emerged, a murmur rippled through them, building quickly into jeers.

"Traitor!"

"Farmusian dog!"

"Look at the prince now!" Guards formed a corridor around him, but they left enough space for everyone to see. Four guards walked directly at his sides, while Renn led the procession. The pockmarked guard walked directly behind him, occasionally nudging him forward when Kalyon's pace slowed.

"Traitor," the young guard said, low enough that only Kalyon could hear.

"Traitor."

"Traitor."

"Traitor." The word became a rhythm with every step. The crowd grew as they moved into the Market District. Shopkeepers abandoned their stalls. Children were lifted onto shoulders for a better view. It wasn't often that a Savarnis fell. Kalyon kept his head high, focusing on a point in the distance. The great dome of the Hall of Justice was visible above the rooftops. His destination. His judgment. Still thirty minutes until his appointed time. Thirty minutes of this. Something wet hit his cheek. Spit.

A man with a butcher's apron had pushed to the front of the crowd.

"My son died because of your attack last year!" the butcher shouted.

"Burned alive!" An unfortunate victim, Kalyon thought. But great causes require victims. One of the guards moved to push the man back, but Renn made a subtle gesture. The guard hesitated, then stepped aside. More projectiles followed. A rotten apple exploded against Kalyon's shoulder. Mud spattered his legs.

"Your mother spread her legs for orcs!" someone shouted. She was killed.

"Farmusian whore's son!" She only ever wanted good for you people... Kalyon's jaw clenched behind the muzzle. He could feel the metal cutting into his skin as he tried, involuntarily, to respond. The runes flared, silencing even the possibility of speech. They passed the Temple District, where the crowds were thicker, more hostile. A priestess stood on the temple steps, watching with cold eyes. She made no move to stop her acolytes from joining the taunts. Twenty-five minutes to go.

A clod of horse dung hit him squarely in the back. The guards laughed. Little people... Kalyon stumbled, the chains between his ankles catching on an uneven cobblestone. He went down hard on one knee. Pain shot through his leg.

"Up," Renn ordered, not bothering to help him. As Kalyon struggled to rise with his bound hands, something else hit him—a stone, small but sharp, catching him above the eye. Blood trickled down, warm against his cold skin.

"That's enough," one of the older guards said, stepping between Kalyon and the crowd.

"Back!" Too late. The stone-thrower had emboldened others. More rocks followed, most blocked by the guards, but one struck Kalyon's shoulder, another his ribs.

"MOVE!" Renn shouted, suddenly urgent. The procession picked up pace, the guards closing ranks slightly. Kalyon limped forward, blood dripping into his eye, his princely composure fracturing with each step. The crowd's hatred was a physical thing, pressing against him from all sides. I will not forget. I will not forgi– Then he saw him. In the chaos of the mob, a single still figure. Hooded, face obscured by a half-mask, but Kalyon would know those eyes anywhere. Piercing azure blue, with that unnatural focus.

Adom Sylla. He'd grown taller—no longer the child Kalyon remembered. His stance was different too. More confident. More dangerous. Their eyes met across the crowd. A rotten cabbage hurtled toward Kalyon's face—then abruptly changed direction mid-air, as if swatted by an invisible hand. A stone did the same. A splash of mud that should have hit him veered unnaturally to the ground. No one else seemed to notice the impossibility of these trajectories. No one except Kalyon.

Adom's hand was slightly extended beneath his cloak. The faintest white glow emanated from his fingertips. Twenty minutes to go. The masked figure melted back into the crowd as the procession continued its relentless march. Kalyon couldn't tear his gaze away from where Adom had been. As they approached the Hall, the crowd began to thin, held back by the growing number of Imperial Guards. Kalyon's legs trembled with each step, the pain in his injured knee shooting up his thigh.

Blood had dried tacky on his face, and every breath stung his bruised ribs. Then, at the edge of the crowd, a flash of movement caught his eye. A tall figure stood apart from the jeering masses, dressed in simple but well-made clothes. Kell. His face unreadable, his posture relaxed despite the chaos around him. Their eyes met. Kell held his gaze steadily, then gave a single, deliberate nod. The nod said everything. That 11: 45 was real. Kalyon looked away quickly, not wanting to draw attention to the man.

The Hall of Justice loomed before them now, its white marble steps stretching upward, seemingly endless. The crowd couldn't follow here—Imperial Guards lined the steps, keeping the mob at bay. Kalyon began the slow, painful climb. His clothing was stained with filth, his face bloodied, his dignity in tatters. Just as his father had intended. The massive bronze doors of the Hall stood open. Beyond them, darkness. Kalyon reached the top step. The noise of the crowd faded behind him as he crossed the threshold.

The sudden quiet was deafening. The doors swung closed with a thunderous boom. Alone in the vast entry hall, with only his guards as witnesses, Kalyon's legs finally gave out. He collapsed to his knees, the chains rattling against the marble floor. He couldn't stop the tears now—they came in a flood, silent behind the muzzle, coursing down his dirt-streaked face. One year of captivity. A lifetime of privilege. All washed away in a single mile of public shame. The tears continued, uncontrollable.

"Get up, princess." The pockmarked guard yanked on the chain between Kalyon's wrists, metal cutting into already raw skin.

"Your audience awaits." Kalyon forced his legs to steady beneath him, biting back a groan as weight settled on his injured knee. The guard's lips twisted in satisfaction at his struggle.

"Move," Renn ordered, his voice echoing in the cavernous entry hall.

"The Judges won't be kept waiting." They marched him down the long central corridor, past murals depicting the founding of the empire—his ancestors looking down on him with painted eyes that seemed to follow his halting progress. Kalyon had walked halls like these countless times before, always at the emperor's right hand. Now he shuffled in chains. The guards paused before an ornate set of doors—two massive slabs of polished blackwood inlaid with silver. The Imperial Court of Justice.

Renn gave a sharp nod to the ceremonial guards flanking the entrance. They swung the heavy doors open. Sound washed over him—the murmur of hundreds of voices suddenly falling silent. The smell of too many perfumes mingling with sweat. The weight of countless eyes. The Hall of Justice stretched before him, a vast circular chamber ringed with tiered seating. Every level was packed. The noble houses of Sundar had turned out in their finest to witness a prince's downfall.

As the guards prodded him forward, Kalyon scanned the faces. So many familiar eyes refusing to meet his. There, in the second tier—Professor Amadeus Kim. The man stared fixedly at his own hands, shoulders rigid beneath his mage robes. Kalyon had first met Kim as a curious teenager, sneaking into advanced lectures he wasn't qualified to attend. The professor had taken him under his wing.

Years of friendship, of trust, shattered when Kalyon had manipulated him into creating crucial components for the Dragon's Breath, never revealing their true purpose. I'm sorry, old friend, Kalyon thought, the familiar mix of regret and justification churning in his gut. But your brilliance was necessary. The weapon had to be built. His gaze moved on. Lady Crestfall, elegant in midnight blue, her face was carefully neutral. Lord Darrow, eyes bright with poorly concealed anticipation.

The heads of Houses who had always opposed his policies—now vindicated in their suspicion of the half-Farmusian prince. The Imperial Mage Council sat as a block, seven figures in silver-trimmed robes. At their center, Sir Gaius Emrys, Archmage of Sundar, his face set in stern lines. The old man's eyes bored into Kalyon with something beyond disapproval—something like personal betrayal.

Though Gaius had never been his teacher, the Archmage had watched Kalyon grow up, had advised him when he first took on diplomatic duties. Now those hands that had once clasped his in greeting rested on the wooden railing, knuckles white. The Dragon's Breath had required more than deception. It had required access to restricted knowledge. Knowledge that Kalyon had taken from the Archmage's private archives without permission.

The guards halted him at the center of the floor, directly beneath the great crystal dome that crowned the hall. Sunlight streamed down, harsh and exposing, a deliberate spotlight. On the far side of the chamber, elevated on a dais of white marble, sat the seven Judges of the Imperial Court, their faces hidden behind silver masks representing Justice, Mercy, Wisdom, Strength, Loyalty, Honor, and Truth. Before them, a smaller chair—the Testimony Seat—awaited him.

To the right of the Judges' Bench, on a slightly lower platform, sat his siblings. Marene, his full sister, beautiful and cold in her formal black and silver. Her copper hair—so like their mother's—was pulled severely back, emphasizing the sharp lines of her face. Her eyes met his briefly, revealing nothing. Beside her, his half-brother Ghorin, dark-haired and uncomfortable in his ceremonial armor. The younger man's eyes darted nervously around the room, as if searching for escape.

Ghorin had never wanted power—had never understood why Kalyon fought so hard for it. And finally, to the left of the Judges, on a platform of his own, separated from all others by ceremonial guards in gold-chased armor—the Emperor. Rayhan Vi Savarnis, Fifth of his Name, Emperor of Sundar and the Eastern Territories, Protector of the realm, Kalyon's father, sat perfectly still on his traveling throne. Unlike the Judges, he wore no mask. His face—so similar to Kalyon's own—was visible to all.

The deep lines around his mouth, the silver threading through his dark beard, the cold assessment in his eyes. Those eyes had once shown pride when they looked at Kalyon. Now they held nothing but judgment.... Father, Kalyon thought, the word catching painfully against the muzzle. The silence stretched, heavy and expectant. The Chief Judge—Justice—rose to his feet, silver mask gleaming in the sunlight.

"Kalyon Vi Savarnis," the voice behind the mask intoned, "son of Emperor Rayhan, former Crown Prince of Sundar, you stand accused of high treason against the empire." The Judge's voice carried to every corner of the hall without effort.

"Conspiracy with foreign powers. Theft of imperial secrets. The creation of a forbidden weapon." Every charge hung in the air like a blade.

"How do you plead?" As if on cue, the older guard stepped forward to remove Kalyon's muzzle. The metal scraped against his cheeks as it came away, leaving behind raw skin and the taste of blood in his mouth. Before he could speak, Kalyon's eyes darted to the massive clock mounted high on the chamber wall. 11: 35. Ten minutes until whatever was coming. Ten minutes until 11: 45.