The night was long, and what it birthed was cruelty. The protagonist, once lit with resolve, now hung shackled, bruised and bleeding, in a cell deep beneath the castle. His breath rattled in his throat, ribs too sore to expand without pain. The interrogators had tired themselves on him, but the questions hadn't stopped. They wanted a truth. Not his—theirs.
A torch flickered outside the cell. Then came the sound of footsteps. Softer. Controlled. The torturer stepped back as a new presence entered. Queen Regent Elenora IV, cloaked in velvet and stillness, stepped into the room.
"Leave us," she commanded.
The torturer bowed, vanishing with the creak of the door.
She paced around him. Eyes like sharp glass.
"Why were you with my daughter? What did you want from her?"
The protagonist, bloodied but unbroken, murmured his answer: the same he always gave. The truth. It was never enough.
She turned to leave.
"Please," he rasped. "Let her go. You won't see me again."
The queen halted. Chuckled coldly. "You should've thought of that before you tried to steal from me."
She stepped closer, voice cutting. "Torturer, prepare him for an audience."
"Why?" he gasped.
She smirked, turning on her heel. "Because you're about to stand trial."
Sunlight broke behind the stained glass of Princess Elyra's chamber. She sat rigid, hands folded, as her mother stood opposite. Queen Elenora's lips were thin with fury.
"You endangered the entire court, Elyra Elaine Virelle," she hissed. "And for what? Some mad pursuit of power outside your birthright?"
"Mother, please, just listen—"
"I have listened enough. Your actions bring disgrace. You are a princess, not some... adventuring fool."
Elyra tried to speak again, but the queen raised a hand.
"Your attache is dismissed. Mavis to the kitchens. Sir Garrin and Sir Alin Rowe to the outer walls. You will now have six hand-selected guards at all times. You will not leave castle grounds without my written consent."
Elyra stood, fury and sorrow twisting in her throat. But the queen had already turned to leave, her judgement final.
Later, the royal court gathered beneath vaulted ceilings. Parliament members lined the benches. Queen Elenora IV presided at the dais. The protagonist, barely standing, was brought forward in chains.
The trial began.
Procedure. Accusations. Recounts of the raid. Every eye dissected the man in chains.
Then came a voice.
"Why not hand him over to the Crownbrand of his guild? Let them deal with their own."
The Queen's posture tightened. "He has committed treason. His punishment falls to the Crown."
Another voice: "Was he alone?"
All eyes turned to the prisoner. He hesitated. Looked at the queen. At the silent walls.
His mind recoiled—
Flashback. The chains. The cell. The queen's cold questions. Her smirk.
Back in the present, he spoke: "I acted alone."
"Where were you before here?"
He looked up. "I don't remember. I woke up outside the kingdom walls."
Gasps. Murmurs.
The Queen's face paled.
"And how did you come into the kingdom—"
"Recess," Elenora commanded, slamming the gavel. Chaos erupted.
The protagonist was dragged back to his cell.
Elsewhere, the queen walked in tense silence beside Lord Virec, a parliament elder. "That trial is too exposed," he said. "It raises more questions than it answers."
"And questions must sometimes be silenced."
He shook his head. "Movement in the East. The Whispers of Eiravell have returned. Their reports are... unsettling."
Elenora closed her eyes briefly. "I will handle it. After the trial."
Atop the walls, Garrin and Alin shared their drink in solemn ease.
"She always gets what she wants," Garrin muttered.
"Even when we said no."
"Cunning girl."
They toasted. "To peace and distance."
In her chambers, Elyra begged the guards. "Please. Let me walk the grounds. Just a breath of air."
They refused.
When the new maid arrived to clear her plates, Elyra slipped a note beneath one. A message for Mavis.
Back in the dungeon, the queen entered the cell. The torturer looked up, frustrated.
"Anything?" she asked.
"He won't budge."
"His sigil?"
"Didn't check."
He pulled back the prisoner's shirt. Nothing. Just bruises and dried blood.
The torturer frowned. "Nothing there."
The queen stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "He has no mark? No crest?"
"None."
The queen stared at him. "Then how did you slip past the borders, hm? No brand. No allegiance. No origin."
The prisoner said nothing. Only the sound of his breath, slow and quiet.
The queen's jaw tightened. The room felt still—too still.
Then she whispered, not to him, but to herself: "Something doesn't add up."
And for a brief second, it seemed the flicker of torchlight bent the wrong way.