Soon, the accused were marched onto a raised platform before the great dais, the weight of hundreds of eyes pressing down on them. Soldiers flanked them, weapons in hand, but it was not steel that kept them subdued—it was dignity. They were made to face the crowd, like criminals dragged into the light.
Lara's heart twisted at the sight.
Her father and brothers stood before her, visibly changed—worn thin by starvation and silence, yet still carrying the quiet defiance of warriors. General Odin, once a pillar of iron and command, looked haggard and sunken. Asael and Galahad bore dark hollows beneath their eyes, the toll of sleepless nights etched deep into their faces. Even Bener, who once kept his face clean and sharp as a blade, now wore the shadow of an unkempt beard. But it was the youngest—Percival—who broke her heart. His eyes were vacant, hollow pits, as if something inside him had died long before this trial began.
