The way nobles solved their problems always seemed... funny to me. Or maybe tragic. In conflicts or disagreements, they could easily settle things among themselves, with a duel or a war. But when they wanted to appear civilized—or profit from it—they appealed to the Tribunal.
The Tribunal was a kind of guild. Officially, it existed to guarantee the rights of the nobles. In practice, it was a theater. A place where accusations could be thrown around without proof, and yet blood would flow as if justice had been done.
I've seen craftsmen lose everything for striking the wrong note with a lord. Peasants hanged for harvesting what wasn't theirs. Mercenaries disappearing for protecting those they shouldn't have. Every six months, the New Moon City Court would "investigate" a new case—and it always ended with bodies. Often, it was just to satisfy the pride or pocketbook of someone with a better coat of arms embroidered on their clothes.
I walked silently with my father at my side, wearing our formal armor of the Udrak house. Mine was reinforced—wide shoulder pads, thicker arm guards, the red leather peeking out between the black plates. My black cape dragged to my heels. I felt the weight of each step, not because of the armor, but because of what was about to happen.
My father wore the version designed for swordsmen. He walked with his usual firmness, but I know he also heard the uncomfortable silence of that place.
Behind us, the family warriors followed like silent shadows. All in similar armor, adjusted to the weight limit that each body could bear. None of them said anything. They just marched.
When we passed through the gates and reached the square, my eyes fell directly on the guillotine. I stood motionless for a few seconds.
"Is something wrong?" I heard my father ask, his voice firm as stone.
But I didn't answer right away. There was something wrong with that place.
But I didn't answer right away. There was something wrong with that place.
The square was vast and open. To the left was the execution hall. To the right, the dueling hall. Ahead, the bleachers—still empty, but I could feel the eyes that would soon be there. In the center, a white altar with a scale carved on it. "Symbol of justice," as they like to call it. An irony that didn't make me laugh.
But my eyes remained fixed on the guillotine.
Something there... something was impregnated in that place. A metallic smell that didn't come from steel. My ears were ringing. It wasn't real noise. It was as if a thousand bees were crawling inside my head, buzzing relentlessly, trying to warn me.
There was something sticky, dense, that wasn't visible. It was anguish.
"This place stinks of death" I muttered, more to myself than for anyone to hear.
"Hehehe... yes, the peasants have nightmares about this place" my father replied with that dry laugh, not realizing what I really meant.
He couldn't feel what I was feeling.
I didn't insist. It was useless to explain that the buzzing in my ears came from the souls dragged there. That the heavy air wasn't fear, but the smell of blood that permeated the stones. Some things only I seemed to notice. Maybe it's the curse of carrying this body... or this ring.
I approached the inspection table. The guards were serious, but they looked away when they met my gaze. I placed my weapons on the wood with precision: bow, short sword, a dagger strapped to my belt. Everything gleamed, not out of ostentation, but out of zeal. It was my craft.
They nodded, allowing us to enter.
We passed through the gate and I saw the real reason for all this: the audience. The stands were almost full.
On the right, in plain sight, was the head of the Gênese family, Arsino. A chubby man with curly blond hair and greasy fingers that seemed incapable of holding a pen without letting it slip.
His family was the opposite of ours: diplomats, loudmouths, owners of a few words that were worth more than swords in certain parts of the empire. They funded a large part of the Mercenary Guild. It was curious... their strength did not come from their arms, but from their tongues.
Arsino brought his wives, children, and heirs—all excited as if they were going to see a play. I felt disgust, but kept it to myself.
To the left, far away, were the Tenehir. Theodore First, the head of the family, stood out with his vibrant red hair and predatory red eyes. They were the masters of currency, owners of the merchants' guild and the monopoly on almost everything that could be sold or bought in the city. And Theodore... well, that man was a fertile plague. Eleven wives.
Thirty-two children. His family occupied an entire wing of the bleachers, trying to feign modesty amid sparkling jewels and practiced smiles. In the center, like a shadow between the gold and silver, was the Grenvene family. Healers, poisoners, masters of information. They had doctors and administrators in every corner of the city.
No one knew more than they did—and that made them the most dangerous. Golvene, the chief, was discreet. Ordinary face, triangular eyes, a smile too kind to be sincere. As if every thought was a trap.
I watched all this in silence, and when I took off my dark helmet, I felt the stares burning my skin.
"What a beautiful show... we've become entertainment," I muttered again, now with bitterness dripping from my voice.
My hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, and it swayed slightly when the wind blew, exposing my face.
I saw some of the stares turn to me—the judgments, the whispers, the forced smiles, and the wide-eyed stares.
To them, I didn't look thirteen.
I grew up too fast—and I'm not just talking about my body. My face had left behind any trace of childhood. What remained now was a calm, cold... and masculine countenance, as they would say. It seemed as if my body had been forced to age along with my spirit. Growing up amid war, training, and pain did that to a man—even if that man was still in his early teens.
I felt my father's hand pat me proudly on the shoulder. Rillen. He had a discreet smile on his lips as he climbed up to the stands, glancing sideways at the young women who blushed when they passed me. Some girls fanned their faces with fans, others just looked away as if they had been caught in a silent sin.
I paid no attention to any of them.
My mind was elsewhere.
"Is he really thirteen...? He looks... big," I heard a female voice whisper. It was a blonde woman sitting next to a man with a tense posture.
Arsino Genese.