The chains on her wrists clink softly as she walks, each step heavier than the last. Suzan's gait falters, her body swaying like she's walking through a storm no one else can see. Her knees buckle, and before she can steady herself, her legs give way. She stumbles forward, hitting the cobblestones with a dull, painful thud.
"Hey Suzan!" one of the guards cries out, panic lacing his voice.
In an instant, three pairs of hands reach down, catching her frail frame, lifting her carefully as though she might shatter at the slightest pressure. Her face is pale, lips dry, sweat beading on her forehead despite the cold morning air.
"She can't even stand…" another guard mutters, voice trembling. He looks up at the captain of the escort. "We can't take her like this. If she goes into court today, she might—"
"Ask the court guard," the captain says, grim, eyes darting toward the tall man approaching them from the tribunal doors. His steps are precise, his jaw sharp with discipline.
The court guard barely spared Suzan a glance. "What are you doing? Bring her in. The trial begins now."
"She's sick," one of Suzan's prison guards argues, desperation in his voice. "She collapsed right here on the path. Look at her—she can't walk."
The court guard's tone is ice. "Not my concern. The orders are clear."
"Then ask the judges to delay—"
The man cuts him off, his face twisting with cruel disdain. "You dare question the judges? Over a prisoner?"
The guards holding Suzan exchange anguished looks. Their grips tighten slightly, not in restraint but in protection, as if shielding her fragile body from the very words being hurled at them.
"She's not just a prisoner," one whispers. "She's… she's only a child."
The cruel guard sneers. "Then that child should have thought before meddling with relics far above her station. Now move."
They hesitate. Every instinct tells them this is wrong, that forcing her into that cold chamber again will break what little strength remains in her. But Captain Arven's voice rings firm behind them.
"Enough," he says, though his own voice trembles. "Don't cause conflict here. We'll only make it worse for her if we fight among ourselves."
Reluctantly, the guards nod, swallowing their protests. They support Suzan under each arm, guiding her step by unsteady step toward the tribunal doors.
From the balcony high above the hall, the King stands with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He comes every day, silent, watching, waiting. His eyes follow Suzan's frail body as she's carried inside, and his heart tightens painfully.
"She is breaking," the Queen whispers beside him, voice cracking with every word. Her fingers twist the fabric of her gown as though holding herself together. "Look at her, my love. How can you allow this? She is so small. So… helpless. They're going to kill her before she can even speak."
The King does not answer at first. His jaw clenches, his eyes fixed on the child below. He has asked questions, tried to probe. But every time, the judges assure him insisting—soon, her mask will crack, soon, she will reveal the truth.
But what they call "cracking"… to his eyes, it is not revelation. It is despair.
He exhales slowly, voice low. "What if she is innocent?"
The Queen's tears spill over. "Then she suffers for nothing. And by the time anyone realizes it, she will be gone."
Later that day, the King finally speaks with the judges calling them before him. His voice is steady but commanding, carrying across the chamber like thunder.
"This has gone on long enough. If you cannot get your answers, then I will interrogate her myself."
The judges freeze. Murmurs ripple through them like fire through dry grass.
"Your Majesty," one stammers, "there is no need. We are close. The mask is cracking—we will have answers soon."
Another bows quickly, words spilling in haste. "It would not befit a King to soil his hands with this. Allow us. We will resolve it. Please, grant us time."
The King's eyes narrow. "Five days," he declares, final and absolute. "If by then you have no proof, no truth, I will take her myself. This has gone too far."
The judges bow low, but their faces pale. The King's doubt presses on them like a weight they cannot bear.
The next day, the King does not attend. Business of state calls him elsewhere, though his absence leaves a strange hollow in the chamber. The nobles murmured among themselves as they gathered, the grand chamber thick with perfume and judgment.
"She grows thinner every day," one whispered, pity softening his tone. "Even the strongest heart cannot endure such cruelty much longer."
"Cruelty?" another snorted. "She's the one who brought ruin upon herself. The fire in the merchant quarter, the explosion near Lord Fenton's carriage, that poor guardsman poisoned m—she's a walking curse. And now the relic, too? She's lucky to still be breathing."
A lady in emerald silk turned sharply. "You speak of crimes that were never proven. The fire was blamed on her without witness, the explosion could have been anyone—and the poison, even the apothecaries said it was planted!"
"Excuses," came the cold reply.
"Always excuses when it comes to her. Who else would dare mock the Crown Guard and still walk free?"
"She shouldn't be free," another voice cut in, older, trembling with outrage. "If she touched the relic—if she set foot in that vault—then she's no child. She's a threat. The court should end this farce."
A nobleman near the dais slammed his cane against the floor. "End it? Without proof? You'd hang a child to protect your pride."
"She's no child!" someone shouted from the back. "You saw her laugh as she ran from arrest! That kind of cunning isn't innocence—it's mockery!"
"But have you even looked at her lately?" a woman interjected, her voice cracking with compassion. "She can barely stand. Does that look like the face of a master conspirator? You call her a monster because it's easier than admitting you might be wrong."
The chamber erupted. Dozens of voices at once—rage, pity, fear—spilled into one another like a storm breaking loose.
"The carriage fire was proven false—"
"Lies spread by the palace!"
"She bewitched them, I tell you!"
"A child cannot bewitch a kingdom!"
"Then explain the relic! Explain the vault!"
"She was framed—"
"She's dangerous—"
"She's dying!"
The argument swelled, each word heavier than the last, echoing off marble and gilded glass until the air itself trembled with the weight of it.
And then—
The doors opened.
A ripple of silence fell through the chamber.
Suzan entered
She walks slowly, supported by guards on either side. Her body sways as if every breath might topple her. Chains rattle softly against her wrists, her steps dragging across the polished floor.
Some nobles gasp, faces pale with pity. Some avert their eyes, unable to bear the sight. And some—cruel smiles curve their lips, satisfied to see her so broken.
"Look at her," one whispers smugly. "Soon she will confess."
Suzan reaches the dais, forcing herself to stand tall, though her body trembles with the effort. She grips the wooden rail before her, knuckles white, and waits for the first question.
The judge's voice cuts through the silence. "Why were you seen with the cloaked men? Who are they to you?"
Suzan's lips part, her voice rough and weary. "I… I don't know them. I talk to everyone on the street, strangers, mysterious or whatever. It's normal for me. I like meeting people, socializing. But I don't know who they are."
The judge's gaze sharpens. "Then why did they use you? Why did their illusions reflect you so clearly? How is the evidence so precise if it was not you?"
Suzan's brow furrows. "I don't know! Maybe they used me because I'm ... known for mischief. For stirring trouble. Everyone in the city knows that."
Lily's voice rises suddenly, sharp with emotion. "It's true! Everyone knows Suzan—she's always causing chaos, laughing, playing tricks. Of course someone would use that against her. Of course they would!"
The judge ignores her, leaning closer. "Then why do you resist? Why do you not give us names, if you are truly innocent?"
"I told you—I don't know them!" Suzan's voice cracks, frustration shaking her words.
Question after question, they hurl them at her. Each one sharper, heavier, twisting her words back on themselves. Her voice grows weaker, rasping.
Finally, she grips the rail tighter, her eyes glassy with tears. "I didn't do it. I didn't do anything. Why do you keep asking me the same things? Why do you doubt me? It wasn't me."
The judge's voice is cold. "Your words only make you more suspicious."
Suzan's cry echoes, raw and desperate. "I didn't do it! Please—please let me go! I am innocent! Why are you accusing me of something I never did? How long are you going to—"
Her voice cuts off in a violent cough. She doubles over, clutching her chest, coughing harder and harder. The sound rips through the chamber—wet, painful, relentless.
"Stop this!" Captain Arven shouts, rushing forward. "She cannot continue!"
Suzan wheezes, gasping, her voice a broken whisper. "I… didn't… do it…"
Lily bolts from her seat, eyes wide with horror. 'Suzan. My Suzan.' The girl who laughed at danger, who danced on rooftops, who feared nothing—now bent double, coughing blood into her trembling hands.
"SUZAN!" Lily cries, running forward, but the guards surround her, lifting Suzan up as her body convulses with each cough. Tears stream down Lily's face. "Stop this! You're killing her!"
Suzan lifts her head, eyes dazed, tears streaming down her cheeks. Blood stains her lips. Her whisper cuts through the chaos, heartbreaking.
"Why… won't anyone believe me…?"
Then she collapses.
Gasps erupt. Guards catch her limp body just before she hits the ground.
"Medic!" Arven bellows, his voice breaking. "Now! She can't breathe!"
The judges exchange uneasy glances, their faces masks of stone. But blinded by their desperation of getting the answer out of her before the king takes her. One finally says coldly, "Take her back to her cell. When she wakes, bring her again."
"What?!" Arven roars, fury blazing in his eyes. "She is only a child! You'll kill her if this continues!"
"You will remember your place, Captain," the judge snaps. "She is guilty until proven otherwise. Do not let pity blind you."
Arven's fists clench, his lips bleeding where he bites down hard enough to draw blood. Powerless. Helpless. He has faced armies, seen comrades fall—but never has he felt such crushing despair as he does watching a dying child dragged back to her cell.
---
That night, in the barracks, silence reigns heavy.
One guard slams his fist into the table, tears spilling down his face. "Why? Why did we bring her here? She's dying because of us."
Another buries his face in his hands. "If only we hadn't arrested her… if only we hadn't listened…"
"She's just a girl," another whispers, voice trembling. "And we… we're the ones chaining her, dragging her into that hall every day…"
Captain Arven stands in the shadows, his heart heavy. He had called for a medic, had ordered them to keep her alive, but the guilt weighs him down like a mountain.
---
And the tribunal ends again—with no verdict, no justice. Only an announcement:
"The next trial will decide her fate. If she cannot be cleared… she may face execution. Or exile."
The words echo like a death knell, sealing the chamber in despair.