Weeks ago— back on the day Captain Arven rode out in search of the cloaked men, the King's words had hung in the hall like a vow carved into stone:
"Five days," he had said. "Five days to find the truth."
Two had already vanished into Suzan's silence.
Now came the third.
At dawn, Kael Drosven descended to the lower levels of the fortress — his stride measured, his presence enough to make lesser men straighten at once. The air grew colder the deeper he went, until the stone corridor opened to the dungeon gates.
He stopped.
The familiar gold of the royal watch was gone.
In their place stood eight men clad in crimson armor, the sigil of the High Court gleaming on their chests — scales of judgment crossed by a blade.
For a moment, silence ruled the corridor. The men stiffened under his stare.
Kael's voice came low, even — the kind that made every word sound like a test.
"Where are my sentries?"
The nearest officer, a broad-shouldered man with a clipped beard, bowed quickly, head lowered. "Sir Kael," he began carefully. "Your men were… reassigned two hours ago. By decree of the High Council."
Kael's gaze didn't shift. "Reassigned?"
"Yes, sir." The man swallowed, eyes flicking to the floor. "All tribunal prisoners now fall under direct Court jurisdiction. Our orders were to replace the royal guard until further notice."
"Whose hand signed that order?" Kael asked.
The officer produced a scroll, both hands trembling slightly as he offered it. "The minister himself, my lord. Sealed and stamped under the Council's authority."
Kael took it without looking down. His gloved fingers tightened just enough to crease the parchment.
"The King's authority does not fade at the Council's convenience," he said softly.
The officer bowed deeper. "Of course, sir. We serve only to assist His Majesty's justice. The Council—"
"—acts when asked," Kael cut in, his tone suddenly sharp. "Not before."
The man froze.
Kael stepped closer, the faint echo of his boots filling the narrow hall. His gaze swept over the eight crimson-armored men — each one avoiding his eyes, their postures stiff with unease.
"Listen well," Kael said at last, voice calm but edged with ice. "The girl you are guarding must be kept secure."
He paused; the words were simple, not pleading, not dramatic — a directive, nothing more.
The officer's breath hitched. "Understood, sir."
Kael held his stare one heartbeat longer, then turned, his cloak brushing the stone as he walked away.
They took the order as orders are usually taken in these places: paper to be obeyed and reason to be deferred. To the crimson guards it meant one thing very plainly — keep her where she can be questioned. If Kael hoped they would read mercy into it, they did not. They read usefulness. And usefulness, to them, was obedience.
His fury burned low, contained like a blade in its sheath.
They were afraid of him — as they should be — but not enough to stop their game.
And that, he thought darkly, was exactly what the Council wanted: to make him act in anger.
But he wouldn't. Not yet.
They would make their move in daylight.
His would come in silence
So the crown held its blade sheathed, moving with precision instead of wrath.
Every word, every visit, every whisper was calculated like a move on a chessboard.
This wasn't weakness.
It was controlled fury.
Morning didn't come all at once.
It seeped in, slow and reluctant, through the cracks in the dungeon ceiling — thin white shafts that did not warm, only exposed the dust drifting in the air.
Suzan opened her eyes to that dim light, blinking hard. For a moment she didn't know where she was. The walls looked different. The scent — sharp, metallic — not like before.
Her throat was sandpaper. Her chest felt like it was filled with smoke.
She tried to push herself up but her wrists burned against the shackles.
Her first thought was Lily.
Her second — the voice.
She froze, breath shallow, listening. But the silence stayed still.
No whispers. No curse. Only her heartbeat and the scrape of boots beyond the bars.
She turned her head weakly.
Two guards stood at their post — unfamiliar armor, a dark red gleam instead of the gold she remembered.
They didn't look like Arven's men. Their eyes didn't soften when they saw her stir.
Suzan swallowed. Her lips cracked.
"H–hey…" her voice rasped, barely sound. "You're not the same ones."
No answer. One guard flicked his gaze toward her, unimpressed.
"I mean…" she tried again, forcing a faint smile. "Where's the one with the scar? He— he used to always greet me..."
"Quiet," the older of the two barked.
She flinched at the sound. The clang echoed in her skull.
"I just wanted—"
The man's gauntlet struck the bars — once, hard enough to make her jump.
"Didn't hear me?" His tone dripped disdain. "Silence."
Her mouth closed. Her shoulders trembled. Slowly, she curled in on herself and nodded.
Hours crawled by. The air was thick, unmoving.
She lost track of time — only the drip from the ceiling kept count, steady and cruel.
Her cough came back midmorning. It started small, just a scratch. But soon her body convulsed, racking her thin frame. She gasped, clutching at her ribs.
"Water…" she whispered. "Please…"
The younger guard — 5 years older than she was — looked away. His jaw tightened, guilt flickering behind discipline.
The older one caught him. "Don't even think about it."
"She's choking," the young man muttered.
"Then she'll learn to keep quiet next time."
Suzan coughed harder. Tears streaked her dirt-smeared face as she tried to swallow the air that wouldn't stay in her lungs.
When it finally subsided, she slumped against the wall, shaking.
She pressed her forehead to the cold stone.
"It will stop..... it is just a normal pain," she whispered to the pain, like a promise to herself. "It will stop soon."
Later, footsteps echoed down the corridor. Two more crimson guards stopped by her cell — replacements for the shift.
They looked her up and down, sneering as if the sight of her sickness was an insult.
"Is that the girl?" one asked.
The other smirked. "Hard to believe, isn't it? The little monster that burned a carriage, poisoned a guard, wrecked a noble's stall."
Suzan's head snapped up. "That's not true," she croaked, voice trembling.
The smirk widened. "Oh? So the evidence is lying now?"
"I didn't!" She tried to stand, but her legs buckled. "I was— I was with them— the royal guards, ask them!"
The man laughed. "They'll say anything to protect their toy. Everyone knows how the crown works."
She froze at that. For a second, she didn't even breathe.
Toy.
The word echoed in her mind like a hammer striking metal.
"I didn't hurt anyone," she said again, softer this time, desperate. "Please… I swear."
"Swear all you like." The guard tapped his spear against the bars. "The court doesn't care for fairy tales."
When they left, the silence came back.
Suzan sat with her knees drawn to her chest, shaking.
Her hands were cold — colder than the floor — and her heart felt too big for her chest.
Sometimes she whispered to herself, as if Lily were beside her.
"Lily would believe me… she'd come. She always does."
Then, quieter as she remembered her doubt : "Right?"
No answer.
The walls only gave her back her own voice, hollow and thin.
She shut her eyes and pressed her palms to her ears. "Don't cry. Don't cry. Crying means they win."
But the tears came anyway.
By evening, her cough returned again.
It began softly — a stifled sound, then another — until her body shook so hard it rattled the chains.
Three of Kael's men and five of Arven's were assigned to her watch, but they rotated in long, punishing shifts. The kind ones tried to protect her quietly, but they couldn't stay — orders always pulled them elsewhere.
When their time ended, the cruel ones came back, bringing the cold stench of iron and fear with them.
When the cough wouldn't stop, one of the younger guards slipped near the bars while his superior was away.
"Here," he whispered, glancing around. "Drink. Don't talk."
She looked up, startled. "Why are you helping me?"
"Because... you look like my sister," he said quietly, not meeting her eyes.
"She'd be about your age if—" he stopped, shaking his head. "Just drink."
He slid a tin cup through the gap, She blinked at the cup as though it were foreign, then took it in trembling hands. The water was lukewarm, but she clutched it like it was life itself. she drank shakily, half spilling it down her sleeve.
When she handed it back, she whispered, "Thank you."
The guard hesitated, as if the words hurt. "Sleep, if you can. Before they call you for another hearing."
She gave a faint, hollow laugh. "They still want me to stand?"
He didn't answer.
Then the moment word reached the Court that she was conscious again, chains clinked at her wrists.
"The Council calls for the accused," a harsh voice said.
No time to recover. No time to breathe.
They dragged her down the long corridor, her bare feet scraping the stone. Every step echoed in the silence, a rhythm of humiliation.
When she stumbled, one of the guards caught her arm — not gently, but enough to keep her standing.
"Walk," he hissed. "The judges don't like delays."
The courtroom's air felt heavier than the dungeon's. The nobles sat in rows of gold and crimson, their perfume and disdain filling the hall.
Suzan tried to speak when they asked her questions, but her throat burned, her voice breaking apart mid-sentence.
One judge frowned. "Answer clearly."
"I—I don't…" She coughed hard, clutching her chest. "Please—I didn't…"
The man slammed his hand on the table. "Enough pleading. Every day you repeat the same lies."
She flinched, shrinking back as murmurs rippled through the chamber.
"She stole the relic," someone said.
"And the fire carriage," another sneered. "Now even explosions follow her."
"Poisoned the merchant's hall too, they say."
"Then why is she still alive? And even given this much chances to be questioned?"
But from the other side, a trembling voice rose — an older noblewoman, eyes glistening.
"Look at her. Does she look like she could harm anyone? You speak of proof — where is it?"
"Proof?" a man spat. "That carriage fire was proven false, yes. But one or two truth undone does not cleanse the rest. Even lies carry smoke!"
Their voices crashed like waves — accusation and pity, anger and disbelief — until the room blurred in her eyes.
Suzan tried to focus, but the words tangled in her head, spinning together with her fever. She wanted to speak, to defend herself, but her lips moved without sound. Her knees wobbled, her fingers trembled, and when she coughed again.
"Stand her up!" one of the court guards barked as she faltered.
Hands seized her arms roughly, jerking her upright.
Through the haze, she could see the nobles watching — some in horror, some in cold satisfaction.
Her voice cracked one last time.
"I didn't…" she rasped. "Please—believe me…"
The session dragged on longer than anyone expected.
The court had been restless since dawn — five days. That was the limit the King had set in private.
Only four men knew the truth of that deadline: Kael, Arven, the King himself, and the High Court's chief judge. To everyone else, the trials were endless, grinding on because the Council demanded "thorough review."
In truth, the Council wanted something else entirely — a decision that would not anger the nobles, nor shame the throne, or spoil their reputation. They didn't want an answer out of her really they just wanted to end it fast.
The pressure was suffocating.
Each noble spoke faster, louder. The scribes could hardly keep up as accusations and counterarguments piled upon each other like stones.
"She's wasting our time," one judge snapped. "This child plays the court for sympathy. Every minute she breathes, the city whispers treason."
"And if she dies under false judgment?" another countered. "You think the streets won't whisper worse?"
They had evidence, yes — but none that held firm. A scrap of fabric, a burned trinket, a merchant's rumor about a girl in a hood. The relic, the fire, the poison—all tangled together, impossible to separate truth from lies.
The chief judge leaned forward, his tone sharp but weary.
"We cannot delay forever. Tomorrow's trial must conclude. Verdict or none, it ends."
Murmurs of reluctant agreement rippled across the chamber.
She is a child," one said quietly. "A sick one."
"She is a suspect," the judge replied, voice like iron. "And suspects do not heal in comfort."
When the hearing finally adjourned, the nobles rose in a blur of crimson and gold — muttering frustrations, trading theories, clinging to their certainty or doubt like armor.
Some swore she was guilty.
Some whispered she was not.
But none could agree.
And so the decision was delayed once more.
Suzan was left standing there, her head bowed, her breath thin and shallow.
The gavel came down at last.
A single sound that broke the silence.
But no one answered.
Only the gavel fell, and the hall filled with whispers.