The discovery of Vorlan's treason—his complicity in the chaos that led to the Arcadia purge—was the final, devastating piece of the puzzle. It confirmed Elara's deepest suspicion: the Sanguine Court was not a place of order and tradition, but a gilded cage built on a foundation of self-serving betrayal. The man who had been the first to hail her as Queen, the man who sought to be the power behind her throne, was a co-conspirator in the murder of her family.
The ledger, now secured in Cyrus's private vault alongside the logs and Kaelen's journal, was the ultimate weapon. It was proof that Vorlan was not the cautious survivor he claimed to be, but a ruthless opportunist who had betrayed the old houses for a slice of Lysandra's power.
The challenge now was not merely to expose him, but to do so in a way that would consolidate Elara's power, not fracture it. A simple accusation would be dismissed as a power grab. The exposure had to be absolute, undeniable, and sanctioned by the very traditions Vorlan sought to uphold.
"The exposure must be public," Elara stated, pacing her chambers, the Sanguine Crown resting on the table. "It must be in the throne room, before the entire court. It must be a trial, not an execution."
"A trial is a risk," Cyrus countered, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. "Vorlan is ancient. He is respected. He will have allies who will defend him, who will question the legitimacy of the evidence."
"Then we will use the ultimate authority," Elara said, her eyes burning with a cold, focused intensity. "The Blood Trial. An ancient, rarely used ritual where the accused and the accuser present their case before the entire court, and the truth is determined by the potency of their blood and the judgment of the Crown."
Cyrus's jaw tightened. "The Blood Trial is a relic, Elara. It is a dangerous, unpredictable ritual. It is a test of raw power, of lineage, of will. If you fail, the court will not only execute you, they will see it as proof that the Arcadia line is weak, and the chaos will be absolute."
"And if I succeed?"
"If you succeed," Cyrus said, his voice low and grim, "you will not only destroy Vorlan, you will establish your reign as absolute. You will prove that the Crimson Heir is not a puppet, but a true Queen, sanctioned by the very blood of the old houses."
"Then the Blood Trial it is," Elara declared. "I will use the power of the Arcadia blood to expose the truth. I will use the lie to destroy the traitor."
The next morning, Queen Elara issued a decree that sent a fresh wave of shock through the court. She commanded the immediate arrest of Councilor Vorlan on charges of high treason against the Sanguine Crowns, and she invoked the ancient right of the Blood Trial to determine his guilt.
The court was stunned. Vorlan, the cautious survivor, the power behind the throne, arrested on the command of the young Queen he thought he controlled. The audacity of the move was breathtaking.
Vorlan, initially defiant, was quickly subdued by Cyrus and his enforcers. He was brought before Elara in the throne room, his ancient face a mask of cold fury and disbelief.
"This is madness, Heir!" Vorlan spat, his voice trembling with rage. "You are a fool! You are a puppet! You have no proof! You have no authority!"
Elara sat on the throne, the Sanguine Crown on her head, her posture one of cold, absolute authority. "I am your Queen, Councilor. And I have the proof of your betrayal. You will face the Blood Trial. And the truth will be revealed."
The Blood Trial was set for the following night. The throne room was transformed. The dais was cleared, and in the center of the chamber, a massive, obsidian altar was erected. The court gathered, the atmosphere thick with anticipation and fear. This was not a political execution; it was a test of power, a judgment by blood.
Elara stood before the altar, dressed in a simple, high-necked gown of pure white—a stark contrast to the blood-red velvet of her usual attire. She was the picture of innocence, of righteous fury. Vorlan stood opposite her, his ancient robes draped over his massive frame, his eyes burning with a cold, desperate resolve.
Cyrus stood at the edge of the altar, the silent, watchful judge.
The ritual began with the exchange of blood. Elara, with a single, precise cut, offered her blood to the altar. Vorlan followed suit. The two streams of blood mingled on the obsidian surface, a potent, volatile mix of the Arcadia line and the ancient, corrupted blood of the councilor.
The Blood Trial was a test of mental fortitude, of the ability to project the absolute truth of one's intent into the shared blood. The accuser and the accused would present their case, and the blood would judge the lie.
Vorlan spoke first, his voice ringing with ancient authority. He spoke of his loyalty to the Crown, his service to Lysandra, his role in restoring order. He spoke of Elara's ambition, her recklessness, her reliance on the Enforcer. He projected a powerful, absolute truth: he was the victim, the loyal servant betrayed by a power-hungry usurper.
The blood on the altar pulsed, a faint, angry red. The court murmured, swayed by the power of his conviction.
Then, it was Elara's turn. She closed her eyes, focusing her will, pulling on the cold, hard core of her defiance. She did not speak of the ledger. She did not speak of the Southern garrisons. She spoke of the truth of his betrayal.
She projected the memory she had taken from Lysandra: the Queen's paranoia, the engineered chaos, the truth of the Arcadia purge. She projected the image of the massive, unexplained payments, the signature of Vorlan, the betrayal of the old houses. She projected the truth of his ambition, his willingness to sacrifice his own kind for a slice of power.
The blood on the altar pulsed, a violent, angry black. The court gasped, recoiling from the raw, undeniable truth of the betrayal.
Vorlan staggered back, clutching his chest, his ancient face a mask of shock and terror. The raw, undeniable truth of his treason, projected through the potent Arcadia blood, was a physical blow.
"The lie!" Vorlan gasped, his voice a ragged thread. "The perfect lie!"
Elara opened her eyes. She looked at Vorlan, her eyes burning with a cold, absolute fury. "The truth is absolute, Councilor. You betrayed the old houses. You betrayed the Crown. You betrayed your own kind."
She turned to the court, her voice ringing with cold, absolute authority. "The Blood Trial has spoken. Councilor Vorlan is a traitor, a hypocrite, and a murderer. He is guilty of high treason against the Sanguine Crowns."
She looked at Cyrus, who stood a statue of cold, unmoving discipline. "Lord Enforcer. Execute the traitor."
Cyrus bowed, his face a mask of cold, absolute duty. He drew the silver rapier. The blade gleamed in the dim light.
Vorlan, seeing the sword, lunged for Elara, his ancient face a mask of final, desperate fury.
Cyrus moved. He was a blur of motion, a cold, absolute force. The silver rapier flashed out, and the cautious survivor, the power behind the throne, fell to the floor, the sword buried in his heart.
The court was silent, stunned by the brutal, absolute finality of the judgment. The Blood Trial had spoken. The Queen was absolute.
Elara sat on the throne, the Sanguine Crown on her head, the blood of the traitor staining the obsidian altar. She was the Queen. She was the perfect lie. And she was about to commit an act of brutal, calculated betrayal. The war had just begun.