We had Katherine cremated according to northern tradition. She was dressed in a beautiful gown—one of the gowns we found in haze, a soft blue that had complemented her coloring perfectly. Her body was prepared with all the care and respect she deserved, arranged peacefully as though she were merely sleeping, and then sent to the kiln as custom required. The process took hours, during which I stood watching, unable to look away, unable to leave her even in this final transformation.
Her ashes were carefully collected afterward and divided between two urns, both crafted from simple but elegant ceramic. One urn would eventually be buried in consecrated ground, allowing her physical remains to return to the earth. The other would be offered to Tumlin—the god who, according to northern belief, guided souls to paradise above mountain Serana and watched over the dead. This dual practice was meant to honor both the body and the spirit, ensuring that every part of Katherine found peace.
Dawn had arrived by the time everything was complete. I hadn't managed even a single moment of sleep throughout the long, terrible night. Our carefully planned departure for Arpa had been indefinitely postponed. Such mundane concerns as travel schedules seemed absurdly trivial compared to what had happened, what had been lost.
I had returned to Auga after a restless, agonizing ride back from Drath. Throughout that journey, I had held Katherine's urns in my arms, cradling them as carefully as I might hold a child, unwilling to let anyone else transport them or to pack them away with luggage as though they were ordinary objects. The two vessels, modest in size but carrying such weight of meaning, bore her name inscribed clearly on their surfaces in my own handwriting.
*Katherine Yoyenne*
The name looked strange written out like that, final and formal. It emphasized the reality that she was truly gone, that she had been reduced to a name on pottery and ash contained within.
When we first met, Katherine and I had been somewhat at odds with each other. The memory felt distant now, almost belonging to a different life. It was funny, in a tragic way, how time had transformed everything into its opposite. That initial wariness and friction had slowly metamorphosed into genuine friendship and deep affection. If I had known from the beginning that our time together would be so limited, that it would end so horribly, I would have been kinder to her from the very start. I would have treasured every moment more consciously, would have told her more often how much I valued her presence and support.
The words I had spoken to her during our final conversation haunted me mercilessly. Those harsh declarations about how I couldn't be comfortable knowing her feelings, how she had to leave for both our sakes—they had been my last words to her. I would have given anything to go back and change them, to soften them, to let her know that despite everything, she was important to me and always would be. But what use were such wishes now? She was gone. No amount of regret could alter the past or bring her back.
I carefully placed the two urns on the small table in the mansion's drawing room, positioning them side by side with meticulous precision. Then I sank into the chair positioned next to that table and laid my head down on the wooden surface, turning my face so I could see the urns, could keep them in my line of sight.
The position reminded me painfully of that afternoon in the Gorei library where I had fallen asleep in exactly this same posture while Katherine sat nearby, very much alive, working on some reading quietly. I had dozed off watching her then, comforted by her living presence, by the soft sounds of her breathing and occasional page-turning. Now, in that same position, Katherine's urns stood in place of her living form, ash and ceramic substituting for warmth and breath and consciousness.
Tears started streaming down my face once again, the moisture somehow replenishing itself despite how much I had already cried. I had thought myself cried out, had believed there were no tears remaining. But grief, I was learning, was not a finite resource that could be exhausted. It simply waited, gathering strength, ready to ambush you again when you thought you had achieved some fragile equilibrium.
I don't know how long I remained in that position, crying silently while the morning light gradually strengthened outside the windows. Time had lost coherence and meaning. Eventually, I became vaguely aware of someone entering the room, of footsteps approaching cautiously.
"Your Majesty?" Rora's voice came softly, hesitant, clearly uncertain whether she should interrupt my grief or allow it to continue undisturbed.
I didn't respond or look up. I couldn't seem to summon the energy to acknowledge her presence or engage with the external world in any meaningful way.
"His Majesty has asked me to prepare you for the trial this morning, Your Majesty," she continued when I remained silent. Her tone was respectful, gentle, but also carried a note of firmness—she had been given instructions and intended to carry them out regardless of my cooperation. "The proceedings are scheduled to begin soon. You'll need to dress appropriately and arrive on time."
The trial. Right. The trial where justice would supposedly be served, where Katherine's murderers and the person who had ordered her death would face consequences for their actions. I had to be there. I owed Katherine that much at minimum.
I slowly raised my head from the table and stood up, my body moving on automatic despite the bone-deep exhaustion weighing me down. I nodded mutely at Rora, indicating that I would comply with the preparations.
I let Rora take complete control of getting me ready, too drained and numb to make even simple decisions about what to wear or how to arrange my hair. She moved around me with quiet efficiency, her hands gentle as she worked. She selected a black gown for me—appropriate for mourning, the color stark and uncompromising. The fabric was high quality, and silver patterns had been embroidered throughout the bodice and skirts in intricate designs that caught the light. My hair was braided with careful precision and adorned with silver jewels that Rora placed strategically throughout the arrangement. The overall effect was severe, formal, befitting someone attending a trial for murder.
When she had finished, I looked at myself briefly in the mirror and barely recognized the pale, hollow-eyed woman staring back at me. But it didn't matter. Appearance was irrelevant. Only the trial mattered, only ensuring justice was served.
I was escorted to a waiting carriage and then transported to the Temple of Ror, where apparently a hall specifically dedicated to conducting trials was located. I had not known such a facility existed during our previous visit to the temple, but then, we had only seen the parts designated for worship and contemplation. This was a different section entirely, built for very different purposes.
The trial hall was impressively designed—a circular space with three distinct levels of tiered seating that rose up from the central floor, allowing spectators to sit at various heights and watch proceedings unfold below. The architecture ensured that everyone present would have a clear view of the accused, the witnesses, and the judges. I was escorted to a seat in the very first row, the position of highest status and closest proximity to the action. Arvid was already there, rising politely when I arrived and then settling back down beside me once I had taken my seat.
The hall was already partially filled with spectators despite the early hour. I recognized several nobles, all dressed formally and wearing expressions of avid curiosity mixed with appropriate solemnity. There were also numerous priests present, distinguished by their lighter-colored robes that marked them as members of the temple hierarchy. Many of these observers kept glancing toward Arvid and me, their eyes darting in our direction before quickly looking away when they found themselves being observed in turn. Whispered conversations buzzed throughout the space, creating a low hum of speculation and gossip.
"They're simply curious," Arvid explained quietly, leaning close so only I could hear. "They were all summoned to the trial hall this morning with very little notice or explanation. Most of them have no idea what this trial concerns or why it's being conducted with such unusual urgency. They're caught by surprise and trying to piece together what's happening."
Before I could respond, the double doors at the hall's main entrance were suddenly thrown open with considerable force, the heavy wood panels slamming back against the walls with a dramatic bang that immediately silenced all conversation and drew every eye in the room.
A woman entered with commanding presence, her bearing and movements radiating confidence and authority. She had brown hair styled severely and sharp blue eyes that swept the room with assessing intelligence. Her attire was completely different from what any other noble lady present was wearing—instead of an elaborate gown, she wore crisp white pants and a striking red military-style uniform jacket, clearly some kind of official dress. Her hair was pulled back in a tight, practical updo that emphasized the angular lines of her face. She walked with measured elegance and absolute confidence, each step purposeful and controlled. Behind her, a contingent of additional nobles filed into the hall, clearly part of her entourage or household.
"That's the Duchess of Lumirei," Arvid murmured, providing identification and context. "Sofia Lumirei. Lumirei is the only duchy that exists under Kima Kingdom's governance—the rest of the realm is divided into smaller baronies and counties. She's also the Commander of the Holy Knights, which is why she's wearing that particular uniform rather than civilian dress. And most relevantly for today's proceedings, she's the Saintess's mother."
I studied the woman with intense focus, noting details about her appearance and demeanor. She had a sharp, dangerous edge to her—an aura that clearly communicated "cross me and you will die" without her having to speak a single word. The look was permanent on her face, carved there by years of wielding power and brooking no challenge to her authority. The nobles who had already been seated all immediately rose to their feet when she entered, showing her the respect and deference her rank and reputation demanded. She took her seat on the first level of seating, the same tier where Arvid and I sat, positioning herself as an equal rather than a subordinate observer.
Once she had settled herself, arranging her uniform with precise movements, she turned her head and looked directly at us. Her eyes met mine, and I felt the intensity of her gaze like a physical pressure. Her expression was difficult to read completely, but I detected definite disapproval there, or perhaps assessment of an enemy. We held eye contact for several long seconds before she deliberately looked away, the dismissal clear and intentional. The nobles who were part of her group, who had been whispering and gossiping amongst themselves throughout the hall's filling, immediately fell into complete, nervous silence at some unspoken signal from their duchess.
Then the High Priest entered, Elian appearing through a different doorway with his characteristic grace. And behind him, escorted by temple guards, came the woman who had orchestrated Katherine's death, who had ordered her torture and murder as casually as one might order a meal.
The Saintess. Fiona.
Elian took his designated seat among the first tier of observers, positioned to watch but not to judge—the High Priest's role in Kima was administrative and spiritual rather than juridical. The Saintess, by contrast, was directed to remain at the ground level, placed in the chair specifically designed to hold the accused during trials. There was an immediate murmur of surprise and speculation that rippled through the assembled observers at seeing someone of her rank and position seated there, in the place reserved for criminals awaiting judgment.
But Fiona herself seemed completely unbothered by her situation. She had a serene, almost pleased smile playing on her lips, and she turned that smile on everyone who looked at her with concern or curiosity, as though this were merely an interesting social event she was attending rather than a trial that could result in severe punishment. When her gaze finally found mine, she gave me a small, sly smile—the expression of a fox who knows it has already outmaneuvered the hounds and is simply playing along for amusement.
I gripped the edge of the table positioned in front of me with both hands, squeezing hard enough that I heard the wood crack ominously under the pressure. My magic was responding to my rage, wanting to lash out, wanting to reduce this smug, remorseless creature to ash where she sat.
Arvid placed a calming hand on my back, the touch gentle but grounding. "It's going to be alright," he said quietly. "Justice will be served. Trust in the process."
But his reassurance did nothing to calm the terrible sense of foreboding that was settling over me like a shroud. The way Fiona looked—completely without guilt or regret, totally unconcerned about her situation—it suggested she wasn't worried at all about the trial's outcome. And her mother's presence, that formidable duchess sitting nearby with her unreadable expression, added another layer of complication. Something was wrong here. Something was very wrong.
"Tell me honestly, Arvid," I said, keeping my voice low enough that only he could hear. "Under Kima's laws, can she actually be convicted? Can someone of her rank and position truly face serious consequences for ordering a murder?"
Arvid drew in a deep breath, clearly preparing to give me an answer I wouldn't want to hear.
But before he could speak, the elderly priest who had taken the judge's seat—a man I didn't recognize, wearing robes that indicated senior status within the temple hierarchy—raised his hands and called out in a voice that carried throughout the hall.
"The trial against the Saintess will now commence! Let all present bear witness to the proceedings and the judgment that follows!"
General Rohan stepped forward to begin presenting the case, his military bearing evident in his posture and movements. He spoke clearly and precisely, laying out the facts in chronological order.
"Katherine Yoyenne, a maid in service to Her Majesty the Empress of Selon, departed from Auga yesterday morning with the intention of traveling north to Draga," he began. "She made the decision to spend the night at an inn in the town of Drath rather than continuing through the night. It was during her stay at this inn that she was brutally murdered. Her body was discovered by the concerned driver who had been hired to accompany her on her journey. An autopsy examination conducted by a qualified physician has revealed that Lady Katherine was subjected to violent sexual assault by multiple perpetrators before her death. I will now read from the official medical report."
He unrolled a document and began reading in a flat, professional tone that couldn't quite disguise the horror of what was being described. The report detailed Katherine's injuries with clinical precision—the evidence of repeated rape, the multiple stab wounds that had eventually killed her, the defensive wounds on her hands and arms that showed she had fought desperately against her attackers. Every word felt like a blade cutting into me. I closed my eyes, unable to watch the assembled nobles and priests as they listened to the catalog of atrocities that had been inflicted on someone I cared about.
What Katherine had been forced to endure was absolutely, unspeakably horrible. She hadn't deserved any of it. What kind of twisted, depraved mind was even capable of conceiving such cruelty? What kind of person could order such suffering to be inflicted on another human being and then sit smiling, completely untroubled by their actions?
After the medical report was completed, the physical evidence was presented to the court. The dagger—that distinctive weapon bearing the Lumirei family crest—was held up for all to see, the dried blood still visible on its blade. Then the four criminals who had actually carried out the assault and murder were brought forward in chains. They had been beaten severely during their capture and interrogation, their faces swollen and discolored, their movements pained. Each of them, when questioned, gave testimony accusing the Saintess directly. They described in disturbing detail how she had approached them, what she had offered them in payment, what specific instructions she had given them about how Katherine should be treated before being killed. Their accounts were consistent and damning.
After all the witness testimonies had been presented and all the evidence displayed, there was a period of deliberation. The priests who apparently served as a jury conferred amongst themselves in hushed tones, occasionally glancing toward the accused, toward the evidence, toward the noble observers. The discussion lasted perhaps fifteen minutes.
That same unsettling feeling continued pricking at my heart, growing stronger. Something was deeply wrong with how casually this entire proceeding was being conducted. These priests were treating a case of torture and murder as though it were a minor administrative matter, something barely worthy of serious attention. The lack of gravity, the absence of appropriate horror and outrage—it all suggested a predetermined outcome, a performance being staged rather than genuine justice being sought.
Finally, the jury finished their deliberations. They wrote out their judgment on official parchment and handed it to the elderly priest serving as judge. He unrolled it, read it silently to himself first, and then prepared to announce the verdict to the assembled court.
I held my breath, my hands clenched so tightly that my nails were cutting into my palms. This was it. This was where Katherine would receive justice, where her suffering would be acknowledged and appropriately punished.
The priest cleared his throat and began reading in a formal, ceremonial tone:
"After careful consideration of all evidence and testimony presented, this court issues the following judgment: The four criminals who committed these heinous acts against Lady Katherine Yoyenne are to be executed this very afternoon by hanging until dead. The maid who served as a spy and accomplice, providing information that enabled these crimes, is to have her tongue removed to prevent further betrayal, and is sentenced to manual labor in the kingdom's mines for the remainder of her natural life."
He paused, and I felt a tiny spark of hope. Perhaps justice would be served after all. Perhaps—
"As for Her Holiness the Saintess," the priest continued, "she who has been granted immunity from standard prosecution due to her sacred position and divine appointment, the judgment is as follows: she is required to pray to our god Ror for an additional four hours each day, beyond her normal devotional duties, for a period of one full year. Through this extended communion with the divine, she will seek forgiveness and spiritual cleansing."
The words landed like blows. Four hours of prayer. That was the punishment for ordering a woman's rape and murder. Four hours of prayer for a year.
The table in front of me, which I had been gripping throughout the verdict reading, suddenly cracked completely in two with a loud splintering sound that echoed through the now-silent hall. The two halves fell away from each other, one section clattering to the floor.
Every eye in the room turned toward me.
But I barely noticed. All I could hear was that absurd, insulting, completely inadequate "punishment" echoing in my mind. Four hours of prayer. Four hours of prayer. As though Katherine's life, Katherine's suffering, Katherine's brutal death were worth nothing more than some inconvenient additional time spent on her knees in a temple.
This wasn't justice. This was a mockery. This was a demonstration that some people were simply above consequences, that rank and position could purchase immunity from even the most horrific crimes.
And I would not—could not—accept it.