I got up abruptly from my seat, the movement so sudden and forceful that my chair scraped loudly against the stone floor. The sound echoed through the now-silent hall, drawing every eye toward me.
"You have got to be kidding me!" I yelled, my voice raw with disbelief and fury, addressing everyone present—the judges, the jury of priests, the assembled nobles, all of them. "Four hours of additional prayer for one year? That's the punishment for ordering the slaughter and torture of a human being? For orchestrating the rape and murder of an innocent woman?"
My whole body shook with barely contained rage, my magic responding to my emotional state by crackling visibly in the air around me.
"Are you people even hearing yourselves?" I demanded, my voice rising even higher. "Do you understand what you're saying? What message you're sending? That some lives simply don't matter? That if you hold the right position, you can order any atrocity and face nothing more than mild inconvenience?"
Silence greeted my outburst. Every person in that hall sat frozen, staring at me with expressions ranging from shock to disapproval to carefully concealed sympathy. No one seemed willing to speak, to defend the judgment or acknowledge its grotesque inadequacy.
Arvid rose beside me, clearly trying to intervene before I said something that couldn't be walked back. "Rhia—" he began, his tone gentle but urgent, his hand reaching toward my arm.
But before he could continue, before he could attempt to calm me or guide me toward more diplomatic language, a strong female voice cut through the tension like a blade. The voice belonged to none other than Sofia Lumirei, the formidable duchess and mother of the accused.
"You are profoundly ignorant," she stated, her words emerging cold and precise, each syllable carefully enunciated. She remained seated as she spoke, projecting authority without needing to rise. "But I suppose that makes a certain amount of sense, doesn't it? How would a northern queen—someone from a completely different culture with entirely different legal traditions—possibly know about each of the southern kingdoms' specific laws and customs? Different realms, different rules. That's simply reality."
She paused, letting that observation settle before continuing with increasing sharpness.
"However, I must say that I find it rather remarkable that you weren't even aware of this most basic rule governing Kima Kingdom. The Saintess's immunity from standard prosecution is literally the first and most fundamental law of our realm, taught to children, understood by everyone who lives here. To attend a trial in Kima without understanding this... well, it demonstrates a level of ignorance that's almost impressive in its completeness."
Sofia finally rose from her seat with deliberate, controlled movements and descended the steps to the ground level where Fiona sat. Her military bearing was evident in every motion—back straight, shoulders squared, each step measured and purposeful.
"But fortunately for you," she continued, her tone suggesting she found nothing fortunate about the situation at all, "ignorance of our laws is not itself a crime. You cannot be punished for simply not knowing. So you may consider yourself lucky in that regard."
I felt my nails digging painfully into my palms where my hands were clenched at my sides, cutting deep enough that I could feel the warm trickle of blood beginning to seep between my fingers. The physical pain was almost welcome—it gave me something to focus on besides the overwhelming urge to unleash my magic and reduce everyone in this hall to ash.
"But do you know who did commit an actual, prosecutable crime yesterday?" Sofia asked, her voice taking on a quality of false curiosity as she looked around at the assembled observers, making sure she had everyone's complete attention. "An act that violated our laws and customs in ways that cannot simply be dismissed or overlooked?"
She turned to face me directly, her sharp blue eyes boring into mine with undisguised hostility and triumph.
"It was none other than the so-called Queen of Draga," she announced, investing my title with subtle mockery, making it sound like a pretension rather than a legitimate position. "This foreign woman who presumes to judge our ways while violating them herself."
She raised one finger and pointed directly at me, the gesture accusatory and damning.
"She threatened to cut my daughter's hands off during their confrontation yesterday in the temple gardens," Sofia declared, her voice ringing with righteous indignation. "She dared to threaten violence against the Queen and Saintess of Kima—someone whose person is sacred according to our laws and traditions! She showed complete disrespect for our customs and our spiritual leader!"
Before I could formulate any response, before I could defend myself or provide context for what had actually transpired in that garden, Sofia clapped her hands together sharply. The sound carried clearly through the hall, obviously a prearranged signal.
The massive double wooden doors at the hall's entrance swung open with dramatic timing, and Fiona's attendants from yesterday—the same young women who had witnessed our confrontation in the garden—filed into the room in a neat line. They had clearly been waiting just outside, prepared for exactly this moment. Their entrance had been choreographed, rehearsed, timed for maximum impact.
"These loyal servants will bear witness to the Draga queen's misconduct!" Sofia announced with satisfaction. "They will testify truthfully about what they observed."
The attendants were called forward one by one and questioned by the elderly priest serving as judge. And one by one, with remarkable consistency that could only have come from careful coaching, they all provided the same testimony in nearly identical language.
"The foreign queen threatened to cut off Her Holiness's arms," each one stated with varying degrees of conviction in their voices. Some sounded genuinely upset, as though they had witnessed something truly shocking. Others delivered their lines more mechanically, like actors reciting rehearsed dialogue. But the content never varied. "She spoke violently and with clear intent to harm. She showed no respect for the sacred position of the Saintess."
Then came the next act in their carefully orchestrated performance, the piece of theater they had clearly planned down to the smallest gesture.
Fiona rose from her seat with a sudden movement, tears already beginning to stream down her face with impressive speed—too fast to be entirely genuine, suggesting either remarkable emotional control or the application of some substance to produce the effect. Her expression was the picture of distressed innocence, of a young woman caught between loyalty to family and desire for peace.
"Oh Mother!" she cried out, her voice breaking with perfectly calibrated emotion. "I know you're worried about me! I understand that you're trying to protect me because you love me! But please, please, I do not wish to press charges against Sister Rhia! Yes, she frightened me terribly yesterday with her threats—I was genuinely scared for my safety. But despite that, I want to get along with my new sister! I want us to have a good relationship, to support each other as family should! Please don't press charges against her!"
The performance was flawless in its execution. Fiona managed to appear simultaneously traumatized by my supposed threats and magnanimously forgiving, wounded but generous, the very picture of gracious forbearance in the face of unprovoked aggression.
I felt physically ill. The sense of nausea and disgust that crawled up from my stomach was so intense it made me shudder visibly. This was disgusting. Absolutely, profoundly disgusting. The manipulation, the calculated theater, the way they had twisted reality into this warped narrative where Katherine's torturer and murderer became the victim deserving of sympathy—it was obscene.
"My daughter possesses such a kind heart," Sofia added, her voice warm with maternal pride as she gazed at Fiona with obvious affection. "Despite being threatened and disrespected, despite having every right to demand justice for the crimes committed against her person and position, she has chosen to forgive. She has decided to be merciful toward someone who showed her no respect whatsoever."
Sofia turned back toward me, her expression becoming more pointed.
"What my daughter did—the supposed crime that prompted these threats—was nothing more than a child throwing a tantrum, acting out from emotion rather than malice. Surely the wise and educated Queen of Draga is intelligent enough to see through such obvious behavior? Surely she can understand that sometimes young people make impulsive mistakes and deserve compassion rather than violent threats?"
The implication was crystal clear: I was being portrayed as someone who had dramatically overreacted to innocent behavior, who had threatened brutal violence in response to nothing more serious than a young woman's emotional outburst. Katherine's murder was being reframed as a "tantrum." The woman who had ordered rape and death was being painted as someone who deserved understanding and forgiveness.
In that moment, standing in that hall surrounded by people who apparently found this narrative not just acceptable but persuasive, I experienced a desire—no, a need—to kill someone that was more intense than anything I had ever felt before. The urge was overwhelming, primal, consuming. I wanted to teleport directly to where Sofia and Fiona stood and snap their necks with my bare hands, to hear the satisfying crack of vertebrae separating, to watch the life drain from their eyes while they finally understood the consequences of their actions.
The air around me vibrated visibly with the pure magical power spilling out because of my excessive rage. The atmosphere itself seemed to distort and shimmer, reality bending slightly under the pressure of the energy I was unconsciously radiating. Several people in the nearby seats leaned away from me instinctively, their bodies responding to the danger even if their minds hadn't fully processed what they were witnessing.
Arvid's hand suddenly closed around mine, his grip firm and grounding. "Rhia," he said quietly, urgently, standing beside me and positioning himself slightly in front, as though his body might shield me from my own impulses or protect others from what I might do.
I forced myself to take a breath, to pull back from the edge of action that couldn't be undone. Not here. Not now. Not in front of all these witnesses. If I acted on my rage in this moment, I would be giving them exactly what they wanted—proof that I was dangerous, unstable, violent. I would validate their narrative and destroy any chance of eventual justice.
So instead, I leaned toward Arvid and whispered, my voice deliberately weak and shaky, playing into the role they had already created for me: "I'm not feeling well. Can we please leave? I need to get out of this place."
Arvid immediately understood what I was doing and why. He raised his voice to address the hall, concern evident in his tone: "I apologize to everyone assembled. My wife is unwell—this has all been extremely distressing for her. May we please be excused from the remainder of the proceedings?"
There was immediate murmuring throughout the hall—some sympathetic, some skeptical, some openly scornful. But the elderly priest nodded his permission, clearly relieved to have the disruptive foreign element removed from his courtroom.
As Arvid began guiding me toward the exit, we had to pass directly by where Fiona stood with her mother. I stopped for just a moment, and then, with effort that cost me more than anyone watching could possibly understand, I executed a deep, respectful bow toward the Saintess.
"Thank you so much for your generosity, Your Holiness," I said, my voice emerging appropriately weak and grateful, the very picture of someone humbled by magnanimous forgiveness. "I am forever grateful for your kindness and mercy. I hope someday I can repay such grace."
The words tasted like poison in my mouth, each syllable an act of violence against my own integrity. But I delivered them with perfect sincerity, with just the right mixture of relief and shame and gratitude.
Fresh waves of murmuring swept through the assembled observers. I could hear fragments of commentary: "Perhaps she's learned her lesson..." "The Saintess truly is remarkably forgiving..." "Such a gracious response to threats..."
Perfect. Let them believe I had been put in my place, that I had learned to respect their precious Saintess and her immunity. Let them think I was cowed and grateful.
Fiona wanted to play at being magnanimous and forgiving? Fine. Two could absolutely play that game. And I would play it far better than she could imagine.
---
After we returned to our residence in Auga, I turned away a worried Arvid with gentle but firm insistence that I was tired and needed rest, that the emotional toll of the trial had exhausted me completely. He was reluctant to leave me alone, clearly concerned about my mental state, but I convinced him that sleep was what I needed most.
So I locked myself in my chambers and made a show of climbing into bed, of settling under the covers as though preparing for deep sleep. I even adjusted my breathing to the slower rhythm of someone drifting off, in case anyone was listening at the door.
But the moment my head touched the pillow, instead of surrendering to physical rest, I went deeper into myself—diving down into that internal landscape where Aiona resided, where our consciousness could meet and converse without external observation or interruption.
"I want to kill them," I told her without preamble, my mental voice carrying all the rage I had been forced to suppress in that courtroom. "I need to kill them."
"I want to rip them apart piece by piece," I continued, beginning to pace back and forth across the golden rice fields of her domain, my movements agitated and restless. "I want to snap their necks and watch them die slowly. They don't deserve to live, Aiona. They deserve to suffer the way Katherine suffered. They deserve worse than death, and I want to be the one who delivers it."
"Well, you certainly don't have to convince me," Aiona replied, her tone carrying dark amusement at my vehemence. "I'm more than willing to help you burn them all to ash. But I need to ask you something important before we proceed down this path, and I need you to answer honestly: Are you absolutely certain you won't regret this? That you won't look back in days or months or years and wish you had chosen differently?"
I stopped pacing and stood still for a long moment, genuinely considering her question rather than answering impulsively. This was important. Once done, it couldn't be undone. I needed to be sure.
"I won't regret it," I finally replied, my mental voice completely steady and certain. "I know that taking revenge doesn't bring Katherine back—I understand that fundamental truth. Killing them won't resurrect her or undo any of the suffering she endured. But I don't care. I want to kill them anyway. I need to kill them. This desire comes from the very depths of my soul, from some fundamental place that transcends logic or morality or consequences."
I paused, making sure my next words carried the full weight of my conviction.
"And I will never, ever regret it," I stated with absolute finality. "If I could, if I possessed the power and the time, I would kill them over and over again for all eternity. I would make them experience Katherine's suffering repeatedly, endlessly, until the end of time itself. That's how certain I am."
Aiona studied me for a moment, her ancient eyes searching my face for any hint of doubt or uncertainty. Finding none, she nodded slowly.
"In that case," she said, "I have just the thing you're going to need."
She made a gesture with one hand, and an ancient-looking tome suddenly materialized in her grip—a massive book bound in what looked like leather that might once have been some color but had aged to a mottled gray-brown. The pages visible along its edge were yellowed with age but remarkably well-preserved.
"This came with Rulha's essence," Aiona explained, holding the book out toward me. "Part of his divine power, part of his magical knowledge. He was particularly renowned throughout the Dragon Age for his mastery of cursing magic—some of the most sophisticated and devastating curse work ever developed."
I took the tome from her carefully, feeling the weight of it both physically and metaphorically.
"Unlike me," Aiona continued, "who specialized in all-consuming flame magic—which is powerful but ultimately rather straightforward, a basic elemental form—Rulha developed his curse magic into something far more complex and subtle. He accomplished this with help from an elf in the ancient age, someone whose name has been lost to history but whose magical genius was apparently extraordinary. This tome represents the elf's handiwork as much as Rulha's—a collaboration between dragon power and elven cunning. Making the cosmic law itself deceived. Even though it's forbidden to curse humans, elven development in these spells made those seems like ordinary magic, so, it's safe to use, a loophole, created by cunning mind of a elf."
She gestured toward the book I now held.
"Give it a try. Study the spells contained within. I suspect you'll find something perfectly suited for this particular occasion, something that will deliver exactly the kind of justice you're seeking."
I clutched the ancient tome to my chest and nodded my gratitude before allowing my consciousness to drift back toward my physical body.
I had work to do.
---
I opened my physical eyes in the middle of the night, the room around me dark and silent. Moving carefully to avoid making noise that might alert anyone to my wakefulness, I rose from the bed and retrieved a hooded overcoat from my wardrobe. I pulled it on over the thin nightgown I wore, adjusting the hood to shadow my face.
Then I moved to the balcony doors, opening them as quietly as possible. Without hesitation, I climbed up onto the railing and jumped down from the considerable height. As I fell, I simultaneously activated a teleportation spell, blinking out of existence above the residence courtyard and reappearing instantaneously in the shadows near the Temple of Ror.
It didn't take me long to locate where the Saintess resided. Her manor was positioned within the temple complex but set apart from the main worship buildings—a substantial residence befitting her dual role as spiritual leader and temporal queen. The building was surprisingly well-lit even at this late hour, with lamps burning in multiple windows and servants still moving in and out, attending to various late-night duties.
I approached cautiously, studying the patterns of movement, identifying the security measures in place. Then I activated one of the simpler spells I had learned from Rulha's tome earlier: *"Focre."*
The invisibility spell—or more accurately, a spell that encouraged observers' eyes to simply slide over and past the caster without registering their presence—settled over me like a veil. Suddenly, I could walk openly and no one's gaze would focus on me, no one's attention would catch and recognize that something was there that shouldn't be.
It worked beautifully. I was able to enter the manor and navigate its corridors without generating any reaction whatsoever from the staff I passed. They simply didn't see me, their minds automatically classifying my presence as unimportant background detail not worth conscious notice.
I found Fiona's bedchamber without difficulty—it was the largest suite on the upper floor, marked by excessive decoration and the constant flow of attendants in and out. I slipped inside and positioned myself in a shadowed corner, then settled in to wait as the last servants completed their tasks and finally departed, leaving the Saintess alone for the night.
Fiona went through an elaborate bedtime routine—changing into sleeping clothes, having her hair brushed and arranged, drinking some herbal tea that was probably meant to encourage restful sleep. Eventually, satisfied that everything was prepared to her specifications, she dismissed the final attendant and climbed into her enormous, luxurious bed.
I waited patiently for a full hour after she had settled, watching as her breathing gradually deepened and evened out, as her body relaxed completely into genuine sleep. I needed to be absolutely certain she wouldn't wake during what came next.
Finally, convinced she was deeply asleep, I emerged from my corner and approached her bedside silently. She looked peaceful lying there, her face relaxed and innocent in repose. No hint of guilt or remorse troubled her dreams. She slept soundly, completely unburdened by what she had ordered done to Katherine.
My hand rose unconsciously and traveled toward her neck, my fingers already positioning themselves to wrap around her throat, to squeeze until something vital broke with a satisfying crack. It would be so easy. So quick. She would barely have time to wake before it was over.
But with tremendous difficulty, I pulled my hand back and forced myself to lower it. "That would be far too easy," I whispered to myself. "Too quick. Too merciful. She doesn't deserve such an easy exit."
Instead, I raised my other hand to my mouth and bit down hard on my index finger, breaking the skin and drawing blood. A dark red bead welled up from the wound. I held my finger over Fiona's forehead and allowed a single drop to fall, watching it land precisely in the center of her forehead.
Then I spoke clearly but quietly, activating the spell I had studied and memorized from
Rulha's tome:
"Curse magic: Never-ending nightmare. Open."
The blood drop on her forehead immediately began to glow with a deep crimson light that intensified rapidly. Then the color shifted, transforming from red to absolute black, darker than the surrounding shadows. And then it was absorbed directly through her skin, sinking into her flesh and disappearing, carried by her bloodstream directly to her brain where it would do its work.
It was only fair, I reasoned as I watched the curse take hold. She should experience what Katherine had been forced to endure, even if only in the realm of dreams. Every night when she closed her eyes, she would relive Katherine's final hours—but from Katherine's perspective. She would experience the terror, the pain, the violation, the desperate hope that someone would save her followed by the crushing realization that no help was coming. She would feel every cut, every brutal penetration, every moment of agony. And when she finally died in the dream, when the nightmare reached its conclusion, it would immediately restart from the beginning. Over and over. Forever. Every single night for the rest of her life, denied even the escape of dreamless sleep.
I watched Fiona's peaceful expression begin to shift slightly, her brow furrowing as the curse started its work even in these first moments. Soon she would be screaming. Soon she would learn what suffering truly meant.
Satisfied with my work, I reactivated the invisibility spell and left the same way I had entered, slipping back out into the night.
Justice, I thought as I teleported back to my own chambers, came in many forms. The court had failed to provide it. So I had provided it myself.
And I felt absolutely no regret whatsoever.