The old Bishop stands and cleans his monocle with deliberate slowness, the glass catching the lantern light like a cold, unblinking eye.
His voice creaks out, measured and condescending, each word dropping like a stone into the tense silence.
"Before we discuss the... unpleasantness outside… I have a question for you, Elsbeth. When the jester was executed by hanging in front of the kingdom and Theoron, you arrived there with Sir Rowan, did you not?"
He turns his gaze to Rowan, who rises stiffly, his face a mask of barely contained fury.
"Yes," Rowan says, voice flat as hammered steel, though his knuckles whiten on the hilt of his sword.
"The jester was hanging," the Bishop continues, sliding the monocle back into place. "And in the next heartbeat,you vanished into thin air with him."
"Utterly impossible. Unless you know dark sorcery. And dark sorcery is a capital offense, as everyone knows.
That is why Theoron wants him gone. And I am inclined to agree."
Elsbeth's voice rises, steady but laced with desperation. "It wasn't dark sorcery."
Her mind flashes to the forgotten book Mercy left behind at Rowan's house, but the Bishop cuts in, his eyes narrowing like a predator's.
"So you are saying, Elsbeth, that was pure magic?"
Rein Smith, Master of the Injin Guild, stands up, his chair scraping against the floor like a drawn blade.
His face twists in disbelief.
"Madness. Magic is a dead tongue! Lost to the world for centuries. Dark sorcery exists only through blood sacrifice but pure magic? Do not insult our intelligence."
Leonard sees it clearly now the trap closing.
Every word is a knot in the noose around Elsbeth's neck.
He glances at Azik, willing him to speak, but Luan moves first.
He steps forward two deliberate paces and bows deeply, the bells on his motley jingling like a fragile apology.
"I know my voice is unwelcome here," Luan says, his tone steady despite the blood still staining his lips. "But please, let me explain. It is not her doing. It happened because of me."
Theoron's eyes bulge, face paling as if struck. His fists tremble on the table. "What… what is this?" he stutters, voice cracking.
The Bishop freezes. "The curse… broken?" he whispers.
Azik smirks in approval. Rein crosses his arms with a frown. Whispers ripple through the Guildmasters: "If the jest is gone… what else changes?"
Theoron slams his fist on the table, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
"Shut your mouth, you filthy thing! Know your place!"
Elsbeth stands abruptly, her palms hitting the wood with equal force.
"You have permission to speak, Luan."
The Bishop blinks, and the room falls into stunned silence.
Luan straightens. His voice is soft, but it carries the weight of centuries.
"I apologize, but as you know, magic is lost. Only shadows of it remain. But... I am six hundred years old. I remember when the air hummed with it. I have lived through the age of wizards."
His breath hitches, a sob catching in his throat.
"But I can't harm anyone even if I want to not even for the wardship of my own person." The curse forbids it. If I could hurt a soul, or if I commanded dark sorcery, I would never have let the King hang me in the first place."
He pauses, looking at his hands.
"An entity… or an angel, perhaps..." His words falter, confusion and awe mixing in his eyes. "I do not know exactly. It said it was Mercy. As is known to all, I can offer no proof."
The Bishop exhales sharply and raises a dismissive hand. "Fairy tales. Very well"
Thud-thud.
Azik raps his knuckles hard against the table.
"I know he has no rights under our law," Azik booms. "But I believe he should be forgiven."
Rowan steps forward. "I stand with Azik."
Leonard smirks, a flicker of hope cutting through the dread.
The Bishop frowns. "But—"
Elsbeth cuts in, her voice a blade. Tears stream down her face, but she points unwaveringly at Luan.
"He has done nothing wrong. He should be forgiven. He has harmed no one—unlike my father. It is the King who should be punished for his heinous acts and injustice."
Theoron turns a violent shade of red, shaking with rage. "What are you saying, Elsbeth? You dare accuse your father? Your mother would be ashamed of you!"
Azik stands, his presence dominating the room.
"I agree with the Princess. What you did was cruelty, plain and simple. Even if the world does not see him as human, killing a creature that cannot die is sport, not justice. Theoron should be censured."
The Bishop strikes his cane against the floor, silencing the rising din.
"You are morally right, Azik. But legally? The jester has no rights. Therefore, no crime was committed against him. We cannot punish Theoron."
Azik remains standing, defiant. But one by one, the Guildmasters begin to tap the table in agreement with the Bishop. The sound builds like a rainstorm a chorus of apathy. They will not punish the King.
The Bishop nods, satisfied. "Silence. The majority stands. Theoron will not be punished." He pauses, adjusting his monocle. "However... as for the jester... we shall let him go as well. The matter is dismissed."
Elsbeth exhales, her body slumping. It is a hollow victory. Tears of frustration and relief mix on her cheeks.
Outside the walls, the night deepens.
Little Layla wanders barefoot through the cold, her tattered dress whipping in the wind.
Tears freeze on her cheeks as she clutches the wilted daisy, stopping every passerby.
"Have you seen my daddy? Please… he promised he'd come home early…"
An old woman stops, pity flickering in her eyes.
"There was a man beaten by the knights on Roman Street, child. Near the inn."
Layla runs.
Her small feet slap against the frozen cobbles, tears blurring the world into streaks of gray and black. She calls for him—"Daddy! Daddy!"—until her voice is hoarse, raw with desperation.
She reaches the inn.
Blood splatters the ground like spilled ink, a dark trail leading into the alley. She follows it, heart pounding like a trapped bird.
"Daddy? Are you here?"
A shape lies slumped among the trash.
Unmoving. Broken.
Erwin.
His body is a ruin: clothes shredded from the whip, wounds gaping like open mouths, blood pooling black beneath him. He breathes in shallow, ragged gasps that rattle in his chest like death's own whisper.
Layla collapses beside him. Her tiny fingers brush his face, smearing the crusted blood. Sobs wrack her small frame.
"Wake up, Daddy… please wake up…"
Her tears fall hot onto his cheek.
"I won't ask for food anymore. I won't ask for anything. Just wake up. Don't leave me here alone…"
Erwin's eyes flutter open just a sliver. The light in them is dimming, like a candle in a gale.
His hand twitches, lifting an inch to touch her face.
He brushes away a tear with a thumb slick with his own blood.
"I'm so… sorry, my little Layla," he whispers, voice a broken thread. "Daddy made you cry… even on your special day."
Layla clutches his hand, pressing it to her cheek. "I'm happy as long as you're with me, Daddy. Please get up. Please…"
His eyes slip closed again. The blood loss pulls him under.
Layla scrambles to her feet, screaming into the night.
"Help! Please! My daddy is bleeding! Save him!"
No one stops. Shadows hurry past, averting their eyes from the inconvenience of a child's despair.
A man snarls, "Shut up, brat!" and strikes her.
She falls, tasting blood, the daisy crushed beneath her. But she stands again.
She remembers the Princess in the market. Standing tall while the fruit flew. Unbroken.
Layla grabs her father's limp hand.
He is heavy as her shattered world.
But she pulls.
Inch by inch, through the biting cold, she drags him toward the apothecary. Her muscles burn. Her breath comes in ragged sobs.
People watch a child hauling her dying father through the filth, and do nothing.
Their indifference is a wound deeper than any whip.
An hour of agony passes. She reaches the door and pounds on it with tiny fists.
The apothecary opens it, peering down with irritation.
"Please… save my daddy…"
He glances at the broken man. "Two gold coins. No money, no healing."
Layla's voice trembles, but she does not break. "I forgot the money at home. Please save him—I'll go fetch it. I swear."
The man hesitates. He looks at the dying man, then at the girl.
"Bring the coin. Then he gets the medicine."
He hauls Erwin's unconscious body inside and slams the door shut in Layla's face.
She stands alone in the dark.
She cries deep, wrenching cries that come from the depths of her soul.
Because the coins don't exist.
They never did.
At The Palace Gates
The palace gates close with a final, hollow clang.
Two carriages wait outside, lanterns flickering.
Leonard approaches Azik near the lead carriage. "I didn't know you'd be here, Master Azik. Thank you."
Azik places a heavy hand on Leonard's shoulder. "I owed you one, boy."
He turns to Elsbeth. "And you… you reminded me of my Queen. The same fire. I couldn't stay quiet."
He places a gentle hand on her head. "I am trying to fix the rot inside the Church. I am glad you are finally fighting the rot outside. You are not alone."
Luan bows deeply. "Thank you… for believing me."
Azik smiles small, tired, genuine and climbs into his carriage.
Elsbeth exhales, watching the dust settle.
"Till the end, they refused to talk about the kingdom," she whispers. "They ended it like it was nothing. It shows how less they care about the people."
Rowan's voice is grim. "We can't do this alone, Highness. Unless the people stand for themselves…"
He trails off. And we know they never will.
"We'll try again," Elsbeth says, weary but unbroken.
She suddenly touches her chest, eyes widening.
"Mercy," she gasps. "I left the book—I left Mercy at your house, Sir Rowan."
She looks stricken. "How naive of me. It helped us alot, and I left it behind. Please… forgive me Mercy."
Leonard steps forward. "It's alright, my lady. Shall we go get it?"
They climb into the carriage. The ride is fast, leaving the golden lies of the palace for the mud of the city.
Inside, Elsbeth sways with exhaustion.
Luan gently guides her head to his shoulder.
Searing heat.
The curse flares as skin meets skin, but he ignores the burn, holding steady so she can rest.
Leonard watches them, thinking, How did we manage to get out alive?
The carriage stops.
Rowan's house looms narrow, leaning, half-swallowed by ivy.
Rowan unlocks the door. Elsbeth stirs, blinking sleep from her eyes. "Let's go?"
She steps out into the muddy street, adjusting her silk dress.
Rowan raises the lantern.
Suddenly, a small blur rushes from the shadows between the houses.
Bump.
A small body collides hard with Elsbeth's legs.
Elsbeth stumbles, steadied by Luan. She looks down.
It is a child. Barefoot. Tattered dress. Face streaked with tears and grime.
It is Layla.