The scent of iron and flesh was the first that Ren noticed. The blood splattered across the narrow alley was the second. And the crumpled body of his twin sister was the last.
Bile rose like poison in his throat as he stared, unable to process the awful sight before him. Old, grey stone towered above them, the cheers of the carnival behind him drowning out the growing collection of flies attracted to fresh meat.
He'd only been gone a few minutes. Left her to go get them some food– Some novel sweet that the caravan had made by mashing rice with sugar and frying it. Only a couple minutes… The pastries sat on the cobbled stone, rolled somewhere beside his feet. His mind tried to process what he was supposed to do. He was Elren Winter, after all, an heir to House Winter, an arbiter to the Nation of Lilac Sky. He'd been trained from birth to handle these things.
But seeing his own sister–seeing Erin–a young woman of the First Mark, lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, eyes open in horror and surprise… Something about that changed his capabilities.
So he forced himself to stumble forward, each step like his feet were made of granite and jade. He managed to approach her body, to kneel before it. Let out a guttural cry of overwhelming grief. Had he been the one to scream? He didn't know. His throat hurt.
Erin's body was angled odd, he realized, somewhere in the blankness of his shock. Her back was arched. He'd seen something like this before. With some bleak effort, he managed to roll her body over. His suspicion was right, at least. An obsidian dagger was lodged with ample precision between her shoulder blade and spine.
His eyes narrowed, his throat constricting as he reached for it. Maybe– Maybe if he pulled it out, her eyes would flutter and she'd let out a shaky cough. She'd be alright.
His hand froze on the handle, logic seeping in as his heart rate spiked once again. 'No, no… That's impossible.' He sucked in a breath, trying to steady himself, trying to utilize his lifetime of ingrained training. 'I need to leave the scene and get help.'
But a bright flash and a loud mixture between a shudder and click startled him, forcing him to jump on shaking feet. When he turned, his stomach dropped to see a growing crowd of horrified bystanders. What had they seen? His eyes, still wide and horrified, turned back to that of his sister. He felt so sick. His palms felt cold, his face felt numb. Among the chorus of wailing voices was a single camera, the photographer behind it just as wide-eyed as Ren.
"Your own sister, lad?!" A furious voice erupted somewhere in the crowd. "Has House Winter raised savages?"
Ren blinked. What was he saying?
The crowd erupted, shouts, boos, hissing, screaming. Murderer. They were calling him a murderer.
"No." He muttered, his voice uncertain, "No, I would never–"
"Damn violet-eyed bastards." Another hissed, "T'was only a matter of time until one of yous withered morons cracked."
"No–!" Ren sputtered, louder, voice cracking under the weight of it. "I didn't–"
His arms were behind him, his hands bound by metal at the wrists. When had they gotten behind him? The lump in his throat grew so tight that words rose and died before the air could carry them. He knew those men. They were his men. Men of House Winter. His soldiers, his arbiters.
"Ren…" The first said, a middle-aged man and one of Ren's attendants.
"Gentry…" Ren whispered to him, his voice growing in desperation, "You have to–"
Even then, Ren didn't get to speak as the crowd shouted over him. "I saw him with the knife!"
"Everyone knows he was jealous of her!"
Gentry hesitated, then turned to the other Winter Arbiters, his shoulders growing tense as he looked over his unit of men, as if trying to find someone else to speak for him. Unable to do so, he spoke, voice tight and restrained like he hurt to utter them. "Under order of the Statutes of Order, we take Lord Elren Winter to the prisons until further notice."
Even they didn't believe him. "No– Gentry– There– I didn't–"
But Gentry wouldn't meet his gaze.
"Dolan–" Ren cried to another of the guards, "Seth–Winston–Please–!"
"Just… Keep quiet, son." Gentry whispered.
The unit of half a dozen men surrounded him, two on either of Ren's side, two just in front, and two behind, all in the uniform of the Winter Arbiters, simplistic, almost monastic robes of white and gentle blues and purples. The same robes that he wore.
Ren didn't fight them. If he did, he only made his situation worse. So he walked with them willingly, his head down. Still, though, he stole glances around him from time to time. A set of girls not much older than him watched in stunned silence, one with a mane of chestnut and the other of pale gold. A group of young men and women in those odd outfits of that caravan, their leader with black hair and a thin frame drawn taut in the tension.
The Grand City of Gateway had been so welcoming only moments ago. Now, the warmth of spring faded back to the cold chill of winter. He shivered, the once beautiful city growing ominous as eyes fell on his dreaded march. Step by step, he forced himself to go, forced to place his attention at counting his steps so the panic wouldn't sink back in and leave him a trembling mess on the ground. Reason was setting in again as he shoved down the intensity of his sickening whirlwind of emotions.
They marched across the Ascendant Plaza, whose beautiful mosaic tiles had been covered by wagon and tent at the arrival of the merchant caravan. They trudged up the staircases to the upper levels of the concentric city, quiet and mournful. After all, if Ren was proven guilty, this would not be the march of an arrest. This would be a funeral march.
And it seemed the eyes that followed him knew that.
When he next lifted his head, it was to see the monument of a building that was supposed to promise justice instead loomed like a guillotine, tall and unforgiving. Shoved further up the steps, he stumbled into the hall, and was finally pushed to the ground in the reception, his own former men standing above him in an impervious blockade. Around him, the reception grew still once again.
"Why are we stopping?" He whispered, "Law would require temporary detention."
"Lord Winter wants an audience with you, first," One of the arbiters responded, his voice hoarse with carefully restrained animosity. "He's on his way."
Ren swallowed back the lump in his throat, attempting to stand from his humiliating place on the floor as each moment allowed sense to return to him. He was shoved back to the ground, gasping at the roughness with which the Winter Arbiters handled it.
Desperation hit him like wind and snow, panic rising in his chest. He was going to die. "You have to believe that I wouldn't–"
"Shut it," Winston hissed, his voice low.
Tears finally pricked at the corner of Ren's eyes, and he squeezed them shut. 'Giving control to emotions leads to irrational decisions,' He repeated to himself, one of the old Winter mantras, 'Justice must be done with clear heart and mind.' He sucked in a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Part of him wondered desperately if his men were repeating the same Mantras to themselves.
He took another breath, and forced himself to observe the reception hall of the Grand Justiciary. Walls of wood and stone lined with chandeliers and lamps of gas and flame. Tables of the finest craftsmanship and chairs and couches of wool and leather. He knew this office well, he'd often sat with his mother and sisters on the couches, waiting for his father.
Ren never expected to be the person his father would be sentencing.