The Void-Cells were designed to isolate the soul, but they couldn't silence the resonance of an Elemental.
In the cell adjacent to Kael's, Mikaela sat cross-legged on the floor. Her skin, usually a flawless porcelain, was smudged with the grey dust of the Motherland's dungeons. She wasn't trying to break the wall with force—she knew the anti-mana obsidian would only grow stronger the more magic she fed it. Instead, she was looking for the molecular flaw.
She pressed her palm against the cold, black stone. She closed her eyes, sending out a microscopic vibration. It wasn't a spell; it was a heartbeat.
Thump-thump.
On the other side, Kael felt the vibration through his shoulder. He pressed his back against the wall, a small, tired smile touching his lips. He tapped back. Two quick beats. I'm here.
"Kael," her voice came through, muffled and distorted by the density of the stone. "Neith was just here. She looks... smaller than usual. The politics are moving, aren't they?"
"Like a landslide," Kael whispered, leaning his head back. "How are you holding up, Vice Commander? Still feel like a 'fighting machine'?"
Mikaela let out a breath that came out as a puff of silver mist, even in this mana-dead zone. "The ice is receding. I can feel my heart again. It's... heavy. I killed a lot of people, Kael. Even for us, that was... a lot."
"They weren't people, Mikaela. They were the rot that produced Noelle," Kael said firmly. "And you didn't do it alone. The world is going to judge us, but they're going to do it while standing on the land we cleared for them. Hang on. We're going to the Court."
While the two sovereigns shared a wall, the Motherland's Grand Basilica was being transformed into a theater of war—not of blades, but of words.
The Court of the Sixteen was a circular chamber of white marble, where each nation sat in tiered balconies overlooking the central floor. At the highest point sat Harold, his God State dormant but his presence still casting a golden shadow over the proceedings.
The atmosphere was electric. The news-spheres had already broadcast the "Liberation of Osoroshi." Images of the ruby-ice garden and the dismantled Soul-Spires were looping in every city from the Iron Peaks to the Southern Reaches. The public narrative had shifted faster than Harold could contain it: Kael and Mikaela were the "Twin Saviors" who had finished what the A.N.Ts had been too "cowardly" to attempt.
"Order!" the High Arbiter shouted, slamming a gavel made of solidified sound.
Harold looked down at the empty center of the room where Kael and Mikaela would soon be brought. He could feel the shift in the room. The Commanders of the smaller nations—the ones most threatened by the rogue territories—were leaning forward, their eyes bright with a dangerous hope.
"The Sovereign of Forgemire acted without a mandate!" the Commander of the Third Nation argued, his voice shaking. "He risked a continental war!"
"He ended a century of shadow!" the Commander of the Ninth Nation countered, standing up. "My borders have been bled dry by Osoroshi's Grave-Walkers for decades. While the A.N.Ts discussed 'strategy,' Kael acted. He did our job for us."
"It was a massacre," Harold intervened, his voice calm but terrifying. "He used an unsanctioned state of power to bypass the laws of engagement."
"Power that he earned," a voice rang out from the back. It was Commander Darko of Kaldaria, Mikaela's former mentor. She stepped into the light, her arms crossed. "If we punish our heroes for being too effective, then we are no longer an Alliance. We are a prison. Kaldaria stands with the Seventh. That makes three nations."
"The Mining Guilds of the Iron Peaks stand with them," added another. "That's four."
Harold watched as the tally climbed. Five. Six. Seven. The "Hero of Osoroshi" narrative was a virus. Kael had correctly calculated that the world was more afraid of rogue monsters than they were of an ambitious king.
Neith sat in the shadows of the High Dais, watching the Supreme Commander. She saw the way Harold's hand gripped the arm of his chair. He wasn't just losing a trial; he was losing the theology of his rule.
"Bring them in," Harold commanded, his voice cold. "Let the 'Heroes' speak for themselves."
The heavy doors at the base of the chamber groaned open. Kael and Mikaela stepped in, side by side, their chains clinking in the sudden, reverent silence of the room. They didn't look like prisoners. They looked like the future.