The great hall was silent except for the echo of chains.
Aurora knelt at its centre, her head bowed low and wrists bound before her, and ankles shackled down to the marble floor. The polished stone reflected torchlight and noble silks alike, but none of that reached her. Her world had narrowed to the cold bite of iron and the weight pressing down on her lungs.
Above her, the semicircle of nobles stirred.
At the very top sat Lancer.
He leaned into his throne, elbow resting on the armrest, fingers supporting his temple. His expression was unreadable—stern, distant, almost bored. To those who did not know him, it looked like confidence.
To those who did, it was restraint.
"State your counsel," a herald announced.
"She is a child, Your Majesty," said Lady Edrienne Valcyr, a tall woman in mourning black, her voice steady but tight. "Lady Aurora could not have known of her father's crimes."
"Crimes?" Lord Varrek Dorne scoffed, a heavyset man with rings crowding his fingers. "There is no doubt what Draven Blackthorne attempted."
"There is no proof she was involved," Edrienne shot back. "None."
"Proof is irrelevant," Varrek replied coolly. "Blood is blood."
A murmur rippled through the court.
"Careful, Lord Varrek," said Lord Halvane Crest, thin-lipped and sharp-eyed. "You speak as though lineage itself is guilt."
"It is guilt," Varrek snapped. "Traitors breed traitors."
"She was at the academy," Edrienne pressed. "Under imperial supervision. Are we to believe she plotted rebellion between lectures?"
"Naïve sentiment," said Lord Calrex Mourn, smiling faintly. "Treason does not require age."
"Then by that logic," Edrienne replied, voice rising, "every noble child in this hall is a suspect."
"Do not twist my words."
"I will," she said. "They deserve twisting."
A sharp crack echoed as the herald struck his staff. "Order."
Lancer did not move.
His gaze rested somewhere past the nobles, unfocused, as if listening to something far away. The voices washed over him like rain on stone.
"Execution should be on the table," Varrek said.
A few nobles nodded.
"You would behead a girl who hasn't spoken a word of discent?" Edrienne demanded.
"She bears the Blackthorne name."
"And?"
"And that is enough."
"She could seek vengeance," Calrex added mildly.
"She will seek vengeance if you give her reason," Halvane countered.
"So kill her," Varrek said flatly.
"So prove we are tyrants?" Halvane snapped.
"Mercy toward traitors weakens the crown."
"Mercy toward innocents strengthens it."
"Innocent?" Calrex arched a brow. "Yes. Innocent," Halvane replied.
"You speak boldly," Varrek said, narrowing his eyes, "for someone whose lands border the east."
"Threats now?"
"Observations."
Aurora's hands trembled. Not violently—just enough that the chains chimed softly against the floor.
They are speaking about me, she thought numbly. As if I am already dead.
"Enough," said Lord Tervain Holt, older, grey-bearded. "Another option. Imprisonment."
"For life?" someone asked.
"For as long as she draws breath."
"A living ghost in our dungeons," Edrienne said.
"She would be contained."
"And turned into a martyr."
"She already is one," Calrex said.
"She is the last of her house," Halvane murmured.
"Which is precisely why she should die."
"Or why she should live."
Eyes turned.
"Explain yourself, Lord Halvane."
"The Blackthorne bloodline is strong," Halvane said carefully. "Proven. Casters of rare quality, it would be a shame if their bloodline vanished from the world entirely."
The air shifted.
"You propose breeding?" Edrienne said sharply.
"I propose usefulness."
Aurora's breath hitched.
"She is of age," said Lord Fenrick Sol, smiling in a way that made several women stiffen.
"She can bear children."
"She can serve the kingdom."
"Wed her to my son," Fenrick added casually.
"You insult your own lineage," Varrek muttered.
"Better to bind her than spill more blood."
"No," Calrex said. "Not wed. That is too much of a courtesy. Someone of her stature does not deserve to be an official wife."
"Then make her a consort."
"A concubine."
"Her womb is all we need."
Lady Myrene's chair scraped loudly as she stood. "This has gone too far!"
"Has it?" Fenrick replied.
"You would reduce a noble daughter to breeding livestock?"
"Traitors deserve no respect."
"She is not a traitor!" Myrene snapped.
"She is a Blackthorne, and so she is."
"That does not make her a breeding horse!"
"Lower your voice, Lady Myrene."
"I will not."
"You forget your place."
"And you forget your humanity!"
Lancer's fingers tightened slightly against his temple.
Humanity.
He remembered Draven's face. Bloodied. Furious. Unbroken.
"Humanity did not win us the east," Varrek said.
"Strength did."
"Cruelty," Myrene spat.
"Pragmatism."
"Silence," the herald called.
The hall quieted.
"…Your Majesty?" someone ventured.
Lancer did not respond immediately.
He looked down at Aurora.
She was shaking now. Not from fear alone—but from humiliation, from helplessness, from the knowledge that her life had become nothing but a tool for other to use as they see fit.
"Look at her! She is shaking! Have you no mercy?" Edrienne said softly.
"So did her father," Varrek replied. "When he begged."
"That is uncalled for."
"Is it?"
"You executed your friend," Halvane said carefully.
"I executed a traitor," Lancer replied at last, his voice calm.
"You loved him."
"I loved the man he was."
"And her?" Edrienne asked.
Lancer's eyes lingered on Aurora.
"She is, but a consequence."
"You mean a child."
"A consequence."
Silence stretched.
"…What do you intend, Your Majesty?" Halvane asked.
"What I have always intended."
"And that is?"
"To decide what best serves the empire."
"So execution?"
"Wasteful."
"Imprisonment?"
"Short-sighted."
"Marriage?"
"Dangerous."
"Concubinage?"
"Effective."
Aurora's vision blurred.
"You would seriously do this?" Myrene whispered.
"I would do what kings must."
"And sleep?"
Lancer's mouth twitched—not a smile. "I do not sleep."
"Then say it."
He straightened slightly on the throne.
"The girl will live."
A collective breath was released.
"Under what terms?"
"She will remain under imperial custody."
"For how long?"
"For as long as she is useful."
"And if she resists?"
"She will learn that resistance is futile."
"…Your Majesty."
"She will be betrothed."
"To whom?"
"When the time is right."
"And her will?"
Lancer looked away.
"She lost that when her house burned."
"…Then it is decided."
"It is."
"…Guards."
The chains stirred.
"…Proceed."
"…May history judge us kindly."
"History is written by the living," Lancer said.
"And the dead?"
"They are silent."
"…Court is adjourned."