In this world, Aether was as vital as oxygen—the primal source of all extraordinary power. It was the fuel that allowed one to ascend the Nyx tiers, climbing the brutal hierarchy of this new reality.
Being cut off from it felt like being plunged underwater; a suffocating, hollow emptiness that reminded him exactly how powerless he was meant to be.
Only one thing was capable of suppressing such power: a specialized metal known as tanium.
That was the singular reason escape was a fantasy.
Cells and restraints forged from tanium didn't just block Aether; they severed its flow within the veins.
With that internal current cut off, a Nyx's power collapsed in on itself, leaving them hollow, brittle, and utterly human.
For Aren, the sensation was like a permanent, suffocating weight on his chest.
"Move."
A rough shove struck his back. Aren stumbled forward, flanked by a phalanx of four guards.
As they marched through the dark, oppressive corridors, he felt the weight of a hundred stares from behind the bars.
Some were venomous, some pitying; others were disturbingly wide-eyed with pleasure.
Jeers and mocking shouts rose in a cacophony, keeping rhythm with the heavy thud of boots on stone.
At the corridor's end, they stepped onto a massive circular platform. One guard approached a central pillar, his fingers dancing across an embedded screen.
The platform lurched, then began its slow, grinding ascent.
As they rose, Aren watched the different levels slide past. Each floor was a different circle of hell, housing inmates sorted by the depravity of their sins.
"Shouldn't they be shipping this brat straight to IMFA already?" one guard asked, his voice thick with boredom and a hint of disgust.
The inmates on the passing levels shifted their attention to the speaker, their eyes following Aren like hungry wolves.
"Protocol," another guard replied flatly. "Until the final sentencing, all suspects rot in the provisional detention facility. No exceptions."
"It's a joke," the first guard spat, leaning toward Aren.
"This filth commits the most vile crimes imaginable, and the law still wraps them in silk. I don't see why we don't just slit their throats the moment the cuffs go on."
The hatred in his gaze was a physical thing, sharp enough to feel like a blade pressed against the base of Aren's skull.
"Even monsters have rights, apparently," another guard added with a careless shrug, his eyes fixed on the rising floor numbers.
"Human rights?" The first guard scoffed. "He butchered his own father and the man's guests. Talking about 'rights' for a thing like this is obscene."
"Enough. That's not for us to decide," the fourth guard cut in, his voice like ice.
"Besides… Madam Beryl personally requested that the investigation be conducted fairly."
Aren's eyebrow twitched.
His mother?
He searched the fragmented memories of the novel.
Had that ever been mentioned?
As far as he could recall, Beryl had never shown him a shred of affection—let alone concern.
"He'll be sent to IMFA after today's trial anyway," the guard continued, oblivious to Aren's internal turmoil. "His guilt is a foregone conclusion. Is this a fair investigation? It's just a fancy funeral for his freedom."
"You're right," the guard who had been cursing him earlier chimed in. Even without looking, Aren could hear the sharp note of cruel delight in the man's voice.
"I've heard that surviving in IMFA is a punishment far worse than death. For a little bastard like this, it's a perfect fit."
Shut your mouth, you piece of shit, Aren thought.
He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes as the guard's grating laughter echoed through the shaft.
Until the platform finally groaned to a halt, Aren was forced to endure an endless stream of drivel and profanity.
That jagged voice scraping against his ears made him want to reach out and tear the man's tongue from his throat.
When the platform reached its destination, a massive white bridge unfolded, extending like a tongue into the gloom.
The taunting guard shoved Aren forward, forcing him onto the structure. The bridge gleamed with a faint, clinical light, stretching toward a colossal doorway that seemed suspended in an infinite void.
There was no sound here—only the lonely echo of his boots against the polished surface.
At the far end, two sentinels materialized from the darkness. Their lower bodies were swallowed by the abyss, while their upper halves loomed like stone statues beside the gate.
Their skin was dry and chalk-white, giving them a ghostly, translucent appearance. They had no faces—smooth, featureless planes where eyes and mouths should have been.
They looked less like living beings and more like anomalies from another dimension.
"Criminal number 257. Aren Rayne. Age sixteen," the sentinel on the left spoke.
Its voice didn't come from a throat; it resonated unnaturally through the air itself.
"Charged with the murder of his biological father, Redian Rayne, and the slaughter of Hugo Craik, Melissa Odel, and Ryan Fewer. One of humanity's gravest sins: parricide and mass murder."
Aren regarded them with detached, indifferent eyes. To them, he was just a number and a list of sins.
"The defendant will now be brought before the High Court for judgment."
As the decree faded, a series of white marble steps materialized out of thin air, floating between the bridge and the massive door.
The guards remained behind, their jurisdiction ending at the abyss. Alone, Aren stepped onto the levitating stairs, his pace steady as he ascended.
At the top, two new sentinels in white helmets and immaculate uniforms stood watch—figures far more imposing than the common jailers below.
One of them swiped a card across a glowing panel. The door slid open with a heavy hiss.
Without flickering his calm expression, Aren walked through the threshold and into the heart of the courtroom.
Light filtered through towering stained-glass windows, refracting in kaleidoscopic patterns across the high stone ceiling and marble floor.
Ancient inscriptions, etched in a forgotten language, pulsed faintly with power. At the far end, eight elevated seats loomed like mountain peaks.
The King's throne occupied the center, flanked by the seats reserved for the heads of the seven elite families.
I suppose my case isn't prestigious enough to warrant their actual presence, Aren thought with a bitter, internal smirk.
The seats were empty, or perhaps occupied by shadows.
Below the vacant thrones stood the judge's bench—the true stage for the day's theater.
At that moment, the bailiff's voice rang out, cutting through the heavy silence like a gavel.