The High Assembly chamber was not made for mercy. It was built for spectacle—walls of polished obsidian, arched with silver veins like scars in stone. At the center, a circular dais like a noose of marble. And within it stood Zareena.
The nobles watched from their curved seats above, layered like predators on a ledge. Each with their sigils. Each with their smiles.
Zareena wore no armor today. No sword. Just a high-collared black dress, embroidered in thread the color of blood and snow. Her hair was braided like a crown. Her face unreadable.
The Speaker of the Assembly stepped forward, flanked by scribes and guards.
"Lady Zareena Valeska ibn Serinova. You are summoned to answer accusations of overreach, unsanctioned militarization, and the unauthorized conscription of magical forces at Fort Vireloch."
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
Zareena lifted her chin. "The garrison was dying when I arrived. The walls crumbled, the men starved, and monsters moved in shadows. I did not conscript—I survived. With help. And loyalty freely given."
The rival nobles began to stir. One rose—a woman in pale blue, with a viper's smile.
"Yet you now possess a local militia beyond your station. You have foreign magical support. You've mined and exported ore without court sanction. Some would call that building a private army."
Zareena's gaze sharpened. "And others would call it saving your borders while the rest of you drank wine and whispered rumors."
A few nobles winced. Others leaned forward with interest.
The Crown Prince watched from above, silent but attentive. Rashid Alimov stood in the shadows near the back, arms crossed, unreadable.
Then came the real blow.
A servant stepped forward—ragged, bruised. A man who once served at Vireloch.
"I was told to falsify reports," he said, trembling. "I was paid in coin marked with the Serinova crest. I—I overheard her consorting with a bloodmage."
Zareena didn't flinch. "Name him."
The man swallowed. "I—I don't remember."
"How convenient."
"Lady Zareena," the Speaker warned.
She turned to the Assembly, her voice steady as frost. "You accuse me with the words of a paid coward. You forget the letters I sent, asking for aid. You forget the months of silence from this court. You forget the men and women who died while waiting."
She reached into her cloak and tossed something onto the floor.
A pouch of salt, ashwood splinters, and a burnt medallion—marked with the same sigil as the creatures that attacked Vireloch.
"I do not answer to rumor. I answer to blood. And if you want proof of loyalty, ask the border. Ask the land you left behind."
A slow silence spread.
And then the Crown Prince stood.
"This trial is no longer about justice," he said. "It's about fear. Some of you fear what she's built. I do not. Let her speak fully. Let all evidence be shown."
A reluctant nod from the Speaker.
Zareena locked eyes with him—Vaelor, her enemy, or perhaps now, a rival suitor. But she did not thank him.
Instead, she turned to the chamber and said: "Tomorrow, I will bring forward every name, every letter, every order I sent that went unanswered. I suggest you prepare your memories. I have not forgotten."