Page 58

R.I.O.T

T he air in the chamber is thick; heavy with the scent of burning incense, and the weight of judgement. Faint torchlight flickers above the iron sconces, their feeble glow devoured by the yawning darkness above.

I sit at the centre of the room, behind a long, cold table of black marble— alone. Before me, the Supreme Court looms in judgement, robed in obsidian and gold, their eyes like frozen coals set deep beneath furrowed brows, unblinking in their scrutiny.

But I see right through them.

My hands rest loosely on the polished stone, unshackled.

They hadn't dared to bind me. I see the tension in their fingers, the wary glances exchanged behind their masks of decorum.

These creatures—High Lords and Ladies, and custodians of law—have gathered here in this gloom to pass their judgement on me, but there's a reason I’ve never feared their wrath.

Seven years ago, in the ashes of destruction, a new world order emerged. The system is simple; the Oracles act 'Gods’ will,' the Royals create their laws and govern their districts, and each District has a Supreme Court representative, ensuring laws remain in balance with divine justice.

But as with all politics, corruption loomed; a deadly risk in a world where survival hinged on a castle in the sky.

There had to be someone—a single, sacred individual who couldn't be corrupted by power. Neither Oracle nor Royal. Someone who would have the final authority on law, someone who could pass the ultimate judgement without risk of corruption.

He was the final judge, the Gods’ Champion, the… ‘ Grand Arbiter.’

Me.

The magistrate of Royal Affairs, High Lord Tyron Faye, clears his throat from behind the hood of his robe, the sound brittle in the heavy silence.

"You are summoned before this court under the speculation you have harboured a creation of Ricci, who has admitted to the assassination of the late King, His Majesty Valadez Imperium. As such, we ask plainly—why?"

I don’t shift. I don’t waver. My hands remain still atop the stone, my posture measured.

"Harboured," I echo, my voice calm. "I didn't harbour her; I imprisoned her."

A ripple of unease passes through the chamber. The judges shift, eyes darting between each other as they exchange murmurs. Barely audible.

High Lady Emmelia Lehmen—Magistrate of the Arcane they tolerate it. Their veils hide their faces, but not their intent. They seek weakness. Justification. A reason to doubt me.

I incline my head just slightly.

"Someone had been informed," I say, my words deliberate. I let the silence linger, watching them shift, waiting, before finally offering the name. "High Lord Kyrian Abara."

Heads swivel to the judge in question, who is simply leaning back in his seat and watching with quiet amusement, I'm sure. Kyrian lifts his leg, revealing loose grey joggers beneath his ceremonial robes as he rests his ankle on his knee.

"It's true," he says. "The Grand Arbiter came to me a couple of weeks ago."

"You?" High Lord Tyron Faye voice cuts like a blade, taut with barely contained fury. "The situation involved Royalty— my domain, Warlock."

"Which is overruled as the suspect is a Nightwalker—an unnatural being—which falls into my domain, The Unforgivable.

" Kyrian appears as relaxed as me, almost bored.

"The Nightwalker was determined to ruin any life form that came in contact with her during her enslavement; would you have preferred to be her target? "

Tyron grits his teeth, hands clenching his ceremonial robes.

He isn't mad I enslaved a Nightwalker, or that it was one who killed a King.

He's seething because I didn't come to him; after all, this man is Maya's Royal representative, as Kyrian is mine.

"And who are you to make that decision for us? "

He’s speaking to Kyrian, but I'm the one to answer. My words are low and sharp. "The Gods’ Champion. The final judge. The Grand Arbiter."

Tyron tenses, and so does the entire room. The air is heavy now as raw, unrestrained power rolls off me. The shadows in the room twist and sharpen, curling ominously around the judges.

"So many questions, and none of them right," I drawl, my finger tapping ominously against the sleek black surface of the table. "Look around, High Lord… No one besides you seems to be speaking. Why?"

Tyron's whole body trembles, but surprisingly, he does as he's told. His eyes move across his fellow peers until they land on the woman seated at the end—Her Eminence Juliana Garcia. The only Oracle with a seat at the Supreme Court. Her domain? Divine Law.

Tyron whispers, his features paling, "The Gods."

"A threat can come and go from my castle as he pleases—the same castle that gives you oxygen, gravity, and life." My voice lowers, trembling with fury. "Did you really think the Gods wouldn't get involved?"

Tyron lowers his head, his knuckles turning white as they clutch the fabric of his robes. His breath is uneven, his shoulders hunched as though bracing for a blow. "I—I apologize, Grand Arbiter," he murmurs.

Silence settles over the room like a thick fog. My fingers, which had been drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm against the polished tabletop, come to a halt. My gaze sharpens, cutting into him like a blade.

From across the chamber, Emmelia shifts in her seat. Her voice is smooth and deliberate yet laced with something chilling. "Perhaps we should begin discussing the Nightwalker's punishment?"

The weight of her words coils around me, and I can feel my body tense.

"The assassination of a King, the murder of Leila Thorne"—Emmelia leans forward, her expression unreadable—"is deserving of a punishment worse than death. Any suggestions?"

The air grows colder. The walls seem to press inward.

Somewhere, the shadows stir.

"General Dame Thorne." High Lord Aedus Hurst—Magistrate of Mortal Law and Royal Advisor of Rayan Akram—speaks. His voice rings through the chamber, unwavering. "He will fight the Nightwalker."

"Yes," Her Eminence Juliana Garcia says, her voice soft yet firm, "and he will win."

The judges murmur their agreement, their voices merging into a low hum, but I barely hear them. The ringing in my ears drowns out everything else.

I feel their eyes on me—hungry, expectant. Their eagerness to watch a Nightwalker die clings to the air like the scent of burning incense, thick and inescapable. Their anticipation tastes sharp as iron on my tongue.

I grit my teeth, forcing down the weight pressing against my chest. This must be done.

To save my friends, there is no other choice.

I don't know what we are. We're not friends—merely two souls entangled by circumstances. I had used her for my own selfish purposes, and in that bargain, no loyalty was owed between us. She was meant to be just another Nightwalker, another fleeting shadow in the night.

But as I stand before the jury, an unexpected ache of betrayal wells within me.

But why do I care? Why should it matter how they speak about her when she's not in the room to defend herself?

And why is it that suddenly, all I want to hear is that sharp tongue and smart mouth?

To see that mischievous gleam in her eyes that had only just flickered to life.

Why? Why? Why?

All I know—all that I've been told by my family—is that it's for. The. Best.

I lift my gaze, meeting the jury with cold, unyielding eyes. My fingers curl against the marble—tight, unmoving, as if holding onto something that isn’t there. My voice is low and absolute, cutting through the tension like a blade.

I'm the final judge.

My word is final.

"I accept."

The judges nod, satisfied. Their veils hide their faces, but I feel it; their triumph, their victory. To them, this is justice. To me, it feels like ruin. Because I just know, with this, I've sealed her fate—and mine.