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Trial

Idris

I dris had always hated Castle Might.

He’d hated growing up hungry and impoverished in its opulent shadow. When he’d snuck over the wall to spy on Grinnick’s Oath Ceremony, he’d hated the exclusivity of the castle’s compound: the neatly landscaped bailey, the pretty statues, the greater knights who walked the grounds. When he himself had become a Valiant Knight, he’d hated the elegant architecture of the throne room, that the doom of countless individuals had been sealed in such an airy space.

He hated the wealth and control and ruthlessness the castle represented, so far removed from the struggle of the city below. The struggle inside his heart.

Idris considered himself lucky to live in the wilds, no matter the grim duty that kept him there. He only had to come to Castle Might every year or two, mostly to attend the introduction of new recruits when it was his turn to assist in training, and the rare intelligence briefing. The only thing he liked about coming to Castle Might was the chance to see Oderin, their bond forged in their early knighthoods and strengthened by many a night commiserating over ale.

Oderin was one of the few knights Idris respected—one of the few who actually lived up to the title of his Order. And even he couldn’t spare Anya of her trial.

Idris had tried to convince him—he really had. The Order of the Mighty was the only order entrusted with the full intelligence of lesser orders, and Idris had been able to speak plainly with Oderin about the prisoner caravan—but when it came down to it, Anya was a prisoner of the realm. Mirror Criminals had to be tried, no exceptions.

Idris’s only hope, now, was that Lord Haron would be amenable to Idris vouching for her—and wouldn’t ask too many questions about the monster attack. Idris knew firsthand how sensitive the Lord was to criminals knowing too much.

So, as Idris escorted Anya down the long corridor toward the throne room, his hatred for this Fates-forsaken place grew to new heights.

What was worse: the Mirror Knight—Hammond, Anya had called him—followed on their heels. The man seemed nice enough, and Anya obviously knew and liked him, but his presence prevented Idris from speaking freely to her; Idris didn’t trust that Hammond would keep his mouth shut, if pressed. That was the whole point of Oaths, after all—to guarantee loyalty. To keep the leashes tight.

Had Idris known how abuzz the castle was with talk of the missing caravan—further spurred by whisperings about “unknown” horrors in Yar-on-Gray, which Oderin had informed him of the moment they’d been alone—he would’ve warned Anya to avoid the topic altogether. If only there had been time today for Idris to prepare her for her audience. His Oath prevented him from advising she lie to the Lord, but had they had a moment alone together— Fates , he could’ve said something . Or, at the very least, comforted her before this culminating moment.

But now, he remained silent. Anya—clutching her letters tightly against her pretty embroidered bodice—kept looking up at him for reassurance, but all Idris could do was smile down at her like he wasn’t leading her toward a trial that could prove more complicated than he’d originally anticipated.

Toward her possible imprisonment.

When they reached the end of the long corridor, Idris halted before the two guards stationed outside the door to the throne room. “I come with Anya Alvara, for trial, as requested.”

One of the guards cracked the door and whispered to the pair stationed on the other side. The small gap was enough for Idris to smell the stink of the Lord’s perfume clouding the throne room; nobody knew Lord Haron’s sensory magic—it was a mystery he delighted in maintaining—but Idris was willing to bet it wasn’t scent.

Another thing Idris hated about this place: the tedium.

Idris glanced down at Anya, aching to touch her, but holding himself back. He didn’t want to seem overly biased toward her in mixed company, but her fear was plain on her face now, creasing her usually open expression, her light brown eyes darting from the guards to the tapestries on the walls, to Hammond standing behind them, only to land on Idris pleadingly.

He had to say something, so he whispered the only thing he could: “Remember what I told you.” He hoped she knew to what he referred: Say nothing of what you’ve seen.

She stared up at him, lip wobbling—then the doors opened, stealing her attention.

“Walk ahead of me,” Idris murmured.

She did as she was told, her footsteps echoing off the marble. She held her head high; her hair hung in a single braid down her back, exposing the long, proud line of her neck. Witness to her courage, an overwhelming sense of respect spread through Idris—only to be eclipsed by a sinking sense of dread as he followed her inside.

Not much had changed of the imposing space since the last time Idris had seen it, but never had he felt so knotted up with fear upon entering—not even when he took his Oath. Anya was far more precious to Idris than his own future had been to him at the time; wracked with grief over Grinnick, he hadn’t much cared about what he’d face in the Order of the Valiant. It was that lack of caring that had kept him Oath-bound even after his sentence was complete, lingering grief and self-hatred affixing him to the very thing he despised.

But now, things were different. Now, he cared very much about what the future held.

The Lord of Fenrir was seated on his raised throne at the other end of the chamber, framed by his robed-and-hooded ledgermasters, a few attendants, and four Royal Guards. Oderin had already seated himself in the area reserved for witnesses—a cluster of chairs off to the left, empty except for him—and Hammond broke off to sit beside the other knight.

Idris continued on Anya’s heels, seeing her all the way to the Lord. “Six more steps, then halt and bow—low,” he whispered, his words mere breath to his ears, but he knew Anya would hear him.

She followed his instructions, lifting her skirts in one hand and curtsying as low as she could without dropping her numerous letters. Her dress had been a good choice. It was rather simple compared to the ostentatious fashion of the Lord’s court, but it showed effort, which the Lord would appreciate.

“Rise,” Lord Haron said, his voice just as gratingly nasal as Idris remembered. He wore a flamboyant pink and green waistcoat with a white ruffled shirt, and a matching version of those silly pointed shoes he favored. Sometimes Idris got the sense that the Lord wore ridiculous things just to see the trend sweep noble society, to test his subjects’ blind devotion.

Anya rose, but kept her chin tucked, not looking the Lord in the eye.

“My, my, you are a pretty little criminal, aren’t you?” Lord Haron said.

Idris clenched his teeth. The Lord loved to bait his subjects into speaking out of turn. Idris should’ve taught Anya some basic court etiquette in preparation for her audience—but it was too late, now.

Thankfully, she didn’t respond to the Lord’s question.

After a beat, the Lord chuckled, a menacingly haughty staccato. “Do you know why you are here?” he asked. “You may speak freely, Anya Alvara.”

Finally, she lifted her gaze to the Lord, holding her chin high enough that Idris—standing a pace back and to her left—could see the fluttering of her pulse on the side of her neck.

Yet, in spite of her palpable nervousness, her voice was steady and clear. “I am here for my Mirror Trial.”

“Very good,” the Lord said, as if he were speaking to a child. “What did you bring me? Letters?” He held out a beckoning hand.

Anya fell for it. She stepped forward, and the foursome of gold-clad Royal Guards flanking the Lord’s throne all moved as one, brandishing the long daggers they kept at their hips. Anya stopped short, startled; a few letters slipped out of her grasp, fluttering to the floor. Idris stooped without thinking, realizing only after he’d handed Anya one of the escaped letters that he’d made a mistake, too.

When Idris rose to his full height again, Lord Haron had his chin propped on a fist. He was smirking.

“Hand them to Xina,” the Lord ordered Anya, pointing at one of the squires.

Anya settled the letters into the squire’s outstretched arms, her cheeks flaming. The Lord clearly relished seeing her squirm—but not as much as he relished seeing through a charade.

As the squire deposited the letters into the Lord’s hands, his shrewd eyes flicked to Idris. “You always were a sentimental man, Idris, but caring about a Mirror Criminal?” The Lord tisked, sounding endlessly amused. “Even I wouldn’t have guessed.”

A multitude of sarcastic comments came to mind, but Idris kept his mouth shut. To reveal any emotion would be to play into the Lord’s hand.

His show of affection toward Anya was bad enough on its own. Any favorable word Idris spoke of Anya was now debatable at best, invalidated at worst. The Lord would no doubt use it against him if the opportunity arose.

The Lord gestured at one of the squires, who approached the throne carrying a gold platter with a creased piece of paper resting atop it. “Tell me, Anya, are you a criminal?” Lord Haron asked as he lifted the sheet off the tray.

“No,” Anya rushed out. “In my case, the Mirror must be wrong. I would never—”

The Lord raised his hand, cutting her off. He held the paper aloft. “Here in my hands is the testimony of a one Daisy Merchold. Do you know a woman by that name?”

Anya shook her head, but Idris saw the clench of her fist at her side.

The Lord took on a high-pitched, feminine tone. “‘My husband left for Waldron-on-Wend seven weeks ago and never returned. He said he had an attachment in Waldron that he needed to sever.’” The Lord lowered the paper. “Ringing any bells now?”

Anya simply stared.

Was she surprised by the testimony ? Or the fact that Remy hadn’t returned to his wife? Had she known he had a wife? I have plenty of reasons to murder Remy, she had told Idris, but I wouldn’t.

The Lord licked his lips and continued reading in that insulting voice. “‘It is my belief that my husband Remy—a merchant under the crown’s esteemed banner—was murdered by his mistress after he ended their dalliance.’ Blah, blah, blah.” The Lord set the paper back on the squire’s tray and flicked his wrist in dismissal. “It is not uncommon for women to become hysterical upon rejection.”

Anya shook her head again, a strand of hair by her face coming loose from her braid. “Who’s to say he isn’t just late returning home? He was never a particularly trustworthy individual— clearly .”

The Lord arched a brow. “ Was ?”

Anya closed her eyes, clearly realizing the potential implication of her phrasing. But when she opened them again, a fierceness had come over her. “If he has not returned by now, perhaps he perished in the attack on my prisoner caravan.”

Fuck . She mentioned it.

Idris’s heart went from steady drumbeat to stampede—loud enough for Anya to tip her ear slightly in his direction, taking note. Say nothing of what you’ve seen. Say nothing of what you’ve seen. If he thought the words loud enough—Idris wondered illogically—would she hear his plea?

“I have no record of Remy Merchold being convicted,” Lord Haron said.

“He came to see me that first night on the road,” Anya explained quickly. “He followed the caravan and sought me out after sundown to break things off. How could I kill him from inside a cell?”

That was a surprise. Idris glanced at Oderin and Hammond; both men were wide-eyed.

“That’s quite a yarn you’re weaving,” the Lord said. “Why would—”

“It is no yarn,” Anya insisted.

The Lord narrowed his eyes, angered by the interruption. “Give me one good reason why I should believe you.”

Anya glanced back at Idris; she wanted him to jump in, but he couldn’t. Not when the Lord was so agitated. Not when the Lord suspected that Idris held affection for her. It wasn’t the right time.

A single tear slid down her face. “I—I have character references,” she said, gesturing at the stack of letters on the Lord’s lap.

He made a show of lifting one aloft and ripping it in half. “Friends of murderers are hardly to be believed.”

Another tear fell from Anya’s cheek, wetting the fabric of her dress, a dark splotch right over her heart.

Her letters, his knighthood. They’d both been so optimistic about her trial. How had this gone so wrong? Idris would be hard-pressed to believe the wife of a merchant would be worried about his absence when the travel alone took six weeks round-trip; inclement weather, a broken axel, a horse with an abscess—there were any number of reasonable explanations for Remy’s delay.

Was it possible the Lord had commissioned the testimony? Had the Lord already suspected that Anya knew too much? No information in Fenrir was illegal , but a conviction for something else would certainly silence her.

And Anya had played right into the Lord’s scheme—perhaps better than the Lord could have anticipated. Because by her admission, if Remy died in the attack, there was no risk of him showing up later to disprove Anya’s “crime.” With Remy gone, the Lord could easily pin the blame on Anya.

But how had the Lord caught wind of Anya’s knowledge in the first place?

Heris .

It was just like the other knight to have the Lord do away with Anya over murdering her himself. The question was why ? Why would Heris wish to contain the rumors from Brine, but tell the Lord about Anya?

Idris couldn’t take it anymore—he had to defend her. “If I may, my Lord—”

“You may not,” the Lord bit out.

Idris tasted the warning of his Oath on his tongue, the bitterness that’d ruled his whole adult life. He clenched his jaw again, molars aching.

Lord Haron swung his cruel eyes on him. “Actually, there is something I’d like to know from you, Knight.”

A sour feeling spread through Idris’s gut.

“Does she know too much?”

Anya, trembling now, glanced at Idris again, eyes red.

Idris couldn’t outright lie to the Lord—his Oath prevented it. Thankfully, the Lord was sloppy with his phrasing. Overly subjective.

Idris inspected his own fingernails, assuming a bored tone. “Anya is an innkeeper from Waldron-on-Wend,” he said. “She knows little of the world.” It pained him to say it, but he hoped the dismissal would appeal to the Lord’s already-dismissive attitude. He didn’t look at Anya to see his statement’s impact. He lowered his hand and met the Lord’s eyes. “Hardly nefarious, if you ask me.”

“That wasn’t what I asked, though,” the Lord said. “All day, my halls have hummed with rumors about a prisoner caravan that never arrived at the capital. A caravan filled with Mirror Criminals. By her own word, Anya was on that caravan—a fact which was confirmed by the record you brought. No others have turned up, and yet here you stand. A Knight of Fenrir, doing your duty to deliver her to my doorstep for proper trial.”

The acid in Idris’s stomach intensified, burning up his chest, into his throat. He swallowed.

The Lord leaned forward, gripping the armrests of his throne. The many rings on his fingers ground against the wood as he gripped it tighter. “How is it that she survived when no other prisoners did? When not a single one of my guards returned?”

The prisoners had died by the claws and jaws of the abomination, but the guards…Idris had seen a few of them run off. He wondered now if Heris or one of his subordinates had silenced them before word returned to the capital.

It seemed believable enough: if Heris had been motivated to contain the news from Brine, he would’ve felt similarly about the caravan—especially in the aftermath of whatever had gone wrong with the Valiant factions in Yar-on-Gray, which didn’t reflect well on the effectiveness of the Order.

But Anya had been a loose end—too difficult to kill with Idris hanging around. So perhaps Heris had changed tactics, deciding to tell the Lord about the caravan, after all—and using the intelligence to put himself back in the Lord’s good graces after the Bad Blue’s failure in Yar.

It wasn’t too far-fetched. In fact, it sounded exactly like something Heris would do.

Idris’s head swam as Lord Haron continued his tirade.

“Answer me this. What in all the seven territories of our beloved Kingdom of Marona has the power to eradicate three prisoner wagons and eighteen trained prisoner guards?” the Lord asked, finally reaching his point with a cruel thrill in his beady eyes. “Think on it for a moment, Idris, then tell me: Does. Anya. Know. Too. Much?”

Anya tipped her face toward Idris, her cheeks slick with tears, her mouth parted.

For a single, reckless moment, Idris considered abandoning his Oath. But to lie would only confirm that which the Lord sought to know. And to refuse to answer would have a similar effect—and could also break his Oath, depending on how the Lord chose to wield the magic against him. The Lord’s question was unavoidable; Idris was entirely trapped.

He could not save Anya.

A landslide of devastation swept through him, big heavy boulders and suffocating mud burying him in shame. He should’ve never expected the Lord to take his word seriously, to assume a dog had sway over his master. He should’ve anticipated that there would be Order politics at play. He should’ve known that his presence would ruin things. He should’ve remained outside the room. He should’ve retired his Oath and done away with this Fates-forsaken place long ago. He should’ve… stayed out of it .

Heris had been right about one thing: Idris was nothing but a clumsy, hopeless fuckup. Even without a fixed Fate, it seemed Idris was forever destined to fail the people he loved.