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Nyxara stepped forward first. She held her hand above the cup and, with a swift motion, made a precise cut across her wrist. A single drop of blood trickled down—thicker than ordinary blood, richer in color, almost metallic in its sheen.It moved like liquid mercury, gliding into the cup.

The bone-white vessel reacted immediately. The drop dissolved upon contact, but not like water into wine—it was devoured. The cup seemed to drink it in, hungrily absorbing the offering, and its pristine surface bled into crimson.

Elder Michael lifted his gaze. His voice, when he spoke, carried the weight of an unspoken oath, a force that seemed to press upon the room itself.

"Tell us, Nyxara Mortivia," he intoned, "how many casualties has House Mortivia suffered in the recent battles against the Damned?"

A hush fell over the hall. All eyes were on her now.

Nyxara didn't flinch. Her blood red eyes remained locked onto Elder Michael's, unwavering.

"Two hundred and forty-seven," she stated, her voice clear and unwavering.

The moment the words left her lips, a pulse of energy rippled through the room. The blood within the Truth Prison shimmered, shifting like liquid fire, before settling once more.

No reaction. No rejection.

She had spoken the truth.

A murmur rippled through the gathered nobles. Some eyes flickered with surprise, others with skepticism. Two hundred and forty-seven? A staggering number. Had House Mortivia truly suffered such losses, or had the Damned been more relentless than they'd all assumed?

Elder Michael inclined his head. "House Mortivia's claim has been recorded," he said, his voice steady.

Nyxara stepped back, her wrist already healing as she flexed her fingers. The crimson in the cup slowly faded back to bone-white, as though the prison had devoured the truth, satisfied—for now.

For a long moment, no one else moved. The weight of the ritual hung thick in the air.

Then, Darion Noctarion stepped forward.

He was eerily calm, his movements smooth as shadow. With the practiced ease of a man who had seen his fair share of bloodshed, he drew a thin dagger from his belt and pressed the tip against his palm. A single drop of ink-black blood welled up and fell into the cup.

This time, the reaction was different. The Truth Prison trembled slightly, as though hesitant to consume what had been offered. The blood swirled in slow, dark tendrils, clinging to the bone-white walls of the cup before finally dissolving.

"Tell us, Darion Noctarion, how many casualties has House Noctarion suffered?"

Silence.

Darion's head tilted slightly. His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes—dark and calculating—held something unreadable beneath them.

"One hundred and twelve," he said.

Again, the blood shifted, roiling for a moment before settling.

The truth.

Another wave of whispers. Noctarion's forces were known to be elusive, striking from the shadows, impossible to pin down. Yet their losses were still significant.

Elder Michael nodded. "House Noctarion's claim has been recorded."

Darion stepped back, his gaze flickering briefly toward Nyxara, but he said nothing.

The cup turned white once more.

A pause. Then—

"I shall go next," Malrik Valeroth announced, stepping forward.

Unlike the others, he didn't hesitate. He held out his hand and used his fangs to pierce his thumb. A single drop of deep blue rolled down and fell into the cup.

But this time, when the blood touched the surface, the Truth Prison shuddered.

A strange vibration rippled through the air, subtle but wrong. The blue within the cup darkened, shifting into a deep, near-black shade.

Elder Michael's gaze sharpened.

"Tell us, Malrik Valeroth," he intoned, "how many casualties has House Valeroth suffered?"

A beat of silence.

Malrik exhaled slowly. His eyes flickered, just briefly. Then, with measured confidence, he spoke.

"Three hundred and fifteen."

The room seemed to hold its breath.

Then—

The cup screamed.

It was not a sound made of air or breath but something deeper, something felt in the marrow. A sharp, piercing wail, like bone scraping against bone, a whisper of agony laced with fury.

Malrik tensed. His jaw clenched, but his posture didn't falter. The blood within the cup boiled, turning black, writhing against the walls of the Truth Prison.

A lie.

Elder Michael's expression darkened. His fingers tightened around the cup. "You have lied, Malrik Valeroth," he said, his voice low, dangerous.

Then—Malrik gasped. His entire body jerked, his chest seizing as if something invisible had wrapped around his heart and squeezed.

A flash of pain crossed his face, fleeting but undeniable. A warning. A reminder of the Truth Prison's promise.

Malrik inhaled sharply, steadying himself. He hadn't screamed. He hadn't collapsed. But everyone in the room had seenit.

He had dared to test the truth of House Aestherisin's mystic powers. gauge how much truth their was to the tales and he had surely felt the result.

THat's what house Valeroth was mostly known for, being simpletons.

"Shall I ask again?" Elder Michael said softly.

A long silence stretched between them. Malrik's lips pressed into a thin line.

Finally, his voice came, clipped and quiet.

"One hundred and sixty-two."

The cup stilled.

The blackened blood lightened, dissolving back into Blue.

The truth.

A ripple of tension spread through the hall.

Lies were expected in politics, in war, in negotiations. But here—under the Truth Prison's watchful gaze—there was no escaping them.

Malrik stepped back without another word. His jaw was tight, his pride clearly bruised.

Elder Michael's gaze swept across the remaining representatives. "Who will be next?"

A pause. A single heartbeat of hesitation.

Then, Sophia Sanguinary stepped forward.

Unlike the others, she moved with a slow, deliberate grace—each step measured, each motion calculated. Her deep purple gown clung to her form like liquid velvet, and her long violet nails gleamed as she lifted her hand over the bone-white cup.

She did not cut herself immediately.

Instead, she tilted her head, a slow smirk curving her lips. "I must say, that was quite the performance, Malrik," she purred.

Malrik said nothing, though his fingers twitched at his side.

Sophia's smirk widened before she lifted her other hand, pressing a single claw-like nail against her fingertip. A delicate prick, and a single drop of sharp, purple blood fell into the cup.

It had an almost alluring smell that spread across the room making the spectators mouths water and gaze deepen.

Her gaze flickered to me as I sat heir impassive.

This time, the Truth Prison reacted differently.

The blood hit the surface with a ripple, but instead of merely changing color, the cup's entire form shifted—lengthening, twisting—like a beast stretching its limbs after a deep slumber.

Murmurs stirred in the hall.

Sophia watched the reaction with interest, her expression betraying neither surprise nor concern. If anything—she looked amused.

Elder Michael's fingers tensed around the Truth Prison before he spoke.

"Tell us, Sophia Sanguinary," he intoned, "how many casualties has House Sanguinary suffered?"

A single heartbeat of silence.

Then, she sighed dramatically. "One hundred and ninety-four."

The Truth Prison pulsed.

The blood within it churned—deepening to a near-black shade, lingering on the edge of rejection. Then, after what felt like far too long, the color settled back into deep purple.

Truth.

But only barely.

She had been careful.

A game of words, not of numbers.

Kai Rylan's eyes narrowed slightly.

"That reaction was... different." said vicaris.

Sophia turned to him with a slow, lazy blink. "Oh? Are you questioning the prison's judgment, elder?"

He didn't answer immediately. He simply studied the cup for a long moment before exhaling, settling back into his position.

Elder Michael nodded. "House Sanguinary's claim has been recorded."

Sophia stepped back, offering a glance toward Nyxara and Darion before settling her gaze on Malrik. Her smirk deepened. Mocking. Knowing.

Malrik's jaw clenched.

Victor exhaled. "Then the rankings are set," he declared, his voice cutting through the quiet tension that had settled over the room. "House Mortivia first. House Sanguinary second. House Noctarion third. House Valeroth—"

He let the words linger.

Malrik's hands curled into fists at his sides.

"Fourth," Victor finished smoothly.

A sting of shame. A loss of standing.

Malrik said nothing.

Father straightened. "With the order now established, the armors will be forged accordingly," he announced. "This decision is final."

A sense of finality settled over the hall. There would be no more arguments. No more maneuvering.

"Each house will also present the end of the bargain first to the house Aestherisin before their armours are created and enchanted." Kai Rylan said at the end.

"Now with this settled we are here for another matter, you majesty" Sophia said as she stepped forward.