Charles sat on a hard wooden chair, keeping his mouth shut as he watched the trial unfold.
The room looked like a courtroom from the real world, but with a rustic edge that screamed he was still in the clan.
Carved stone walls, a polished slab floor, and a raised platform where three Grandmasters sat in chairs etched with symbols Charles couldn't decipher.
At the center, a long table separated Lira, defending his case, from the man raising complaints against him—a scrawny guy in a black tunic with red trim who glared at Charles like he was a criminal.
Torches on the walls lit the room, and the air smelled of damp stone and burning wax.
'This is nuts,' Charles thought, hands on his knees. 'Feels like I'm on trial for witchcraft in the Middle Ages.'
Lira stood tall, her black hair tied in a tight braid, her expression brimming with confidence.
Across from her, the complaint guy, whose name Charles hadn't caught, spoke firmly, pointing at him now and then.
