Evening light filtered through the stained-glass dome overhead, casting deep violet shadows across the tribunal hall. The golden glow of justice had long since faded—replaced now by the bruised hue of judgment fulfilled. The nobles had been dismissed. The last scroll had been sealed with wax. And the scent of fear, sweat, and submission clung to the stone walls like fog after rain.
Only a few remained now.
Allen sat atop the high dais, one leg lazily draped over the armrest of the tribunal throne. His coat hung open, tunic partially unfastened, revealing the light sheen of exertion on his chest. His posture was relaxed, almost indulgent, but his eyes—sharp and unflinching—never strayed from the trembling woman below him.
Soreya was still bound.
