The grand chamber of Parliament was tense.
Light rain tapped against the stained glass dome above, a rhythmic beat too gentle to match the fire crackling in Seamus Matteo's chest.
He paced before the assembled lords and ladies—dozens of territory-elected nobles, draped in finery, their eyes tracking his every move. To the side sat a small delegation from the Church, robed in stark white and crimson. They listened with stony silence.
"The mana stone accident has led to both a tragic loss of life," Seamus said, voice steady despite the emotion buried beneath, "and an interruption in supply. Prices will rise. Distribution will be rationed until further safety evaluations and reopening."
The nobles murmured amongst themselves, concern and frustration flaring across their faces.
The Church representatives didn't move. Not even to blink.
Before Seamus could continue his report, the chamber doors flew open.
Kenneth crossed the marble floor with a wild-eyed Cheri, soaked in rain, her hem torn and her curls plastered to her cheeks. Gasps echoed across the room at the breach in decorum.
Seamus raised an eyebrow.
Then he saw Cheri's face—ashen, tear-streaked.
She didn't curtsy. Didn't speak to the chamber. She ran straight to him and whispered into his ear, her voice trembling, ragged, wet with fear.
Elena.
The Inquisition.
Seamus didn't speak.
Not right away.
His body tensed—muscles coiling like steel drawn too tight—and his eyes darkened until they were nearly black. His gaze flicked from Cheri to Kenneth, then back again. Their expressions confirmed it.
This was not a misunderstanding.
Then, in one swift motion, he unsheathed the ceremonial sword—the blade all Parliament nobles were gifted upon their swearing-in.
The room froze.
Gasps erupted from the gallery as he strode directly to the Church representatives.
One of the priests finally looked up.
Just in time for Seamus to slam his boot into the man's chest, kicking him off the pew.
Before the others could react, the sword's tip was pressed to the priest's throat, gleaming inches from his jugular.
"WHERE IS SHE?!" Seamus roared.
The room burst into cries and shouts, but no one moved.
The priest smiled. A smirk.
"When we're done with her," he said, "there won't be anyone left for you to get violent over. And you, Lord Matteo, will be far more… compliant."
Seamus's hand shook.
He could've killed him.
But instead, he let the blade fall away and turned toward the Parliament chamber, face flushed with fury.
"See this? See what happens when we allow the Church to meddle in our homes? Our blood? Our decisions?"
"They think they can run our lives."
He didn't wait for permission. Didn't look for support. He stormed down the aisle and out of the chamber, sword still unsheathed, footsteps echoing behind him like war drums.
"There will be hell to pay for hurting my love," he growled, "and our child."
As he descended the front steps of the building, his breath caught.
A sudden, vivid vision overtook him—unbidden and surreal:
A battlefield.
The clang of steel.
A woman, beautiful and wild with grief, crying over his broken, bloodied armor.
His own voice whispered:
"Not a bad day to die…"
He blinked, and the image vanished.
"What was that…?" he whispered.
But there was no time to wonder.
Elena's world was red.
She hung in the Tribunal chamber—her arms tied with magic cancelling hemp cord twisted with iron above her head, her toes barely grazing the floor. Her nightdress had long since torn away in the struggle. Her body trembled, nausea twisting through her gut, her womb aching with a pain she dared not name.
And still, she defiantly glared at them all.
The Church judges. The agents. The masked man with the ledger. The one with the whip.
They had screamed at her for hours. Called her a witch. A traitor. A murderer. An unwed mother. Whore.
The crimes of a woman who dared to live outside the lines.
Finally, her punishment was read aloud. Not a sentence. Not a trial. Just punishment.
"One hundred lashes for the witch whore," the voice intoned, "and confinement to the dungeon until the demon child is born."
Elena's body went cold.
She hadn't cried.
Not for her mother. Not when she lost everything. Not when the pain kept her sleepless for nights.
But now…
"Please," she begged, her voice hoarse and cracking. "This child is innocent. Please-"
CRACK.
The whip lashed across her back.
She gasped.
SNAP. CRACK. SNAP.
It continued, each blow painting her pale skin red. Her legs. Her shoulders. Her sides. Her breath left her. Blood mixed with tears. Lacerations opened more with each whip.
At first, she tried to count. But by thirty, her mind was fogged. At forty, she sobbed not from the lashings, but from the sharp pain inside her abdomen.
Blood ran down her thighs.
The baby… please, please hold on…
By sixty, she lost consciousness. Her head fell forward, her body limp but still suspended by the cruel chains. Blood pooled on the stone floor.
A bucket of cold water was thrown over her.
She gasped awake, only to meet more pain.
Seventy.
Eighty.
By ninety, she made no sound.
She was going to die.
And she couldn't protect her child. A failure, like her mother said.
Her lips moved in a final, desperate prayer to the Saintess.
Nothing answered.