The courthouse of Backlund stood tall against the grey afternoon sky, its marble facade streaked faintly with soot and rain. The columns that lined its entrance were carved in the style of the ancient Loen Empire, each crowned with stone scales that glared down at those who dared to step beneath them.
Within, the air was heavy with anticipation. Carriages had already disgorged their noble passengers, and the gallery was filling with silk, lace, and polished boots. The scent of perfume mingled uncomfortably with candle wax and the faint metallic tang of freshly oiled weapons carried discreetly by guards.
Audrey Hall perched on her seat in the gallery, hands clasped primly in her lap, though the sparkle in her green eyes betrayed her bubbling excitement. Her lips curved in a smile she could hardly restrain as she leaned slightly forward, gaze fixed on the empty stand at the far end of the hall.
Beside her, Viscount Glaint adjusted his cuffs, glancing at her with a bemused, almost exasperated expression. Unlike her, he sat with the composure expected of a noble, though his posture was taut with awareness of their surroundings.
"Miss Hall," he murmured low enough that only she could hear, "I must ask you to restrain yourself. You are, after all, my guest here."
Audrey blinked, cheeks coloring slightly, and ducked her head in apology. "Of course, Viscount. Forgive me."
Yet the smile didn't vanish—it lingered, tugging at her lips, betraying the thrill she couldn't quite suppress.
Viscount Glaint sighed quietly and leaned closer. "And dare I ask why you seem so eager? Most people do not look forward to these proceedings."
Audrey's answer was immediate, whispered with the kind of innocent sincerity that left little room for dissembling: "Because it's always a thrill to watch the Judge's cases."
The words struck like a ripple across the gallery. A few nearby nobles stiffened, glances darting toward her before quickly sliding away as though they had not heard. Conversations faltered, then resumed in tighter whispers.
Viscount Glaint pressed his lips into a thin line, eyes narrowing at her. He was quick to recover, however, and his voice stayed calm. "Miss Hall, do be careful. The Judge's name is not one to toss around lightly in such company."
"But why?" Audrey tilted her head, green eyes wide with genuine curiosity. "Isn't it right to admire someone who punishes the guilty?"
"That may be," Glaint replied, his gaze drifting across the hall where the nobles' whispers moved like nervous insects, "but wisdom lies in knowing when to admire in silence. Few here would dare attract his gaze. No one wishes to be measured on his scales."
Audrey nodded reluctantly, lips pressed together, but her eyes still danced with unspoken excitement.
Outside the courthouse, the chill of late autumn clung to the stone steps and iron lamps. The streets had thinned as commoners were herded away by constables, leaving only guards, servants, and the hushed crowd of onlookers who dared gather at a distance.
Adrian stood at the edge of the courtyard, pocket watch balanced delicately in his palm. His coat was buttoned high, his tie immaculate, and his hair combed with an exactness that made him seem carved from the same unyielding stone as the courthouse itself.
His eyes, sharp and steel-grey, were fixed on the watch's ticking hand. Each second passed with inexorable precision, until—
Click.
The hand struck one.
With a soft snap, Adrian closed the watch and slid it into his pocket. His jaw shifted, the smallest movement betraying irritation.
"You're late," he said without turning.
Behind him, footsteps approached at an easy, unhurried rhythm. Ronan's voice followed, unbothered as ever. "The kid wanted ice cream."
Adrian did not move.
"Or maybe," Ronan added thoughtfully, "I had to help some poor soul with directions. Or save a kitten from a tree. I'm a busy man."
Adrian finally turned his head a fraction, casting him a sidelong glance that carried more weight than words. Ronan only grinned, sharp teeth flashing in amusement.
"You and your wifey really are two peas in a pod," Ronan cackled, folding his hands behind his head as though this were all a casual stroll.
Adrian raised one dark brow but did not rise to the bait. He knew better. Feeding Ronan's jokes was like pouring oil on fire—pointless and self-destructive.
Instead, he adjusted his cuffs and stepped toward the courthouse doors.
"She said thanks, by the way," Ronan tossed out lazily.
"I know."
The reply was clipped, almost dismissive, but the faintest shift in Adrian's expression betrayed that the words landed.
"What did you give her, anyway? A diamond ring?" Ronan nudged his elbow playfully against Adrian's arm, nearly jostling him off stride.
Adrian didn't flinch. "An artifact we retrieved from that serial killer." His voice was level, as though discussing nothing more than the weather.
Ronan stopped dead. "You gave her what now?"
His shout carried across the courtyard like a gunshot. Heads swiveled instantly, guards stiffening, nobles peering from the arched doorway with sharp curiosity. Whispers flared in the gallery above as the echo reached within.
Adrian ignored it all. His boots struck the polished stone floor of the courthouse foyer with steady, measured steps. The weight of every eye upon him slid from his shoulders as though it were nothing more than dust.
The doors swung wide at his touch, and silence rippled outward like a tide.
Inside the gallery, Audrey straightened instantly, her smile blooming once more. "Viscount, look—he's here!" she whispered, barely containing her excitement.
Viscount Glaint did not need her to point. The entire room had shifted, attention snapping to the man who strode to the front without hesitation, without flourish, without bowing to the expectations of nobility or tradition.
The Judge.
Even those who despised him did not dare speak the word aloud. Instead, they watched in silence, hearts thudding beneath their embroidered coats and jeweled necklaces.
He had called it a wise thing once: to avoid attracting his notice. Watching now, surrounded by the hush of dozens of fearful nobles, the Viscount realized just how true those words were.
For when Adrian crossed the courtroom floor, it was not as a man among men.
It was as if a god had come to deliver justice itself, walking to take his stand.
And so the case began.
The Backlund Courthouse was never silent, but today the air itself seemed to hold its breath. Nobles filled the gallery, their finery a kaleidoscope of wealth against the austere marble chamber. Yet not one silk sleeve or jeweled cuff moved without restraint. It was as if all present understood that the ground they stood upon was no longer neutral — it belonged to one man.
At the high dais, the presiding judge tapped his gavel once, its crack ringing out through the vaulted ceiling like a thunderclap. "The court shall come to order. Today we—"
He didn't finish.
From below, calm and cutting, a voice interrupted.
"Bailiff."
The entire room turned at once. Adrian stood at the very center of the chamber, his posture rigid and composed, a golden pocket watch cradled loosely in his palm. The chain glinted in the light, its measured weight a silent counterpoint to the chaos it promised.
"Escort the criminal to the stand." His voice wasn't loud, but it carried.
The bailiff stiffened — not in protest, but in acknowledgment. Without hesitation, he bowed his head, as though the command was already familiar to him, and gestured for two guards to follow. The clatter of boots against stone marked their departure toward the holding chambers.
The judge on the dais frowned deeply, gavel hovering mid-air. His lined face twisted with irritation, but his eyes — tired, knowing eyes — betrayed something else: resignation. He set the gavel down, fingers curling against the oak as though resisting the urge to protest. Yet he said nothing. He had seen enough of these trials to understand that silence was the wiser course.
Adrian did not spare him a glance. His gaze was lowered to the pocket watch in hand, the ticking precise, almost ceremonial. Each second was an edict. Each turn of the hand measured not just time but patience, as if even this courtroom bowed to his rhythm.
On the opposite side of the chamber, the lawyer's bench remained empty. No defense, no shield, no one willing to stand for the accused.
The gallery murmured. Whispered words slithered from lip to lip: no defense? … how could this be permitted? … the Judge's hand again… Yet not one dared speak louder than a breath.
Audrey Hall leaned forward in her seat, green eyes sparkling with unrestrained delight. Her gloved hands clasped at the rail as though she were a child at a theater. Beside her, Viscount Glaint stiffened, lips thinning to a hard line as he leaned back. He caught her sleeve gently, whispering through an exasperated smile, "Miss Hall, contain yourself."
"I am!" she whispered back, though the flush of excitement in her cheeks betrayed her lie. "It's just—Father always said justice should feel alive, and this… this is it!"
Glaint's eyes flicked across the chamber, catching the wary stares and sharp ears of nearby nobles. He inhaled slowly, wearing a calm smile. "Audrey, If you cannot still your enthusiasm, at least lower your voice."
She mouthed a silent sorry but couldn't quite smother the grin tugging her lips.
Then the heavy doors at the back slammed open.
The bailiff and four guards wrestled a figure through, chains clinking against the stone. The accused — Earl Luthart, heavy-jowled, red-faced, with the sagging belly of indulgence — thrashed like a caught boar. His velvet coat was half torn from the struggle, one sleeve dangling by threads, yet he bellowed as though still commanding a drawing room.
"Unhand me, you dogs! Do you not know who I am?" His spit flew as he raged, every word sharp with arrogance. "I am Earl of the Crown's lands! I—ah, you insolent curs—will see you all punished for this outrage! How dare you drag me through filth as if I were—"
His words faltered when his eyes met Adrian's.
The Judge of Backlund did not flinch, did not scowl. He merely looked. Indifference colder than contempt, gaze steady as the ticking of the watch in his hand.
And for that single heartbeat, the Earl's voice cracked. But pride reasserted itself in a fury. He straightened, snarling.
"You useless man!" he spat, his rage narrowing upon Adrian. "Do you not know how many connections I have? Do you think you can touch me? I am invaluable to this city, unlike you swine!"
The words ricocheted in the silence. Some nobles lowered their eyes, others clenched their fists, but none spoke.
Adrian closed the watch with a soft click. He turned, finally, to the bailiff, and inclined his head. "Thank you."
The bailiff bowed again, as though acknowledging a command fulfilled, and stepped back.
Only then did Adrian's gaze lift toward the judge on the dais. His eyebrow arched, a silent prod, a nudge that bore the weight of inevitability: continue.
The presiding judge inhaled slowly, lifting a parchment from his desk. His eyes met the Earl's briefly, full of pity rather than sympathy. Then he began to read, voice carrying across the chamber:
"Earl Luthart of the Crown's Southern Estates, you stand accused of embezzling funds allocated for the construction of flood-prevention projects in the East Borough. You stand accused of diverting these funds toward your own personal indulgences—luxury items, entertainments, and displays of vanity flaunted before the public. You stand further accused of systemic corruption, of bribery, of obstructing justice through influence."
The charges fell heavy, each one a stone building a wall around the accused.
The judge's gaze lifted. "How does the accused plead?"
Earl Luthart's mouth snapped open, his voice poised to roar—
But another voice cut across him.
"Guilty."
The word fell like iron.
Gasps rippled through the chamber. All eyes swiveled to Adrian, who stood at the center, hand raised. His fingers snapped once, sharp as flint against steel.
A shimmer rippled in the air. From nothing, a mirror bloomed into being — a tall, silver plane, ornate with curling edges, its surface gleaming with an unnatural light. It stood before the Earl like judgment incarnate.
The gallery erupted in whispers, fear and awe tangled together. A few nobles crossed themselves instinctively. One voice, bright and wholly unafraid, squealed in delight:
"Oh! Oh, he's using the Mirror!" Audrey clapped, her voice carrying above the murmurs.
Heads turned toward her in horror. Glaint nearly groaned aloud, dragging a hand down his face. "Audrey—" though he can barely contain his own excitement as well.
Adrian's head tilted ever so slightly. His eyes found Audrey in the gallery. The faintest raise of his brow, a flicker of acknowledgment — and then, to the astonishment of all, he lifted a hand and waved.
It was small, a placating gesture, as if to assure her yes, yes, I see you.
Audrey nearly bounced in her seat.
The nobles nearby recoiled, trying to edge away from her as though the Judge's attention might leap like fire. Glaint's eyes widened with both envy and surprise.
Adrian turned back to the matter at hand, voice cool, precise.
"And please," he said, eyes cutting toward the dais, "call him what he is. A criminal."
He snapped his fingers again.
The mirror flared. Its surface rippled, not with reflection, but revelation. Scenes unfurled like living paintings: the Earl's own memories, dragged screaming into light. His hands, thick with rings, clutching city coffers. His voice ordering ledgers to be falsified. His laughter as gold was poured into private estates while workers' families drowned in flooded streets.
The Earl staggered back, face paling as his own corruption betrayed him.
"No!" he shrieked. "No, this cannot— you cannot show this!" His eyes darted across the gallery, to the judge, to the nobles. "I paid you! All of you! I funded your parties, your mistresses, your carriages—how dare you stand there in judgment of me!"
The whispers in the gallery sharpened, slicing into the silence. Some nobles looked away, others stared in horror. Few dared to speak.
The Earl's fury twisted into desperation. His trembling hands rose, veins bulging as he thrust them toward Adrian's throat.
"I'll kill you!"
But he never reached him.
In a blur, Ronan was there. The wolfish man seemed to appear from the shadows themselves, his grin sharp, eyes gleaming with feral delight. His boot snapped up in a vicious arc, connecting square with the Earl's face.
The crack of bone echoed like a second gavel. The Earl collapsed in a heap, blood streaking from his nose, his body slack.
"Whoops." Ronan winked at the stunned gallery, then to Adrian.
The bailiffs and guards surged forward, scrambling to collect the fallen noble. Chains clattered as they dragged his unconscious bulk upright, dragging him from the chamber like refuse.
Adrian did not flinch. His gaze remained steady as he turned back to the dais.
"Guilty," he declared, final as the toll of a bell.
And without another word, he walked. Past the guards, past the gallery, past the nobles who shrank from his passing as though judgment might brush them if they stood too close. His footsteps echoed, unhurried, resolute, until the heavy doors of the courthouse shut behind him.
The silence he left behind was suffocating.
Audrey broke it first, clapping her hands together, face glowing as if she had just witnessed a grand performance. "Marvelous!" she whispered to herself, practically bouncing.
Glaint turned to her slowly, his expression equal parts excitement and disbelief. "Miss Hall," he muttered, "I dearly hope you understand what you've just applauded." trying to keep up his pretense.
Her smile only widened. "Of course I do. Justice, Glaint. Justice."
The courthouse was drowning in silence, nobles whispering nervously among themselves, when outside, beyond the stained glass and heavy oak doors, another figure lingered.
High above the cobblestones, balanced along a ledge no wider than his boot, Jonas Crowe crouched with the ease of someone for whom danger was simply the ground he walked on. His long coat fluttered with each gust of wind, the tattered hem snapping like the wings of a scavenger bird.
He had climbed without care, one scarred hand gripping the stone ledge, the other resting casually on the crooked length of his cane. The makeshift prosthetic clicked faintly as he shifted his weight, wood and metal biting into the stone, a reminder of how much had already been taken from him — and how much he had survived anyway.
From where he crouched, he could see into the courtroom through one of the high arched windows. The glass was grimy, fractured in places, but clear enough for him to watch as the noble collapsed under the weight of the Mirror.
Jonas's hazel eyes narrowed, squinting like a man watching a play he already knew the ending to. His lips twisted into that familiar crooked half-smile, the kind that was equal parts amusement and disdain.
"That's the so-called Judge of Backlund, huh?" he muttered under his breath, voice rasping like smoke dragged across gravel.
His gaze lingered on the doors where Adrian had stood — the rigid posture, the way the man commanded the room without raising his voice, the calm in his eyes that somehow made him more terrifying than a killer with a blade.
Then the Mirror rippled, its silver surface vomiting truths into the open air. Jonas's smile faltered, lips flattening into a bitter line. He saw the way the noble's sins danced across the glass, undeniable, inescapable. Memories, raw and unfiltered, laid bare for every trembling spectator.
Jonas clicked his tongue, sharp against his teeth. "...I hate him already."
The words weren't shouted, weren't even particularly loud, but they carried all the venom of an oath.
He leaned back, squaring his shoulders as if shaking the weight of the thought away. His rings glinted in the weak daylight, trophies stolen and worn not out of pride but spite, mockery of a world that had rejected him long before he rejected it.
One last look at the heavy doors of the courtroom — the judge, the executioner, the mirrorr — and Jonas's crooked smile returned, though this time it was uglier, sharp with promise.
Without another word, he shifted his weight and stepped off the ledge.
The air rushed past him, coat flaring open like a pair of broken wings. His cane struck first when he landed, absorbing the impact with a dull thud, followed by the crunch of his boots on cobblestone.
He straightened, rolling his shoulders, and walked away as if he hadn't just dropped two stories without a sound. The courthouse loomed behind him, full of whispers and fear. Jonas didn't look back.
For men like him, the law was never worth more than the bullets in their guns.