Archibald's gaze swept the chamber, lingering on the scroll in Simir's hand before fixing on Blue. The silence stretched, unbearable, until Archibald finally spoke. His voice was calm, yet each syllable carried the weight of command that pressed down on all who heard it. "So this… is the thief who dares meddle with what is mine?" He took another step forward, hazel eyes narrowing. "Do you have anything to say before judgment is passed?"
Blue's lips parted, his breath shallow but his words steady. "I didn't steal it." His voice was low, roughened by the bruises forming along his ribs, but clear enough to reach every ear in the chamber. He lifted his chin, silver eyes unflinching as they met Archibald's piercing gaze. "I would never touch what isn't mine."
Archibald's eyes narrowed further, his expression unreadable. He let the silence stretch again, feeding the tension until the air felt ready to split. Then his lips curved into the faintest trace of a smile, a gesture that carried no warmth. "Whether you took it or not no longer matters," he said softly, his words slicing sharper than a blade. "What matters is what the others believe."
Murmurs spread through the onlookers like wildfire, whispers of guilt and betrayal twisting together. Some averted their eyes from Blue, while others stared with open contempt. The chamber itself seemed to lean against him, pressing harder with every passing second. Archibald raised a hand, and the murmurs died instantly. "You are already condemned in their eyes," he continued. "And perception, boy, is stronger than truth."
His gaze shifted briefly to Simir, a silent nod of approval for the staged discovery. Then his eyes returned to Blue, gleaming with cold satisfaction. Yet when he spoke, his tone shifted, taking on the weight of false benevolence. "From this day, you carry the brand of a thief. But I will not condemn you without recourse. You will be given a chance to clear your name in trial by combat. Let strength decide what truth cannot."
A stunned silence followed before the chamber erupted in whispers. Some of the onlookers nodded eagerly, excited at the prospect of bloodshed. Others muttered with unease, uncertain if Blue could possibly survive such a challenge. Jordan's grin returned, sharp and mocking, while Simir's lips curled in smug satisfaction. The weight of the crowd's judgment pressed harder than any physical blow, their voices weaving the bars of an invisible cage around Blue.
Archibald raised his hand again, and the noise fell away like dust shaken from stone. "The trial will be held tomorrow at first light," he declared, his tone solemn yet carrying that same mask of benevolence. "Prepare yourselves, and let all bear witness. If this boy is innocent, his strength will prove it. If he is guilty, then his failure will be his sentence."
At first light the following morning, the training courtyard was already filled with murmurs and eager faces. The chill of dawn clung to the air, and the stone floor gleamed faintly with dew. Servants, retainers, and youths of the household pressed close, hungry for spectacle. In the center of the ring, Blue stood with his body still aching from the night before, silver eyes unwavering despite the tremor in his limbs.
Jordan lingered at the edge of the circle, arms folded, smirk firmly in place. Simir stood beside him, scarred temple catching the light, fire-red eyes alight with anticipation. Archibald observed from an elevated platform, his long black locks stirring as if unseen winds bowed to his presence. His expression was calm, unreadable, as though he were both judge and executioner.
A steward stepped forward, his voice carrying over the crowd. "By order of Archibald Pruitt, this trial shall be decided by combat. Blue stands accused of theft, and will face his accusers in turn. If he prevails, his honor may yet be restored. If he falls, his guilt is sealed."
The announcement drew a cheer from some and murmurs of doubt from others. Blue exhaled slowly, centering himself as the circle widened around him. His hands curled into fists, knuckles whitening. The weight of the household bore down on him, but inside, the spark of resistance still burned.
"First to face him," the steward called, "Simir Glossman!"
The crowd stirred as Simir stepped into the ring, rolling his shoulders, his lips twisting into a smile devoid of warmth. Blue braced himself, knowing that to survive even this first bout would take everything he had—and more. The trial had begun.
Simir wasted no time. The moment the words faded, he lunged forward with startling speed for his stocky frame. His fist slammed into Blue's guard with the force of a hammer striking stone, sending shockwaves down his arms. The crowd roared, half in excitement, half in scorn.
Blue staggered but refused to fall, his silver eyes blazing as he tried to counter with a desperate strike to Simir's midsection. It landed, but the blow barely shifted his opponent. Simir's lips twisted into a cruel smile as he backhanded Blue across the face, the crack of impact ringing out in the courtyard. Gasps mixed with jeers as blood sprayed from Blue's lip.
"Pathetic," Simir sneered, circling him like a predator toying with its prey. "You can glare all you want, but you'll never stand above me."
Blue's chest heaved, his muscles screaming in protest as he forced himself upright again. He charged, unleashing everything he had in a flurry of strikes, each one born of desperation rather than skill. For a heartbeat, the crowd held its breath at his sudden ferocity. But Simir weathered the assault with ease, absorbing the blows before stepping back with a cruel grin. His hand cut through the air in a sweeping arc as he unleashed a powerful technique—Soaring Eagle Slash. The strike carved forward with brutal precision, tearing across Blue's chest and hurling him backward, blood spraying as though the air itself had ripped him open. Gasps erupted through the crowd at the near-lethal blow, the courtyard trembling with the weight of Simir's dominance.
The air rushed from Blue's lungs as he collapsed to his knees, vision swimming. Simir loomed over him, scar catching the morning light, fire-red eyes burning with cruel satisfaction. He raised his fist high, and with one final strike sent Blue sprawling across the stone floor.
The courtyard fell silent. Blue twitched, struggling to rise, but his body refused him. The steward stepped forward, his voice heavy with finality. "The first match is decided. Simir Glossman is the victor."
A wave of noise swept the courtyard—cheers, whispers, mocking laughter. Some looked at Blue with disdain, others with pity, but none moved to help him. Archibald remained still on his platform, expression unreadable, though his hazel eyes gleamed with cold interest. Jordan's smirk widened as he stepped forward, eager for his turn, but the trial had already broken Blue before the second fight could begin.
Archibald rose from his seat, the murmurs of the crowd dying instantly. His robes whispered as he looked down upon the battered boy sprawled across the stones. "The verdict is clear," he announced, tone measured, almost sorrowful. "Blue has failed his trial. By the laws of this house, his guilt is sealed."
Jordan took a step forward, but Archibald raised his hand, halting him. "There is no need," he said firmly. "The boy is finished." His gaze hardened. "Take him to the outer wall."
Two retainers seized Blue by the arms. Pain flashed white through his chest as they dragged him from the courtyard and up the narrow stair to the ramparts. The world blurred—stone underfoot, iron in his mouth, the roar of water somewhere beyond the walls. At the parapet, one retainer drove a fist into Blue's ribs with brutal finality. Something gave—sharp, wet, and deep—and his breath vanished in a ragged gasp.
"Cast him out," Archibald's voice carried from below, calm as a ritual.
They lifted him to the ledge. For a heartbeat, Blue's silver eyes caught the dawn—cold light on the river far below. Then the retainers heaved. The sky flipped; wind tore at his clothes; stone and water rushed up as one. He struck the river hard, the impact splitting fire through his side, and the current seized him, dragging him under and away.
The river was a relentless thing, swollen by mountain melt and recent rain. It battered Blue against hidden stones and pulled him through coils of froth until thought dissolved into pain and darkness. When at last the current spat him into a calmer bend, a figure slipped from the reeds.
Neto moved without sound. He waded in, bracing against the pull, and caught Blue beneath the arms, hauling him to the muddy bank. Blood brightened the water around the boy's ribs. Neto pressed a hand to the wound, steadying the flow with practiced pressure, then wrapped him in a rough cloak and dragged him into the tree line.
He worked quickly in the shelter of a low thicket: binding the ribs, packing the gash with bitter-smelling herbs, and forcing a thin draught between Blue's lips. The boy's eyes fluttered, unfocused. "Quiet," Neto murmured, voice barely air. "Live." He glanced back toward the estate's distant walls, then deeper into the forested ravine. Under Gracey's command, his vow was simple—guard from afar, interfere only when the brink demanded it. Tonight, the brink had a name.
Night cloaked the residence when Archibald returned to his study. A lone brazier smoldered; silver runes in his robe-thread picked at the light like cold stars. A faint shimmer pulsed from the communication stone on his desk, and as his hand brushed it, the air wavered. Across from him appeared the projection of a figure in Pierce colors—an elder, sharp of cheek and colder of eye. The voice that followed was distant, carried through secrecy.
The elder's voice slithered through the stone, low and cutting. "How goes the plan to take out Shadow?" The name hung in the air, sharp and heavy, as though speaking it alone carried a curse.
Archibald's fingers traced the rim of the untouched cup beside him, a habit born of calculation rather than comfort. The steam curled upward, thin as a whisper, while his words carried the same chill that lingered in the room. "The plan moves forward as expected. Our hands are clean—it appears as though he had a dispute with a fellow disciple and could not measure up to Pierce standards. Exile makes it seem the natural result. If he lives or dies will not be on us, and the family has no need to investigate." His hazel eyes gleamed with a hidden edge. "That is the strength of perception."
"Exile is not assurance."
"It is a slower blade," Archibald replied. "The world does my work. The river has already taken him, and no one survives its pull. Shadow is gone." He set the cup down, smiling without warmth. "The river claimed him, and with it any trace of scandal. No one will question, and no one will look deeper."
The elder's mouth thinned, but no further argument came. His voice returned, quieter, measured. "Very well. I will keep my end of the bargain, but not yet. A few years must pass before suspicion fades. Only then will the debt be paid. For now, be certain the boy is truly gone." The shimmer of the communication stone dimmed and then faded, leaving Archibald alone in the dim chamber.
The heavy door creaked open once, and Jordan and Simir entered together. They exchanged a brief glance before bowing to Archibald, unaware of the conversation that had just ended.
"My lord," Simir began, eyes flicking to the brazier's glow, "why not finish him? A lesson taught in blood ends all doubt."
Jordan's smirk was smaller than before. "If you wished it, I would have done it there."
Archibald considered them both, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You see only the moment," he said, his voice smooth, almost patient. "But the larger picture is not always clear at first glance. A corpse teaches nothing, but a lesson staged teaches much. The world saw justice, restraint—and that was the true victory." His hazel eyes glinted as he inclined his head ever so slightly. "You did well with the setup. As reward, you have my permission to study the scroll's contents. Use it to strengthen yourselves, and prove useful to this sect in the days ahead. Now return to your training." With a dismissive wave of his hand, he ended the matter.
Simir's eyes lit with excitement, and Jordan's smirk returned, sharper than before. Both bowed deeply, their eagerness clear, before departing with a renewed sense of pride.
Alone, Archibald returned to his chair, gaze turning toward the dark line of the river beyond the walls. His fingers drummed softly against the armrest, each tap steady, deliberate. Ambition flickered in his hazel eyes, sharp and consuming. "It is only a matter of time," he murmured. "And in the end, even those who whisper commands from the shadows will kneel beneath my heel."
On a bed of pine boughs beneath a veiled moon, Blue surfaced from blackness to a dull ache that owned his body. The throb in his ribs measured time. A rough cloak lay over him; the air smelled of wet earth and crushed herb. He tried to sit—the world reeled.
A branch creaked nearby. By the time he turned, the sound was gone. Only the river answered.
He drifted in and out of consciousness, the world breaking into fragments of dark and dim firelight. Each time his eyes opened, Neto's hands were there—pressing herbs into the wound, tightening the bindings, forcing bitter liquid between his lips. He closed his eyes again, drowning in pain. Shame stalked the edges of his thoughts, but something fiercer burned at the center—small, stubborn, alive. A rough touch on his ribs pulled him back to awareness, just long enough to press a hand to his bound side and stare into the dark until it stared back, before slipping once more toward the void.
He was not dead. Not yet.
And as long as breath answered his call, he would not break.
Through the haze of pain, a voice reached him—steady, quiet, carrying a weight of care. Neto leaned close, his hand firm on the bandages. "Pull through, Shadow," he murmured, speaking the name few had dared to use. "Live. Your path isn't meant to end here."