The Grand Tribunal was a monument to the Crown's authority.
It was a massive stone building at the edge of the noble district, its columns white, its doors bronze, its steps worn smooth by centuries of feet. The building had been built to impress, to intimidate, to remind anyone who entered that the King's justice was absolute.
Today, the steps were crowded.
Word had spread through the capital over the past weeks. Hespera Brindle, a high-ranking official in the Audit Office, was being held accountable for a catastrophic failure. The details were vague—something about a classified operation gone wrong, something about lost assets, something about a man named Sirius who had disappeared. The public didn't know the truth. They didn't need to know. They just needed to watch.
Leximus stood at the edge of the crowd, invisible, forgotten.
The cold inside him was quiet, watchful.
The tribunal chamber was vast, the ceiling lost in shadow.
Gas lamps hung from iron brackets, casting pools of light across the stone floor. The gallery was packed—nobles in their finery, clerks with their notebooks, commoners who had managed to squeeze through the doors. The air smelled of sweat and perfume and the faint, metallic tang of fear.
At the far end of the chamber, a raised dais. On the dais, a bench. On the bench, three figures in black robes. The judges.
The center judge was Joel Williams, the Royal Justicar. Leximus had heard of him—everyone had heard of him. He was the King's voice in matters of law, the final word on guilt and innocence. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow, his expression unreadable. There was something wrong with him, something Leximus couldn't name. A stillness that went beyond patience. An emptiness that felt like a held breath.
To Williams's left and right, two lesser judges—older men with white hair and stern faces. They would nod when Williams nodded, frown when Williams frowned. Their role was ceremonial. The real power sat in the center.
Hespera Brindle sat in a chair at the front of the chamber, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. She was dressed in grey—the uniform of the Audit, stripped of insignia. Her face was pale, but her eyes were steady. She had known this day was coming. She had been waiting for it.
The charges were read.
Dereliction of duty.
Mishandling of classified assets.
Negligence resulting in the loss of strategic personnel.
The words echoed off the stone walls, formal and cold. No mention of anomalies. No mention of Shadows. No mention of the things that lurked beneath the surface of the world.
Hespera did not flinch.
The first witness was a man Leximus didn't recognize—an Audit official with a thin mustache and a voice like sandpaper. He testified about the operation, about the chain of command, about the decisions that had been made.
"She was instructed to secure the asset and report back," the man said. "She did not report back. She attempted to handle the situation herself."
"Attempted?" Williams's voice was flat.
"She failed. The asset was lost. The operation was compromised."
The gallery murmured. Leximus watched Hespera's face. She didn't react.
The second witness was a woman Leximus had never seen before—a clerk from some office, her voice trembling, her hands clutching a leather folder. She testified about the paperwork, about the missing funds, about the discrepancies that had been discovered after the fact.
"The numbers didn't add up," the woman said. "The operation cost three times what was budgeted. The extra funds came from a discretionary account—one that doesn't require oversight."
"And who authorized the extra funds?"
The woman's voice was barely a whisper.
"Sirius Eden."
The gallery murmured again. Sirius Eden was a name some recognized—a consultant, a strategist, a man who had worked for the Audit for years. He had disappeared months ago. No one knew where he had gone.
"Sirius Eden is currently... unavailable," Williams said. "His whereabouts are unknown. His assets have been frozen. His status is under review."
"Under review," the woman repeated, her voice hollow. "That's what they always say."
"Thank you. You may step down."
The testimony continued for hours.
Witness after witness, each one adding another layer to the case against Hespera. She had been negligent. She had been overconfident. She had let the asset slip through her fingers. She had failed to track it down. She had lost Sirius Eden, the only person who could have contained the situation.
Through it all, Hespera sat in her chair, her back straight, her face pale, her eyes steady.
She did not defend herself. She did not explain. She simply listened.
Leximus watched her. He had met her once, in the Silver Room, when she had interrogated him about his powers. She had been cold then, clinical, treating him like a specimen. But there had been something else beneath the surface—a weariness, a doubt, a sense that she was following orders she didn't fully believe.
She knew the cost, Leximus thought.
At the end of the day, Williams called for a recess.
"The court will reconvene tomorrow for the verdict," he said. "The defendant will remain in custody until then."
Guards led Hespera away.
The gallery emptied.
Leximus stayed.
He stood alone in the empty chamber, the gas lamps hissing, the shadows long.
The cold inside him was quiet, watchful.
He thought of Hespera's face—the calm, the acceptance, the lack of fear. She had known this day was coming. She had made her peace with it.
He thought of the charges—dereliction, negligence, loss of personnel. The public would never know the truth. They would never know about the Shadow anomaly, about the Nightcrawlers, about the things that moved in the dark corners of the world.
He thought of Sheila. Of the banquet. Of the extraction he was planning.
The cold inside him stirred.
He walked out of the chamber, through the bronze doors, down the worn steps, and into the fog.
The trial would continue tomorrow.
The verdict was already written.
.