When we walked back into the courtroom, something in the air felt heavier than before, as if the walls had soaked up every word spoken in the last hour and now held them suspended above our heads. The benches filled slowly; coats rustled, shoes scraped, bodies shifted in their seats. Somewhere near the back, someone whispered my name, but it came out warped, stretched thin by distance and judgment.
Logan kept his shoulder close to mine without making it look intentional. His jaw held that tight line again, the one that appeared whenever he thought too hard or felt pressed against a corner. I tried to steady my breathing, but each inhale tasted like I had swallowed dust from an old archive—dry, stale, ranking of things I was not ready to face.
Harry was gone from the room for now. I felt no relief.
The prosecutor stood at her table, arranging her papers with the smooth precision of someone who had done this hundreds of times. Her presence carried a sharpness that felt colder than the actual temperature; I could sense the shift in the courtroom's attention as she straightened herself and addressed the judge.
"Your Honor," she began, the cadence measured, "before we move on, I would like to return to Exhibit Twenty-One. The marking."
I stiffened. Logan's hand brushed my sleeve in a silent warning.
She lifted the printed photograph—a close-up of the mark carved into Harry's shoulder, the one I had made with the pendant, the one that should never have been seen by any human eye under any circumstance. The lighting in the image captured it too clearly: the circular shape pressed deep into skin, the uneven edges where flesh had indented but not torn, the strange pattern at the center that held no earthly geometry. Dermis depressed, not lacerated—pressure penetration absent sharp injury.
"This," she said, angling the photo so the room could see, "is the injury Officer Doyle sustained prior to the defendant disappearing from all formal records for a period of several weeks."
My pulse stuttered.
"This is not consistent with any knife, any tool, any pointed object used in assault cases. There is no tearing of the skin, no slicing, no abrasion consistent with a blade or even a sharpened household item." She paused, letting the silence grow thick. "What we have here is a puncture that should not exist. The object used was dull—rounded, even—yet it pierced straight through the upper dermal layers."
Her eyes drifted toward me just long enough for the implication to settle.
"This is significant," she continued, "because there are two other recorded cases—involving two separate victims—documented by federal investigators that bear remarkable resemblance to this injury. Both are currently under government inspection."
A soft ripple moved through the gallery.
"These cases," she pressed on, "were flagged under the Pact Purity Act. As the court is aware, the Act was designed to address the growing concern surrounding individuals entering illicit agreements with infernal or divine entities."
The room cooled perceptibly. Even the judge straightened.
"Since last year alone, instances of suspected pact-making have risen by nearly twelve percent. We are no longer dealing with isolated events. We are facing a national threat model. The Purity Act was created to anticipate and mitigate that danger."
She placed the photo gently on the evidence table, as if laying a verdict of its own.
"In that context," she said, "Harry Doyle's testimony is vital. He is the only surviving civilian who has direct, physical evidence linking the defendant to unnatural influence."
My stomach twisted so violently I thought I would be sick.
Logan rose slowly, a calmness in his demeanor that carried its own warning. He walked toward the lectern with steady steps, his eyes never leaving the judge.
"Your Honor," he began, "I object to the prosecutor's entire premise regarding the Purity Pact Act. It is not in motion. It has not passed full federal review. We cannot apply it retroactively, and we certainly cannot anchor this case to it when the prosecution attempts to introduce an officer—an officer who has recently been found after weeks of disappearance—as an authority on supernatural influence."
The prosecutor stiffened.
Logan continued, his tone sharpening like he had been waiting to strike this point.
"You cannot build your case on a law that is not yet active. You cannot treat an alleged supernatural connection as a substitute for evidence. And you absolutely cannot pull a man from God-knows-where, assign him the role of mystical compass, and use him to argue that my client is tethered to a devil by default."
A few people in the back gasped softly, the word devil landing with weight.
Logan pressed on. "This is not how justice works. This is guesswork wrapped in a veil of prophecy."
The judge raised a hand. "Counselor Carrey, that is enough."
Logan bowed his head politely but didn't look defeated.
The judge turned to the prosecutor. "Bring your next witness."
The prosecutor nodded, adjusting her blazer.
"The State calls Mr. Randal Pierce."
The courtroom door opened, and a man walked in—a taxi driver I recognized only distantly from that night. He looked older than I remembered, maybe because fear aged people faster, or maybe because seeing me in this context carried its own burden. He wore a simple jacket and held his cap nervously in both hands.
He approached the stand, raised his right hand, repeated the oath in a trembling voice, and lowered himself carefully into the chair.
The prosecutor approached, her tone gentler this time, almost coaxing.
"Mr. Pierce," she began, "on the night of September eighth, did you pick up a passenger from the corner of Violet Street and Armitage Avenue?"
"Yes," he said, voice unsteady. "I did."
"And do you see that passenger here in the courtroom today?"
He hesitated. His eyes darted between me and the prosecutor, as if asking for forgiveness before he spoke.
"Yes ma'am," he said. "It was him."
The prosecutor nodded. "And where did you drive him?"
"To St. Lewis's Hospital," he said. "Near Easton Bridge."
A murmur floated across the room. St. Lewis's—a place I went because Eddie had been taken there months ago. A place I tried to forget. A place I could not escape, even now.
The prosecutor folded her hands. "And what time did this ride occur?"
"Around nine-thirty," he said. "Maybe nine-forty. Somewhere there."
She stepped back. "No further questions."
Logan stood immediately, walking toward the witness with a pace that felt calm but carried a subtle undercurrent, like he had rehearsed this exact moment in his mind during recess.
"Mr. Pierce," he said gently, "thank you for being here. I want to ask a few things to clarify what you've told us."
The driver nodded nervously.
"You drove my client," Logan said, "to St. Lewis's Hospital."
"Yes."
"And I want to make sure we are precise here. That hospital is on Easton Bridge Road, correct?"
"Yes, sir."
Logan tapped his pen lightly against the lectern. "And the fire in question—the one central to this case—occurred on Weston Heights. Two neighborhoods south. Correct?"
"That's right."
Logan nodded. "Is there any reason to believe my client left your cab before reaching the hospital?"
"No. He stayed in the car until we arrived."
"And did he seem rushed? Nervous? Did he ask you to drop him anywhere near the scene of the fire?"
"No, sir."
"Did you drive him past Weston Heights at any point during your route?"
"No."
"Did he say anything incriminating? Anything unusual?"
The driver swallowed. "He didn't talk much at all."
"So," Logan concluded softly, "you can confirm he arrived at the hospital without deviation."
"Yes."
"And the fire," Logan said, his voice almost a whisper now, "had already started before you got there. Isn't that correct, according to the timeline issued by the emergency responders?"
"Yes… I believe so."
Logan stepped back, turning toward the judge.
"No further questions."
He returned to me and sat, exhaling as if he had been underwater and just reached the surface.
My heart felt heavy. My hands shook under the table. I stared straight ahead and tried not to imagine the fire again, the way it spread, the way it breathed, the way the night split open behind me when I ran.
Eddie's face flickered across my memory like a burned photograph.
I stayed very still.
The prosecutor rose sharply.
"Your Honor," she said, "the State requests one more point of clarification—"
But her voice blurred at the edges as my mind drifted—unwelcome, unstoppable—back to that night, to the flames, to the choices that had brought me here, chained by both law and fate.
And the chapter remained open, the courtroom waiting for the next blow.
The prosecutor rose with a steadiness that made my stomach twist. She didn't smooth her jacket or shuffle papers the way she usually did before speaking; she simply stepped forward as if the next blow had already been sharpened and she had been waiting for the moment to drive it in.
"Your Honor," she said, "before the defense prematurely concludes the implications of Mr. Pierce's testimony, the State would like to introduce an additional piece of evidence."
Logan's fingers curled, his knuckles paling. "Objection—"
"You may finish your sentence after hearing what it is," she replied, without even glancing at him.
Her confidence—quiet, assured, almost patient—sent a cold ripple through my spine.
The judge gestured. "Proceed."
She nodded to one of the officers stationed near the doors. He stepped out briefly, and the courtroom filled with a low, restless shuffle of fabric and whispered breath.
Logan leaned toward me. "Stay composed," he murmured. "They're stretching. They're grasping."
But his eyes betrayed him. They shifted between the doors and the judge, narrowing slightly the way they did when he sensed something coming that he couldn't block.
The door opened.
The officer returned, carrying a folder sealed with the stamped insignia of the Ebonreach Fire Marshal.
My blood went cold.
The prosecutor thanked him with a nod, took the folder, and approached the judge's bench. She offered it with both hands, not theatrical, not coy—just intentional.
"Your Honor," she said, "this is the closed-forensics report from the September eighth scene."
Logan shot up. "Objection. That report was marked restricted due to the ongoing federal review."
The prosecutor's lips curled, not into a smile, but something colder—satisfaction without warmth. "It was restricted," she said. "Past tense. As of this morning, the federal oversight committee has released the preliminary findings for judicial use."
The prosecutor held the folder a moment longer, letting the anticipation stretch itself thin across the room, then opened it with a careful flick of her fingers. She removed a document marked with yellow highlights along the margins.
"The preliminary report," she said, "finds that the fire originated outside the residence, at the back entrance. Specifically, on the narrow porch adjoining the garden wall."
A low murmur fluttered through the gallery.
Logan lifted his chin slightly, as if ready to intercept whatever followed. I did not share that confidence.
The prosecutor continued, her voice sharpening into something scalpel-fine.
"Investigators determined that the ignition point was not an accidental spark. Not electrical. Not weather-related. Not spontaneous combustion. There were no flammable liquids detected. No discarded cigarette butts. No chemical residues. No accelerants at all."
She paused.
"This was a clean burn, consistent with non-luminous high-heat application; fiber fusion per scene photos."
A cold wave pressed against my ribcage.
"The porch boards exhibited alligatoring absent soot deposition, and localized fiber vitrification—a signature of direct applied heat rather than open flame spread."
Clean. That word slammed into me harder than any accusation. Because devil fire did burn clean. No fuel. No soot. No ash. Just heat that ate whatever it touched.
I could feel the mark beneath my skin pulse once—like a tiny shard of Corvian's breath stirring awake, as if he sensed the noose tightening.
The prosecutor lifted another page.
"The burn pattern radiates outward from a single point on the wooden porch. A point where the wood charred but did not splinter, and where the fibers fused instead of cracking. Forensic experts describe this type of combustion as…" She looked down again. "…heat without flame."
My chest constricted.
Heat without flame. A devil's signature.
Logan's voice cracked into the air like a slap. "Your Honor—"
She cut him off with a raised palm to the judge.
Logan's posture cracked. He half-turned toward me, as if waiting for an explanation I could not give him—not here, not now, not ever.
Then came the real blow.
The prosecutor lifted the final page.
"And the Fire Marshal's report states something else. Something alarming."
The judge motioned for her to continue.
She read aloud, slowly:
'The ignition source is non-mechanical and non-chemical. No device found. No accelerant found. No match sticks or lighters. Suspected manual ignition.'
The words struck like cold iron.
The prosecutor turned the page around.
"It is the opinion of the Fire Marshal," she said softly, "that the flame was produced by direct contact. And that the person who lit that fire knew exactly where to place it to ensure rapid spread."
Logan finally snapped.
"Objection!" His voice filled the entire room. "Speculation. Overreach. The witness cannot infer intent—"
"He can observe technique," she said.
"Technique?" Logan spat. "Are you accusing my client of being a professional arsonist now?"
Her eyes flickered toward me. Not cruel. Not mocking. Worse. Pitying.
"No," she said. "I'm accusing him of knowing the nature of the fire he created."
The world inside my chest caved in.
I had lit the fire on that porch. My hand. My breath. My sin.
But I had believed—foolishly—desperately—that it would stay between me and Corvian. Between me and the night. Between me and the guilt that sank claws into me afterward.
And now the flame had returned.
In evidence. In photographs. In a stone I never held. In a burn mark that carried the shape of the mark on Harry.
Logan tried to speak again, but the judge raised a hand.
"Enough," he said.
His tone carried the weariness of someone beginning to see a pattern he wished he hadn't.
"Bring your next witness."
The prosecutor smiled politely.
"The State calls the Ebonreach Fire Marshal."
The room felt too narrow for breathing once the judge called for the next witness. Every sound seeped into my skin—papers shifting, someone clearing their throat, the heavy tread of officers moving near the doors. It all crowded in until I could barely hear Logan's whisper beside me.
"Hugo," he murmured, "keep your eyes forward. Don't let them see fear."
But fear sat in my throat like a stone. Fear had shape now. Evidence. Photos. Burn patterns. A stone that shouldn't exist. A fire that behaved like a living thing.
My fire.
The Fire Marshal stepped into the courtroom—tall, broad-shouldered, carrying the kind of posture that belonged to men who pulled bodies out of collapsed homes and spent nights inhaling soot. His uniform carried the city crest, the fabric pressed crisp, the brass buttons glinting under the courtroom lights.
He raised his hand, took the oath, and sat down. I could tell from the solemn weight in his eyes that he already believed I was guilty.
The prosecutor approached him with a quiet confidence that made my stomach churn.
"Marshal Greaves," she said, "thank you for being here. Let us begin simply. Based on your investigation, what did you determine about the fire's origin?"
He cleared his throat, voice deep but surprisingly calm. "The fire started outside the residence. Back porch. One ignition point."
My breath faltered.
"And did you hear anything unusual on scene?" she asked.
"No," he answered. "Neighbors didn't either. No shouting. No arguing. No signs of struggle."
My fingers dug into the table as the truth rose up my throat, raw and hopeless. My voice slipped out before I could stop it.
"I didn't hear anything either." Logan shot me a sharp look, but the words kept breaking out, thin and desperate. "No one saw me. No one ran out. No one—"
I swallowed hard.
"I'm doomed."
The whisper might as well have been a confession. It tasted like confession. Logan's hand pressed against my knee under the table—a warning, a plea.
"Hugo," he hissed under his breath, "stop."
But I couldn't. Not fully. Not inside myself.
There were no other witnesses. No footsteps behind me. No voices from inside that house. No one to contradict what the fire marshal believed, what the fire had done, what the photos showed.
Nothing.
Just me. The porch. The heat that rose from my palm. The crackle that didn't crackle. The light that swallowed wood without smoke.
Just me and a sin no human language could justify.
The prosecutor continued, oblivious to the private implosion happening behind the defense table.
"Marshal Greaves, were you able to identify the source of ignition?"
"No," he said. "There was no physical device present. No lighter. No accelerant. No electrical cause."
He paused, his eyes shifting slightly toward the photograph on the projector—the one showing the circular indentation on the porch.
"The burn pattern," he continued, "was consistent with direct applied heat."
"Manual application?" the prosecutor clarified.
"Yes."
A dull roaring filled my ears—not from the room, but from inside my own chest, like something cracking open, like my own heartbeat trying to escape the cage of ribs I had built around it.
Direct heat. Manual. Me.
Logan stood abruptly, as if propelled by sheer desperation.
"Your Honor," he said, "if I may—"
But nothing he said could touch the truth already crawling across the room. Nothing he argued could erase the burn pattern matching a pendant I didn't remember leaving. Nothing he could say would stop the prosecutor from building the story brick by brick:
Harry's injury. The pendant found at the scene. The fire burning clean. No screams. No witnesses. No one but me.
The prosecutor turned back to the Fire Marshal.
"Marshal Greaves," she said, "in your expert opinion, could the fire have been started by a person using a handheld flame?"
He hesitated only long enough to seal my fate.
"Yes. Absolutely."
My stomach plummeted.
"And," she pressed, "would a person have needed prior knowledge of fire behavior to ignite it precisely where they did—in order to ensure the structure caught quickly?"
"Yes."
"And the defendant—Mr. Hollands—has demonstrated an unusually sophisticated understanding of performance fire use in his career, has he not?"
"Objection," Logan barked. "My client is a magician, not an arsonist."
The prosecutor didn't even turn toward him.
"Fire is fire, Mr. Carrey," she said quietly. "And he knows how to wield it."
I stared at the table, the wood grain blurring as my vision swam. A soft tremble spread through me, subtle at first, then sharper.
"I'm doomed," I whispered again, this time so quietly only my own guilt heard it.
Logan leaned closer, lowering his voice into the smallest breath of sound.
"Listen to me," he said, and for the first time his voice cracked. "We are not done. I am not letting them bury you alive."
But the courtroom lights dimmed around the edges of my sight, as if the fire itself had reached backward through time and laid its hand on my shoulder again.
A fire I should never have touched. A fire I thought no one would see. A fire that had come back to testify against me.
And as the prosecutor moved to introduce the next piece of evidence, something inside me sank deeper than fear.
Deeper than guilt.
Into certainty.
I was losing.
The Fire Marshal stepped down from the stand, leaving behind the ghost of his testimony like smoke trapped beneath the ceiling. The prosecutor gathered her papers with a quiet finality, as if she already knew which way the scales would tip. The room settled into a hush so complete I could hear the faint scrape of my own breath trying to steady itself.
Logan rose. He didn't look at me, not yet. He squared his shoulders, walked to the lectern, and faced the judge. I could see the tremor in the corner of his jaw—small, but it was there, a crack in someone who had tried to be unbreakable for me.
"Your Honor," he began, and his voice carried a depth I had not heard until now. "The defense asks the court to consider the limitations of the evidence presented today. We have no eyewitnesses placing Mr. Hollands at the scene. The forensic findings—while detailed—do not demonstrate intent. Nor do they prove that my client's presence was malicious or that he understood the nature of the flames that occurred that night."
He paused. The silence pressed against the sides of my head.
"My client did not flee the city," Logan continued. "He was acting publicly in the days following the incident. He has cooperated with the process, despite emotional strain, despite confusion, despite fear. And given the volatility of the State's supernatural claims—claims not grounded in enacted law—we argue that binding him over for trial is premature."
He looked at the judge now, directly. Just tired, and still fighting.
"We ask this court to reject the State's motion."
The judge didn't answer immediately. He leaned back slightly, fingers steepled, his eyes carrying that grave, weighted calm of men accustomed to deciding other people's lives before lunch.
Then he spoke.
"Thank you, Mr. Carrey."
That tone alone drained the warmth from my hands.
The prosecutor rose without waiting. "Your Honor, the State rests. We believe the evidence is more than sufficient to proceed."
She sat. Logan sat. The courtroom awaited its sentence.
The judge lowered his gaze to the stack of documents before him, flipping a page or two as if he needed to confirm something he had already decided in the recess of his mind.
"Mr. Hollands," he said, addressing me directly for the first time. "Stand."
My legs trembled as I pushed myself upright. The chain at my ankles shifted softly. Sweat gathered behind my knees—the kind that came not from heat but from dread stitched into my skin.
The judge folded his hands.
"This hearing's purpose," he said, "is to determine whether probable cause exists to believe you committed the offenses charged. This is not a trial of guilt. It is a threshold."
He paused. The air thickened.
"After reviewing testimony, physical evidence, and expert findings, the court finds sufficient probable cause."
My breath collapsed in my chest.
"You will be bound over to the Superior Court for trial."
Something inside me dropped clean through my body, like a stone into deep water. For a moment I forgot to breathe entirely. Logan didn't move. He simply closed his eyes, slow, as if bracing against a blow he had seen coming from the moment the hearing began.
The judge wasn't finished.
"Given the seriousness of the charges," he said, "and the State's fear of supernatural interference, this court denies bail."
It hit harder than any verdict could have.
My vision blurred.
"Mr. Hollands will remain in remand custody."
I felt the blood drain from my fingers. My knees weakened. I gripped the edge of the table to steady myself even as the officers moved toward me. The prosecutor kept her eyes on her folder, pretending she didn't feel the walls of this decision closing around me.
The judge gave a small nod, a final seal to the sentence.
"We are adjourned."
His gavel fell once—firm, echoing—and the sound rang through me like a door slamming shut.
The officers stepped closer. One took my arm. "Let's go."
I didn't resist. My body felt hollow, as if someone had scooped out everything inside me and left only air and trembling.
As they led me toward the side door, I caught movement in the corner of my vision.
Harry.
He had returned from whatever room they kept witnesses in between testimonies. He stood near the benches, uniform crisp, posture straight, his eyes fixed solely on me.
Not his eyes.
The Witness behind them.
The officers slowed briefly to let another group pass. Those few seconds stretched painfully long. Harry's head tilted slightly as I passed, and for a heartbeat the entire room muted.
My mark tightened beneath my ribs, a faint, unmistakable burn.
Harry's lips moved—barely a whisper, not meant for anyone else.
"This is only the beginning."
Cold rushed through my spine.
Logan reached for me—too late, the officers already guiding me through the doorway.
"Hugo—" he called softly, but I couldn't answer. Couldn't turn. Couldn't breathe.
The corridor felt longer this time. The lights overhead buzzed in a steady rhythm that matched the pulse in my throat. My wrists were bound again. The hallway smelled of old varnish and stale coffee, and somewhere far down the hall a door creaked, the sound hollow and distant.
I kept moving. One step after another. Each one heavier than the last.
Trial One had ended.
And I had lost. Utterly. Completely.
The air inside the remand van felt colder than the courtroom. Colder than solitary. Colder than Corvian's silence.
I lowered my head.
I wasn't walking back into custody. I was being delivered to the next descent.
And somewhere above me, beyond ceiling and sky and whatever realms devils called home, Corvian must have felt the collapse in my chest.
But he didn't come.
Not yet. Not here.
And I was left with only the truth:
Trial Two waited. And it would be worse.