The sun was just rising above the horizon, painting the snow-covered roofs of Lasthold in golden light, while the square before the Council residence was already filled with people.

  Over the past few days, rumors had spread through the city like wildfire. It was said that the attack on the estates of the Vengeful Thunder Family had been carried out by the Forsaken Brotherhood. But that was not the most shocking part. What stirred people far more were suspicions that Magister Priscilla herself had been in collusion with them.

  A woman with an impeccable reputation. One whose name had been spoken with respect for decades.

  Her trial was set to take place that very morning.

  That was why onlookers were gathering ever closer to the grounds of the Council of Elders, taking up places in advance, as if afraid to miss the court’s decision. Even now, the square was buzzing with conversations, conjecture, whispers, and occasional shouts. People clustered into small groups, discussing the same thing but drawing different conclusions.

  Two old men stood at the edge of the crowd, leaning on their canes.

  “Most likely it’s true…” one of them said quietly. “They say no one has seen Magister Duran lately.”

  The other snorted and shook his head.

  “Probably thinking how to deal with this disgrace…”

  “What nonsense!”

  A young man abruptly pushed his way in from the side, clenching his fists.

  “These accusations are absurd. Magister Priscilla would never associate with criminals.”

  The old men turned almost simultaneously and fell silent at once.

  Right behind them stood a man with silver hair tied back in a neat ponytail. His robe, marked with discreet yet recognizable insignia of the Hall of Ancient Research, stood out sharply against the onlookers’ plain clothing. His gaze was fixed on the Council residence, calm yet tense.

  There were many others like him in the square.

  Members of the Hall arrived alone or in small groups, trying not to draw unnecessary attention. They were not allowed to attend the trial, but that did not stop them. They had come to support Priscilla—not with words or slogans, but with the simple fact of their presence. To them, the accusations sounded too absurd, too alien for someone they had known for years.

  Beside the silver-haired man stood a girl with pink hair, noticeably younger than the others. She nervously fidgeted with the edge of her cloak and, after a short pause, asked quietly:

  “Magister Priscilla will really be all right, won’t she? I… I truly haven’t seen Magister Duran in a long time.”

  The man did not answer at once. He pressed his lips together slightly, as if searching for words he himself did not have.

  “I don’t understand any of it myself,” he finally admitted. “Too much is happening at once.”

  He lowered his gaze for a moment, then added more quietly:

  “But yesterday I spoke with Master Violet. She said… that things would turn out well.”

  The girl nodded, clinging to those words as if they were her only support.

  The square continued to fill with people, with anticipation and tension growing denser with every minute as the trial approached.

  Voices washed across the square.

  They overlapped, argued, interrupted one another, flared up, and faded away. There were many who openly defended Priscilla, calling what was happening nonsense and a misunderstanding. People spoke louder than usual, as if trying to be heard not only by their neighbors, but by the Council of Elders itself.

  “I’ve never heard of Priscilla doing anything illegal!” someone shouted from the crowd. “But I can’t say the same about the offspring of the Vengeful Thunder Family…”

  Those words were met with an approving murmur—but it did not last long.

  Among the onlookers, almost imperceptibly, were scattered mages of the Vengeful Thunder Family. They did not stand out by their clothing and behaved calmly, but watched their surroundings closely, noting faces, gestures, and remarks that were a little too sharp.

  One of them—a young woman with a cold gaze—stepped toward the loudmouthed youth, intent on teaching him a lesson.

  “Have you forgotten why we’re here?” the older one beside her said quietly, stopping her.

  She froze and looked at him.

  “Look for rats from the Brotherhood,” he continued calmly. “Don’t waste time on trifles.”

  The woman nodded curtly and stepped back, melting into the crowd once more.

  At that moment, a new stir rippled through the square.

  From the city, the elders began emerging onto the plaza, heading toward the Council of Elders. They walked in a tight group toward the council chamber, neither stopping nor slowing their pace.

  The crowd immediately came alive. Questions rang out, shouts followed—attempts to draw attention.

  “Elders! Is it true?!”

  “You’ll sort out this misunderstanding, won’t you?”

  Most of them walked on without reacting. Their faces were calm, detached, as if the shouts had nothing to do with them. Only a few, passing by, replied in even, almost rehearsed tones:

  “Do not worry. The Council will be impartial.”

  “You will learn the whole truth.”

  The rest continued on in silence.

  Two elders walking slightly apart leaned toward each other, lowering their voices.

  “Did you get the message?” the first whispered, with a barely perceptible hint.

  The second did not answer at once. A glint flashed in his eyes.

  “Yes,” he said quietly, then smirked. “I must repay such a generous gift…”

  Their whisper was drowned out by the general roar of the square, unnoticed by most.

  But not by everyone.

  At the very edge of the crowd stood an old man with a flask in his hand. He watched everything closely, missing neither face nor gesture. Catching fragments of the exchange, he snorted contemptuously, uncorked the flask, and took a few swallows.

  It was Heirven.

  Watching the elders recede, he thought, “Zeiran has already managed to buy off anyone willing to sell their own ass…”

  The corner of his mouth twitched.

  “We’ll see how much that helps him,” he muttered under his breath.

  ? ? ?

  At the same time, more and more people were gathering inside the Grand Assembly.

  The elders took their seats, speaking quietly among themselves; some lingered in the aisles, while others sat down at once, preferring to observe. The rustle of robes, muffled footsteps, occasional glances cast toward the most influential mages of Lasthold filled the hall.

  The three central seats were already occupied.

  Durimar, Vulnar, and Zeiran sat calmly, assessing those who entered, each in his own way.

  Zeiran lounged at ease, a faint smile on his lips, as if what was happening genuinely amused him. His gaze drifted lazily across the hall, catching faces and offering friendly nods to some.

  Durimar and Vulnar, however, looked different.

  Vulnar sat motionless, smoking his pipe and watching the hall impassively. Durimar, however, seemed detached. His green eyes were slightly dulled, as if he were looking not so much at the people as through them.

  He turned over everything he had gathered over the past three days—reports, fragments of conversations, inconsistencies, rumors. And the longer he thought, the more tangled the picture became.

  “The chain of events suggests that the Vengeful Thunder Family may be involved in Kael’s disappearance,” the thought flashed through his mind. “And yet there is no direct proof.”

  He narrowed his eyes almost imperceptibly.

  “Priscilla, on the other hand, only surfaced in this murky affair once chaos broke out in Zeiran’s mansion.”

  His thoughts continued to chain together.

  “At the same time, there was clear evidence that Priscilla had contacted the Forsaken Brotherhood.”

  Durimar’s fingers tightened slightly on the armrest of the throne.

  “What if Zeiran truly did abduct the boy… and Priscilla simply resorted to extreme measures?”

  As he raised his gaze and noted the last elders entering the hall, Durimar drew a mental line: “Priscilla committed a crime. But she does not deserve execution.”

  The thought was cold and precise, devoid of pity—only an understanding of the consequences.

  “To reduce the sentence, we need the unanimous agreement of the three of us.”

  He let his gaze slide unobtrusively toward Zeiran, continuing inward, “How do I pressure Zeiran without insulting him before the entire Council? How do I make him agree to leniency without revealing my suspicions and without sowing doubt about the unity of Lasthold’s leadership?”

  His thoughts came heavily, one chaining into the next.

  “How do I play this subtly… so that the others see no fracture? How do I resolve this in a way that doesn’t plunge Lasthold into yet another crisis?”

  At that moment, the massive entrance doors of the hall closed.

  The dull sound echoed beneath the vaults, as if marking the end of the delay. Zeiran leaned forward slightly and said calmly:

  “Shall we begin the trial, Durimar?”

  The question pulled him out of his thoughts.

  Durimar slowly inhaled, lifted his head, and nodded. Then he raised his hand.

  The conversations in the tiers fell silent almost instantly. Whispers cut off, movements stilled, dozens of gazes turned toward the central thrones.

  Durimar cleared his throat lightly and spoke:

  “Today will be a difficult day. For all of Lasthold.”

  He swept the hall with a calm, attentive gaze and added evenly, without emphasis:

  “To prevent a new crisis, we must be impartial. But at the same time… preserve a measure of mercy.”

  No sooner had Durimar’s words sounded than Vulnar leaned slightly forward, set aside his pipe, and spoke sternly:

  “I agree. The trial of Magister Priscilla is a shock to all of us.” He cast a brief look around the hall. “She has worked for decades solely for the benefit of Lasthold. If she stumbled, I want to understand why.”

  A barely perceptible rustle passed through the hall. Several elders exchanged glances; someone frowned thoughtfully.

  Zeiran waited a moment before speaking, nodding in agreement.

  “Lasthold needs every talent,” he said calmly, almost conciliatorily. “One cannot kill merely on a whim or out of vengeance.”

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  His voice was even, his gaze open, as if he truly shared the sentiment.

  Then he narrowed his eyes slightly and added more firmly:

  “However, grave crimes must be met with grave punishment. Laws exist to be obeyed. If sentences are softened where they should not be, Lasthold will quickly become overrun with criminals.”

  He leaned back against the throne, as if placing a logical period.

  A tense silence settled over the hall. Each elder’s words sounded reasonable, yet each carried the weight of the impending decision.

  Durimar remained silent.

  He merely raised a hand, cutting off any potential arguments, and said evenly:

  “Let us begin the trial.”

  The side doors of the hall swung open.

  Escorted by guards, Priscilla was led inside. She walked calmly, her back straight and her head held high, not glancing around. Not a trace of agitation, not a shadow of fear—as though the outcome held no significance for her.

  Reaching the center of the hall, she stopped and turned to face the central thrones. Her gaze settled on Durimar. She did not bow her head or offer any words of greeting.

  Durimar noted this but made no remark.

  “We will dispense with the formalities,” he said calmly. “We all know why we are here.”

  He paused briefly and continued:

  “Magister Priscilla, it pains me to inform you of this, but Magister Duran has yet to emerge from seclusion. We have been unable to contact either him or anyone who could provide evidence to support your accusations against Elder Zeiran.”

  Priscilla listened in silence. Her expression did not change.

  Durimar shifted his gaze to the scrolls before him and continued:

  “On the other hand, we have thoroughly examined the accusations brought against you. And here, the situation is different.”

  He raised his eyes.

  “Witnesses were found who confirmed that on the day of the fire you sought to make contact with the Forsaken Brotherhood. That same evening, a fire broke out at Elder Zeiran’s mansion.”

  A faint murmur rippled through the hall.

  “We also analyzed the compositions of the mixtures used to intensify the fire,” Durimar continued. “And confirmed that they were identical to those previously employed by the Forsaken Brotherhood in other criminal incidents.”

  At this, Zeiran merely smiled.

  The smile was calm, almost satisfied, as though it merely confirmed an outcome he had known all along.

  Durimar, meanwhile, leaned slightly forward, his fingers interlaced, and spoke more gravely:

  “I bear you no ill will, Magister Priscilla,” he said evenly. “But I cannot deny your involvement in the fire.”

  Priscilla remained silent. Her gaze stayed cold and direct, sliding over the faces of the elders, as though she believed none of their words.

  It was at that moment that Durimar said something nearly half the hall did not expect.

  “Your motives are unclear to me,” he continued. “Given your merits to Lasthold, I would like to consider the possibility of a mitigated sentence.”

  A murmur rolled through the hall.

  “To do so,” Durimar added, “I must understand why you did this.”

  Even Priscilla’s expression shifted slightly. She raised one eyebrow, showing genuine surprise for the first time since the trial began.

  Several elders spoke at once. Some raised their hands in indignation, others leaned in to whisper to their neighbors.

  Zeiran slowly turned his head toward Durimar.

  “Mitigate the punishment?” he said calmly, but with emphasis. “If she had set fire to your mansion, would you reason the same way?”

  Durimar straightened. His voice grew harsher.

  “Silence.” He raised a hand. “Magister Priscilla deserves, at the very least, to be heard. After her death, there will be no such opportunity.”

  Zeiran was about to respond, but he was cut off.

  “I also want to hear Priscilla,” Vulnar said.

  He slowly swept his gaze across the rows of elders and then added more bluntly:

  “Or did it just seem to me that some of you are in a hurry to leave?”

  The hall grew noticeably quieter.

  Several elders looked away. Some tensed; others merely smiled, obediently nodding their heads.

  But what he had seen was already enough for Vulnar to sense something amiss. He noted to himself: “If Zeiran had resorted to bribery, then something here was definitely rotten.”

  Realizing that the atmosphere was becoming unstable, Zeiran only shrugged.

  “Then I won’t object either,” he said carelessly, slightly easing the tension. “It costs me nothing to listen once more to these delirious accusations against me.”

  His tone was light, almost mocking, only reinforcing his self-confidence.

  All eyes in the hall immediately shifted to Priscilla.

  Durimar looked straight at her and asked again, without raising his voice:

  “Will you speak? Or do you prefer to confess in silence?”

  Priscilla snorted irritably.

  She slowly turned her gaze to Zeiran, open contempt flaring in her eyes.

  “Confess to a crime?” she repeated coldly. “I committed no crime. I stopped one.”

  Another rustle passed through the hall.

  Priscilla turned back to Durimar and continued evenly, without strain:

  “It’s quite simple. Zeiran abducted Kael. For reasons unknown to me.”

  She paused briefly.

  “But the boy turned out to be clever enough to try to escape.”

  Priscilla sharply raised her hand and pointed at Zeiran.

  “He even raised a barrier, afraid the brat might actually break free.”

  Muffled exclamations rippled through the hall.

  “All I did,” Priscilla continued, “was stop Zeiran from continuing his abuses.”

  Her voice hardened.

  “I simply helped an innocent boy escape—one imprisoned by a power-mad old man.”

  Priscilla’s words were the final straw.

  The hall erupted in outrage. The elders spoke all at once—sharply and loudly, cutting one another off. Some leapt to their feet, others demanded that this ‘slander’ be silenced immediately, while still others shouted that such accusations were unacceptable within the walls of the Council.

  Zeiran merely shrugged.

  “As I said,” he said with a faint smirk. “She’s spouting this nonsense again.”

  At that very moment, the space itself shuddered.

  A heavy pressure of mana poured out from Vulnar, as though everyone in the hall had suddenly been weighed down. The outraged voices cut off. Several elders went pale; some instinctively grabbed the armrests of their seats.

  But the brunt of the pressure fell upon Priscilla, causing her expression to tighten.

  Vulnar looked at her harshly, without a trace of sympathy.

  “We gave you the chance to speak,” he said sharply. “Not to insult us. Remember that.”

  The pressure eased somewhat, allowing Priscilla to breathe more freely.

  “If you are telling the truth,” Vulnar continued, “where is Kael? Where did he escape to? If everything were as you claim, this could have been resolved far more easily.”

  Durimar nodded, picking up the thread:

  “You are accusing one of the three pillars of Lasthold. That requires evidence, not just words.” He paused. “I personally studied Kael’s case. Not only did he disappear, but his entire family as well.”

  A tense rustle swept through the hall.

  “It is known that he sometimes traded with members of the Forsaken Brotherhood,” Durimar continued. “Everything suggests that he either crossed their path or became seriously interested in his abilities and abducted him.”

  Zeiran confirmed this with a nod and raised a hand, drawing attention.

  “This is a complete farce,” he said calmly. “If he truly escaped from my captivity, as she claims, then simply bring him here.”

  He spread his hands.

  “Let him tell us everything himself. That alone would be more than enough to ruin my reputation.”

  Something almost like disappointment flickered across Zeiran’s face as he added:

  “I am seriously beginning to think you have lost your mind, Priscilla. None of your actions make sense to me.”

  At those words, Priscilla merely smirked, and a thought flashed through her mind: “According to Kael, the old man wanted to use him in some kind of sacrificial ritual. He’s gone mad and is convinced the boy will grant him unimaginable power.”

  Weighing the possibilities, she continued inwardly: “If Kael appears here, Zeiran is capable of anything. He’s faster than the other elders. If he decides to snatch the boy and flee, no one will stop him. No one will even have time to react.”

  But Priscilla understood clearly: the moment she said this aloud, her words would sound like the ravings of a madwoman.

  So she simply lifted her head and said out loud, calmly and firmly:

  “No matter what I say to you now, you will not believe me. You may kill me. But afterward, you will regret it.”

  Zeiran shook his head, putting on a show of regret.

  “What a shame,” he said. “You don’t even repent.”

  He paused, then added with demonstrative disappointment:

  “You could at least have claimed that your attack on my manor, coinciding with the actions of the Forsaken Brotherhood, was a mere coincidence. But you didn’t even do that—thereby confirming your guilt.”

  Zeiran shifted his gaze from Priscilla to Durimar, then to Vulnar.

  “I noticed,” he continued, “that you wished to spare her life.”

  He spread his hands again.

  “What will you say now? Are you still prepared to defend her?”

  Durimar and Vulnar frowned.

  They exchanged a glance—brief, almost imperceptible, yet sufficient. Both understood: whatever their doubts, the law could not be defied. If one convicted criminal escaped punishment, the rest would take it as a signal.

  Durimar was about to speak, but Zeiran beat him to it.

  “The only option I see,” he said, “is a deal.”

  The hall grew quieter.

  Durimar and Vulnar turned to him at the same time, not yet understanding his intent and unable to hide their surprise. Zeiran, meanwhile, turned to Priscilla. His voice remained even, almost businesslike:

  “Give up your accomplices and make yourself useful to Lasthold. If you help destroy the Forsaken Brotherhood,” he paused, “even I will agree to spare your life.”

  He inclined his head slightly.

  “You will continue to work. From confinement. And you will atone for your sins with deeds, not words.”

  At these words, approval flickered in the eyes of both Durimar and Vulnar.

  The offer was strong—too strong to dismiss. Zeiran had, in essence, single-handedly given Priscilla a path to survival while simultaneously strengthening the Council’s position.

  Durimar nodded slowly.

  “This is a good offer, Priscilla,” he said. “I would even say—the best possible one.”

  Vulnar snorted and added bluntly, without softening his words:

  “As I understand it, you only became involved with these criminals recently. Don’t protect such people at the cost of your own life.” He looked at her intently. “They are not worth it.”

  It seemed that the proposal had garnered support from everyone—both those aligned with Zeiran and those inclined to support Priscilla.

  But to Priscilla, everything looked different.

  She already understood: she had no way out. Zeiran was not offering a deal—he was driving her into a corner.

  Under the gaze of hundreds of elders, a cold thought crossed her mind: “If this is how it is… then at least I must shield Duran and the Hall.”

  Priscilla slowly raised her head, and the hall froze, waiting for her answer.

  “My goal was to save Kael,” she said evenly, without a tremor in her voice. “Duran was in seclusion, and I could not count on his help. That is precisely why I paid the Forsaken Brotherhood.”

  For several moments, the hall seemed to turn to stone. But her next words finished what the first had started.

  “I have nothing else tying me to them anymore,” she added. “How should I know where their lair is?”

  The elders froze, some simply unable to believe what they were hearing. Even those who only moments ago had doubted or hesitated now stared at her in disbelief. Someone drew in a sharp breath. Someone slowly leaned back in their seat, as if the room were spinning.

  She had confessed.

  Priscilla had confirmed it all: yes, there had been collusion. Yes, there had been a fire. Yes, she had acted deliberately.

  But the most terrifying part was that she had rejected the very offer that could have saved her life. It was pure madness.

  And at that moment, the silence was broken by Zeiran’s condescending chuckle.

  “Fool,” he said. “The Gods granted you chance after chance. And you rejected every single one.”

  He turned his head toward the central throne.

  “What next?” Zeiran asked calmly. “What verdict shall we deliver?”

  Durimar slowly closed his eyes, as if gathering his strength, then shook his head heavily.

  “Magister Priscilla has admitted her guilt,” he said flatly. “In the attack on one of the Three Families and in her ties to a criminal organization.”

  He paused, letting the words settle over the hall.

  “For this… she is sentenced to death.”

  A wave of whispers rolled through the elders. Cold inhales, restrained exhales, tense looks. Some had not believed until the very last moment that it would come to this—but the verdict had been spoken. It was reality now.

  Vulnar shook his head as well. His face remained stern, but disappointment flickered in his eyes. Until the end, he had believed in Priscilla, yet after what he had seen, even he could no longer defend her.

  Durimar rose from his throne.

  “Are there any objections?” he asked, sweeping his gaze across the hall.

  The answer was silence.

  Not a single voice. Not a single protest. Only silent acceptance.

  Zeiran watched it all calmly. Inside, however, his thoughts had already moved far ahead.

  “The boy broke through to a new stage even in captivity,” he noted coldly. “There is no doubt—he is an anomaly. The God of Shadow will accept such a sacrifice. And reward me generously.”

  He let his gaze slide over Priscilla; there was neither pity nor anger in it—only irritation.

  “You merely delayed the inevitable,” the thought flashed through his mind. “And at the cost of your own life. What incredible foolishness.”

  But at the very moment Zeiran was already mapping out the steps to track down the Forsaken Brotherhood, a shout came from beyond the entrance doors.

  Immediately after—BAM!—the doors flew open with a dull, heavy crash.

  The hall shuddered.

  All the elders turned toward the entrance at once. The whispers died, movement froze, and dozens of gazes locked onto the open doorway.

  Duran stood on the threshold.

  “Hold your conclusions, Elder Durimar,” he said in a firm, deep voice.

  Beside him stood two adolescents, about sixteen years old. Both looked exhausted, yet held themselves upright.

  And in the instant the hall recognized their faces, a deathly silence fell.

  On the left stood Kael.

  That alone was enough to make many of the elders turn pale.

  But the true blow struck Zeiran—because to Duran’s right stood Girren, a member of his own family.

  The one whose testimony would carry particular weight. The one who had no reason to lie.

  Durimar and Vulnar almost simultaneously turned toward Zeiran. Without words. Without emotion. Yet both understood the same thing: the trial was not merely unfinished—it was entering a far more dangerous phase.

  Zeiran’s fists clenched almost imperceptibly.

  An unpleasant, cold premonition stirred in his chest.

  “So this is how you decided to play…” the thought flashed through his mind.

  But the very next moment he suppressed his emotions. His face became calm again, his gaze—predatory and focused.

  “None of it mattered. The important thing is that the boy is here,” he reasoned coldly. “Which means he’s already in my hands. When the God of Shadow rewards me, neither Vulnar nor Durimar will be a threat. They will have no choice but to submit to me.”

  He narrowed his eyes and said with a look of surprised interest:

  “Curious… Now even I’m interested in what’s happening here.”

  The hall seemed to tremble with tension.

  It felt as though one more moment—and thunder would break out in the middle of the chamber.