> The Central Council of Magi at Whitestone Palace is a pivotal institution in our Great Continent history. Of all the judges who presided there, Magi Regala Messe stands out. Renowned not for fairness or conventional methods, Regala is famous for his unwavering authority and ability to challenge anyone, regardless of their status or power. This trait, his readiness to confront even the most powerful rulers, makes him a formidable presence in the courtroom. It was due to this unyielding nature that he maintained his position from Fall to Summer, serving as a stark reminder that in his court, power was always to be questioned and scrutinized. ——Between Lore and Legacy: The Mystifying Histories of the Menschen Vol. V by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune

Veilla found herself in an unfamiliar position within the heart of the court. Where she typically would have been nestled upon her throne, surrounded by her council and a jury of her peers. But today was markedly different. Today, she was the one on trial.

Veilla was still in her nightgown when she was rudely awakened as White Cloaked figures swarmed her quarters. Forty-four mages stood arrayed against her. With the mere flick of her wrist, she could have vanquished each of them effortlessly. Yet, the politics of a wise woman restrained her hand. It was one thing to wield might; it was another to slaughter those sworn to serve her.

As she stood encircled, a sense of betrayal gnawed at her. No accusations were hurled, and no reasons were given for this silent mutiny under the very roof of her palace. What unspeakable crime had she purportedly committed that could justify such a stark uprising from her own people?

So there she was—Veilla Mageschstea, the Herbstdame, the Fallqueen as per humans, the Spiderqueen as per her enemies—seated not on her throne but in a simple, unadorned chair placed conspicuously in the centre of a courtroom. Veilla contemplated her predicament.

She wondered if this turn of events was retribution for how she had dealt with Yeso, for the trust she had shattered, albeit in the name of a 'greater good.' The irony of her current situation was not lost on her.

In the hushed auditorium, a soldier manoeuvred what looked like a large crate towards the centre of the room. It appeared to be a cage taller than him, obscured beneath a cloth, its wheels squeaking eerily, resonating through the silence. And an eerie growl could be heard beneath the fabric.

Veilla rubbed her swollen belly, and the charges against her remained a mystery, but the sight of many Magi donning white cloaks instead of their traditional black robes sent a ripple of anxiety through her. Among the sea of faces, she caught a glimpse of her daughter, Fiona, positioned next to the Judge, who was similarly garbed in a white cloak and mask. Apparel that, in her eyes, was ridiculous as she knew perfectly well who it was, its name and house. But the court loved drama.

Yet, the symbolism of the attire was not lost on Veilla; she understood all too well the undercurrents of a coup d'état. Regardless, as she scanned the room for any semblance of support, she found herself woefully isolated, with only Fiorna in the witness row—likely a strategic move by her twin sister to keep her away from any position of influence. The game was set, and the pieces strategically aligned against her. What was Fiona's plan?

The moment the soldier unveiled the contents of the cage, the room seemed to draw a collective breath. Inside was a woman, or what was left, but not as anyone had known before. She bore six eyes, each filled with a wild, ravenous hunger. She snapped and bit at the bars, her fingers clawing in a desperate attempt to reach beyond her confines.

Veilla, amidst her growing unease, realized they were using her as a goatscape. The why and the endgame, she was unsure.

The stillness of the auditorium was broken by the sound of approaching footsteps, Veilla's eyes flickered towards the source, recognizing the familiar figure of the Elven King, Finnegan.

His entrance carried a semblance of ease; his smile, though brief, seemed to lighten the room's oppressive atmosphere. But as he neared Veilla, his expression shifted to one of grave seriousness.

Finnegan reached her side and took her hands in his, his grip firm yet reassuring. "Whatever you are thinking it, forget it, do not fight them," he whispered, a tone of earnest warning in his voice.

Confusion and fear intermingled in Veilla's heart. "What is going on, Finnegan!" she still demanded.

He leaned closer, his words barely above a murmur, yet they carried the weight of a dire prophecy. "Don't fight it, or she'll kill you! You and the child. Now, I'm not a monster like my wife; I won’t let her, and I’ll protect them. But whatever you do or say, just say you’re guilty, and it will be okay. Trust me."

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Veilla's mind raced, a protest forming on her lips, but before she could articulate her confusion, Finnegan had already moved away, taking a seat next to Fiorna. She was left alone with his cryptic advice, her heart pounding against the growing life within her.

Veilla's gaze, roving anxiously across the room, finally settled on two distinct figures, anomalies amidst the sea of white-cloaked Magi. They were garbed in traditional black robes, yet their presence seemed conspicuously out of sync with the rest.

The first was a man distinguished by a flowing black mane, his features marked by an air of seasoned wisdom. Beside him sat a younger man, his dark red hair a stark contrast to his companion's, his face adorned with a youthful beard.

Though they sat in accordance with Magi tradition, their demeanour suggested they were not entirely aligned with the prevailing sentiment in the room. Veilla's eyes narrowed as she tried to place them. The younger was an enigma, but the older... he was vaguely familiar, a face she had seen in Yeso's entourage. His name danced on the edge of her memory—Redmond, Rednard... something beginning with 'Red.'

The murmurs in the room subsided as a collective movement rippled through the assembly, every individual rising to their feet in a synchronized gesture of deference. At the centre of this orchestrated respect stood the Masked Judge with practised grace. They unfurled a scroll for the intent drama.

Clearing their throat, the Judge's voice, though muffled slightly by the mask, resonated with an authoritative timbre that filled the room: "Before we begin, let me remind everyone present that this court is a place of respect and decorum. All parties are expected to conduct themselves in a manner befitting this esteemed institution. Interruptions or disturbances will not be tolerated."

The room fell into hushed suspense as the Masked Judge continued, "We are here to hear the case of Veilla Mageschstea, Herbstdame, Master of the Spider Spirit, versus the Realm. The charges brought forth are the slaughter of one hundred and two Menschen aboard their passage to Ormburg, distributed across five different vessels. Namely, The Mary-All, The Odyssey, Red Journey, Wander Boy, and Salty Seek." There was a brief pause as the Judge adjusted the scroll in his hands, the paper rustling softly in the tense silence.

Though obscured by the mask, the Judge's eyes seemed to bore into Veilla as they continued. "You are also accused of practising vile magic, conjuring a new abomination with the sole intent of instilling terror to solidify your reign. These charges have been formally brought against you. Do you understand the charges as they have been read to you?"

Veilla's gaze swept across the room, a tumultuous storm of defiance and desperation brewing within her. Every fibre of her being yearned to shout her innocence, to deny the heinous charges laid before her. But as her eyes landed on Fiorna, her beloved Spring, her resolve wavered. At that moment, their eyes met, an unspoken conversation passing between them, laden with sorrow, fear, and an aching love.

“I do.”

"In the matter of the case of Veilla Mageschstea versus the Realm, how do you plead?"

With a heavy heart and a sense of resigned acceptance, Fiorna gave a subtle nod. She had a plan. The choice had been made, not for herself, but for her unborn child, for the fragment of her heart that sat watching the proceedings with wide, fearful eyes.

"I plead guilty," she declared, her voice betraying none of the turmoil that raged within her. She stood with the dignity and poise befitting a Dame, even in the face of her own unmaking.

The Judge, poised to deliver the final verdict, began, "Very well, as hereby I sentence you to death—" The words were about to seal her fate, a fate she accepted with a silent plea that it would shield her daughter from the shadows that now loomed over her own life.

Fiona's voice cut through the tension-laden air, halting the Judge's sentence mid-breath. "I refute," she declared, her words ringing with an authority that reverberated through the courtroom. Every eye turned to her, surprised by the interruption yet captivated by the conviction in her young, almost childish, voice.

"I will take upon my responsibility the realm and crown from my mother," Fiona continued, standing up to embody the full measure of her declaration. "And let her have the bastard child in the sanctum of her quarters. After all, we cannot forget all the good things my mother's reign has brought to the Map."

Veilla, initially stunned by her daughter's bold intervention, felt a chilling revelation wash over her. As she gazed at Fiona, she saw no longer her beloved child but, for the first time, a formidable foe—her own flesh and blood.

It was as if the seasons of their lives were turning before her eyes—the Fall of her own reign was crumbling, making way for a harsh Winter that loomed threateningly. This Winter, cold and unforgiving, was poised to cast its long shadow over Fiorna, her Spring, potentially stifling the growth and promise that her daughter embodied.

Veilla, faced with this daunting realization, felt a protectiveness stir within her, a resolve to shield her children from the chilling grasp of the circumstances that were rapidly unfolding around them.

But there was nothing she could do. She had lost. Fiona has marked her as if she had already departed from the realm of the living like the creature placed next to her.

“I object!” The declaration rang out, cutting through the tense atmosphere of the courtroom.

All eyes swiftly turned towards Fiorna, who, until that moment, had been seated silently beside Finnegan. Her voice, now breaking the silence, carried a bold assertion that rippled through the crowd. “The Herbstdame has two daughters! Twins, in fact. The succession is as rightfully yours as it is mine!”

Fiona, upon hearing these words, turned to face her sister with a smirk sharp as frosted glass. “Is that so?”