In…?

In hindsight, Jordan decided the joke hadn’t been worth it.

Mercia made him literally watch his tongue for the rest of the trip. It didn’t last a long time thankfully, but it was about a half an hour or so, including the ten minutes from the Estate. Once they arrived at their destination, Jordan only had a brief moment to take in the sight of the building before being rushed in.

It was… exactly what he expected. Which, in many ways, was more confusing than anything else. The building was made entirely of white marble, with red banners sporting unknown heraldry and decorations hanging down from the edge of its roofing. It stood out from the structures nearby—which were wooden and surprisingly modern looking for what Jordan thought was supposed to be a generic medieval fantasy world.

Large pillars of the white stone stood out front, framing the oversized entrance that a sweeping, stepped staircase led to. A statue of a Greek Goddess would have looked right at home here, as it had that Grecian style Jordan was used to seeing in government buildings.

Which was… exactly the problem! It looked just like a damn court building from Earth! I am in another world, right? He questioned his sanity at this point.

Once inside, the group bustled forward, though not a single soul got in their way as they raced past a reception area filled with throngs of people. It took Jordan a split second to even realize that Rahm never left the carriage, to which his protests were dismissed with a hasty “He’s not coming inside and we’re late enough! Come on!”

He sucked in breath indignantly. Weren’t they here early? She’d said… then he knew she was uncomfortable with the scrutiny they were getting. Wait, what?

Jordan looked around at the people, seeing a multitude of species inhabiting the building. There were plenty of demons, or maybe they were demon people? Jordan didn’t know if only demon’s had the black eyes with red pupils like the She-Devil and Maid, but inside he saw no one else who had the same eyes as the Brat and her family. There were various animal people though, and even some that he assumed might have been elves—if just because of their long ears. Their faces were certainly not the pristine, beautiful Tolkien elf he was used to, however. Instead they were all hard angles and angry staring.

And staring… is exactly what everyone did, as the group made their way inside. Every set of eyes bore judgement in the halls of justice, unhelped, Jordan felt, by his constant stumbling in the damn kitten heels he’d been strapped into. He felt like a duckling, clacking along on the stone floor as he chased Mercia. It was a damn miracle he could even walk in the cursed things, and they weren’t even a quarter the height of the one’s the Brat’s mother was wearing!

Is this even historically accurate? God damn shoes! Jordan wheezed internally as he raced on.

Eventually they rounded a corner and Mercia stopped to allow him to catch his breath. He noted a bit dismally that he was the only one breathing heavy. Still not sweating though, he noted absentmindedly.

Looking around, the group had stopped in a plush hallway, with a carpet that soaked the sounds of their footwear. Nearby was a large, imposing door made of a dark matte metal, and several chairs and tables sat outside. They announced this spot as a waiting area. Jordan glanced at the placard on the door reading out ‘High Justiciar Sphrantzes,’ before his eyes were drawn to what looked like a newspaper, of all things, on the nearby table.

Definitely not a medieval world if that’s here! He thought. Then, curiously, he leaned over to look at the headline. Plastered on the front page was a young girl that looked just like…

“Heir of the Freyhells to be held on trial? Wait, does everyone know about this?” Jordan wheeled around to the Brat’s mother. The newspaper had a damn article about the Brat—her stupid looking face was front and center on it!

“Well—” She began to say but was cut off by a shout from Catella.

“Daddy!” The young missile-child jumped out towards an approaching man. A group of people who had been with him broke off quickly as the child spring-boarded towards him. Does she just… do that to everyone? Jordan contemplated.

The man caught the cute little weapon easily, however, and twirled her about as he did. As he approached, Jordan noted familiar regal features on the man, leaving no question to the Brat’s relationship with him. His black, silvery hair was cropped short but he had a well-trimmed beard that framed his features. He had the same red and black eyes Jordan had come to associate with his ‘kind.’ Sweeping behind him was his black suit’s long tails, looking similar to an orchestral conductor, with the only color coming from the red silken shirt beneath it, accented by a mess of lace that vaguely resembled a bowtie. Golden buttons adorned the trim and cuffs of his clothes.

“I missed you little bug,” The man said, kissing Catella’s squirming face. He approached and offered a kiss to the Brat’s mother, eliciting a small moan of playful disgust from the daughter he held, before stepping closer to Jordan.

“How… ah, how are you doing Aureliana?” He asked Jordan. Jordan eyed the man with a tiny bit of envy. He was easily over six feet tall, forcing Jordan to crane his neck to meet his gaze. However, before Jordan could answer him, he felt—

Fire.

It burned between them, a resonating heat that came from Jordan’s guts and danced with the man before him. At first, it didn’t make any damn sense to Jordan as the foreign sensation washed through him, blazing hot yet failing to create a fear response. It was scorching, but it was good. It was right. Jordan looked at the man and felt a connection deeper than any he’d ever felt with anyone in his life. He also… kind of wanted to punch the man. Was that normal?

The man’s eyes opened in shock briefly, before he hosted Catella off onto Mercia. Leaning down, with a trembling voice he asked, “Ki’s really flowing through her, isn’t it? I can feel the [Tyrant’s Flame].”

“Yes,” Mercia answered “Though with the way she’s been burning through it with her Skills—I’m surprised she has enough left to feed it, assuming it’s an unnecessary gluttonous Talent like yours is, dear.”

The man looked back towards Mercia. “Truly? What has she been using it on?”

Mercia rolled her eyes, “Hells if I know. I suspect she might be transcribing our conversations unconsciously. Maybe her Skill [Visualize Words]? I still don’t even know where she picked up an Oneiromancy Skill. It’s that or [Enhanced Concentration]. She’s been quite introspective of late and difficult to read. Which isn’t much of a change, I’ll admit.”

The man nodded to her words, and Jordan jumped guiltily. Was that his Time-Out skill? And did she really know he could see her words? Wait—was that draining his Ki? Shit balls! No one had explained how this worked! How much Ki did he have? Did they talk about it in the carriage? No one’s explained things in a useful way! Or about things that I need to know!

“Let’s… talk for a moment, alright?” The man gestured for Jordan to follow, and Jordan turned to look back towards Catella and Mercia for permission. Catella looked fussy, but more so that she wasn’t clinging to Jordan. Mercia nodded at Jordan, so he followed the Brat’s father.

The end of the hallway had more chairs and benches to sit in, and the Brat’s father motioned Jordan to sit near him. Looking at each other now, the man spoke first.

“I know you don’t remember me right now. There’s a lot of confusing events happening, huh?”

Jordan, inadvertently mimicking the Brat’s mother, rolled his eyes in response. “You could say that… yeah.”

“Well, first things first, I suppose. As you’ve surmised, I’m your father, Constantine.”

Constantine, eh? The only person Jordan knew with that name was a comic-book character. He—wait, did he say as ‘I’ve surmised?’ Shit fuck balls! Is this guy just reading me too?

“Are you using skills to read me? Like the Bra—er, Mercia?”

“Like your Mother?” he corrected Jordan, but there wasn’t any serious judgement in his eyes. “Well, she can get a bit impatient—some of her Skills allow her to perceive an entire conversation from the first breath taken. I hope that wasn’t too frustrating for you.”

The way Jordan gave the wall a sidelong forlorn look answered the man’s question succinctly enough. He continued in the silence.

“Well, I suppose you have a right to be angry. You don’t remember what’s going on, after all. I wish we didn’t have to be here, but there are… reasons for such an extreme reaction from the Justice system. More than just fear of the ritual you performed—political reasons, unfortunately. Your actions put the family into a vulnerable position, and some of our rivals in the courts are making moves because of it.”

Politics? Well at least that makes sense compared to magic and rituals. Politics are always stupid, and this whole situation is stupid, Jordan thought.

“Still, before we continue, I need to warn you. If you keep burning through your Ki like this, you’re going to run out and strain yourself. The hearing won’t be delayed just because you don’t feel well.”

“I don’t know what you mean though!” Jordan glared at the man. “I don’t know how to spend Ki, or whatever. No one’s told me what to do with all that.”

The man nodded at Jordan’s accusatory tone and said, “It’s not something you’d be used to, regardless of the circumstances really, and a Talent like that isn’t… well, it will drain you without giving anything in return if you let it. Since, you never learned to control your energies before due to your condition, let’s start now, shall we?”

He gave Jordan a warm smile. It wasn’t the same kind of smile that the Brat’s mother had used. It wasn’t world shattering, heaven defying, Helen of Troy starting wars amongst nations levels of smiles. It was a small, quiet smile. Genuine, and warm. It was…

It was a lot like the smile his father would give him. The flame seemed to burn hotter in response, and Jordan found himself suddenly… choking?

Constantine’s eyes widened, but then he pressed a hand against Jordan’s chest. Jordan looked at him incredulously as he struggled to say “What—huhhhh—are—huhhhh—you—huhhh—doing!?”

“You need to steady yourself, sweetheart. You’re burning through your Ki too fast and straining your system, I think you just suffered a Fatigue and failed your Conviction Check. This looks like a Shortness of Breath Status Effect by my guess.” He closed his eyes, as though concentrating.

Jordan’s eyes widened in surprise, “What—huhhh—do—huhhh—uggh—huhhh—help!” He couldn’t breathe. He was beginning to panic. Air was rushing in, but it almost felt like his throat was closing up as he struggled to pull in anything with each trembling rise of his chest against the man’s hand. The damn hover-empowering corset was the only thing letting him breathe at all! In the distance he could hear Catella crying out in alarm at the sight of Jordan’s bent form.

“Breathe sweetie. It’s okay. It’ll be alright. Hold… steady.” The man breathed in himself, showing Jordan. Jordan wanted to hit him—did he think he wasn’t trying? It was breathing! It wasn’t supposed to be hard and it wasn’t like he could just calm down and—

The fire grew in his chest and the man looked more worried. Jordan realized that there was… energy inside him. It was… rushing, burning, focusing on… what? He couldn’t breathe, and it was tearing at him. The man before him began to literally smolder as a flicker of fire formed over him, rushing into Jordan and joining his system. Jordan’s ears popped like he’d suffered a sudden change of altitude, but even with the additional energy all that seemed to happen was the fire burned hotter and he couldn’t breathe!

Jordan made pained noises, but the man met his eyes. “Breathe, Aureliana. Breathe. You can do it, just—”

‘I can’t do it!’ Jordan said, his breath hissing out before he held it in fury.

His brother laughed, holding his fishing pole smugly. Jordan—fed up after losing yet another chance at a fish—slammed his rod down on the edge of the boat and ground his teeth. His father leaned over to see what was wrong.

‘Hey there champ.’ His father placed a hand on Jordan’s slumped shoulder.

Jordan pouted, refusing to talk. Refusing to breathe. Just… just refusing everything!

‘Come on, kiddo. Breathe, okay? Tell me what’s wrong.’ His father rubbed his back encouragingly until Jordan let out his breath.

‘I can’t do it! They just keep nibbling and then leaving! This is stupid! I shouldn’t have even come.” Jordan admitted. He’d wanted to stay home and play games all day, not go on some stupid fishing trip!

‘Hey now, it’s okay. Fishing just takes patience. When a nibbler bites, you just gotta give it a second? Here, let me show you.’

His father drew back Jordan’s line and fixed some new bait onto the hook. Casting the line back in, he saddled up next to Jordan, shaking the boat dangerously in the process. He made Jordan hold the pole as they waited. Just as Jordan began to fuss, a tug pulled at his rod. Before he could yank at it though, his father held out a hand to stop him.

‘Wait a moment, okay Jordan?’ He said. Jordan looked at him like he was stupid. The rod was wiggling! He needed to pull it in, right?

‘But—’ Jordan caught himself, and then sighed. He waited, and his father moved an arm around him to support them both as he held the fishing pole steady.

‘It’s just tasting it right now. You’ve got to wait for it to bite, and then you reel it in. We’ll get there, just have patience. Just, breathe, Jordan. Okay? Breathe.’

It was hard to breathe sometimes. Whenever he got mad, or impatient, or things didn’t go his way, he’d pout and hold his breath. When he was littler he’d hold his breath until he’d turn blue and pass out! Breathing was hard, okay! Waiting was hard! And this was all stupid!

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

But he did as his father asked him. He wanted… he wanted to not be bad at this. So he focused on breathing, like his dad showed him. He breathed in… and then out. And waited. Breathing… in… and out… he breathed until he stopped being mad. Until he stopped strangling the pole in tiny rage. He breathed as he quietly watched.

The pole kept trembling in his hand, occasionally he saw the bobber in the water dip or dance from the fish. But then… a tug unlike all the others hit, and the bobber disappeared.

He felt it pull! In panic he pulled back. The tension on the line didn’t disappear this time though! In fact—it got stronger! He’d… he’d done it!

‘Reel it in champ! You’ve got it!’ His father leaned back, leaving him to his glory. Even his brother watched.

Jordan began spinning the line up like his life depended on it, cranking the wheel while he leaned backward, just like he’d seen his father do. The tension pulled fiercely against him and he heard his brother gasp in the rocking boat.

‘Holy crap, look at the size of that monster, dad!’ His brother laughed out loud as he cheered Jordan on. His brother was… cheering him? Smiling wide like an idiot while he hooted and hollered.

Jordan’s cheeks burned red. He could do this! He would…

He would do anything if it got his brother to smile. Anything, like sacrificing a day of games to go fishing.

Jordan struggled against the line, but he remembered to breathe. He couldn’t hold his breath and pass out here. He was focused on the point in front of him. Fighting with everything in him. To prove himself the best fisher of them all! To see a smile.

Then… his foot slipped.

With a scream, he was pulled forward off the boat.

‘Oh shit!’ His father reached out, but Jordan was already in the drink.

He never did catch that fish, but… the way his brother and father smiled at him the rest of the day was worth it. Especially when he managed to catch a different, albeit smaller, fish later all on his own.

Breathe. Just… breathe. In his panic he had been holding his breath. Just like when he was a damn kid.

He stopped fighting himself, and felt the fire flowing through him. Energy, pure and wondrous was rushing through him with every breath, pulling at it, demanding it. It wanted him to breathe more, to feed it more.

As it did, it consumed that energy, chewing through reserves he didn’t know he had. With a start, he realized that Constantine was funneling his own energies into him. It burned like the sun flowing through them, and Jordan had the distinct impression that this would have been highly fatal if he wasn’t immune to fire now. Even so, he focused on breathing. On watching the flow.

There it is. He felt it now, something pulling at him. Fire…? No, it was more than that. It was something inside him that looked, smelled, sounded, and invoked to his very core the idea of fire. A symbol resting inside him, calling to the burning energy, igniting it as it funneled through the Concept of Fire residing in the Concept of Him. But there was also more.

A second Concept, overlapping, supporting, overriding and expanding the Fire. Something overwhelming, commanding, and powerful. Something that refused to bow, or break, something that demanded the world fall on its knees to scrape and bow before it. With a shock, Jordan realized he had a name for it. Tyranny. Tyranny and fire. Tyrant’s Flame.

It was inside him. It burned with fire and with command, and as he breathed, he just… slowly stopped feeding it energy. It had been pulling at him, nibbling at his Essence, trying to drag him into the waters. But now wasn’t the time to reel it in. The energy slowed, and the Tyrant’s Flame stopped igniting inside him. He breathed and… it was over, just like that.

It wasn’t as difficult as he thought it would be, and after a moment, his breathing steadied out again. He could focus on something other than the panic, and he met Constantine’s eyes.

“See there? Knew you could do it.” The holder of the Tyrant’s Flame said to him. The very flame… inside of Jordan now. It was a…

“T…talent?” He asked.

The man looked surprised, but nodded. “Yes, that’s the Tyrant’s Flame. I inherited it as a Bloodline Talent as well. It’s rare in our family—I was the first in centuries to regain it. But… then so did you.”

Jordan breathed and nodded. “Why… why didn’t mother tell me about this one then? This seems useful, right?”

Constantine quirked his head curiously, before sighing out. “If I had to guess, it’s because she didn’t want to frustrate you more. The [Tyrant’s Flames] is based on the Invocation Ability. Without several other Skills in that Ability, it won’t do anything more than consume your resources.”

“Oh… cool.” This. Fucking. World. He thought.

The man smiled with a small chuckle before lovingly holding Jordan’s cheek. Despite himself, Jordan didn’t try to stop his affections like he had Mercia. He’d been weirdly put off by the Brat’s mother, but he supposed it could have been his rejection of the state he found himself in.

At the moment though, it really felt like his own father praising him. It had been so long since he’d been with his father… he closed his eyes and let the illusion of happiness fill him.

He just wanted this too much, he supposed.

And of course… that was when the tiny hurricane Yeeted into him.

“Catella no!” Mercia shouted as she failed to stop the leaping child that had wiggled free, distressed at Jordan’s tears.

“Big Sis!” Sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows filled Jordan’s world.

He needed another healing potion.

----------------------------------------

“Okay, are we ready?” Constantine asked the group.

“Wait, please.” Mercia answered. “You and Petrus served together, correct? Have you spoken with him about the situation?” She held a pouting Catella in her arms.

“I have, but… “Constantine sighed softly, “you’re not going to like it.”

Mercia raised an eyebrow, and Constantine answered the non-verbal question.

“He… told me that a Grand Justiciar was dispatched.” He winced as Mercia barely restrained a shriek in response.

“What? Why!?” She glared at her husband, “How is all of this not enough? No—don’t tell me they…!”

He nodded sadly before saying, “I confirmed it with the Westhells too. There’s talk in the High Court to remove our controlling interests from the Binders Guild for the incident.”

“But! They can not do that! The Freyhells founded that Guild! If we lost it now, it could… it could…!” For the first time, Jordan noticed the Brat’s mother truly struggling with words. Her forehead also kind of glowed ominously.

“Mercia, calm down. Please, you can’t lose control here.”

The look she gave him was downright murderous, but his eyes were serious with warning. The woman breathed deep, helped by Catella when she realized how upset her mother was and hugged her tight. The glowing on the woman’s forehead… stopped? Jordan was confused by that part.

“I know. I’m sorry, it’s just… no, I can understand. Of course they’d move against us like this. Any damn opportunity they can get. They know you, as well, so let me guess—you asked Petrus to let this go to the Grand Courts, didn’t you?”

Constantine nodded slowly, and Mercia scoffed. With the first bit of steel in his voice that Jordan had heard from the otherwise calm, gentle man, he said, “I won’t let them target Aureliana. They will not destroy a second child of mine.”

She met his gaze, the air growing distinctly hot from their friction. “And you think I want to see her like this? You think I want to be here having this conversation? We’re still talking about the Duchy versus our family, Constantine. You have a responsibility to the Realm to—”

“A Demon’s Passion comes first.” He said succinctly. The Brat’s mother quieted.

“I know.” She said, shaking her head, “And I don’t… I don’t blame you for choosing that. I’m assuming Petrus didn’t agree?”

Constantine looked away and didn’t answer. “I thought so.” Mercia nodded at his inadvertent admission. “This is going to be a Review, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

As if on some unknown cue, they both turned towards Jordan, who’d been struggling to follow the conversation as it lacked any real context for him.

He looked at them both and asked dumbly, “What?”

“We knew the trial was going to be… difficult.” Constantine said, leaning down in front of Jordan. “The issue your mother and I were discussing was that… Well, let’s just say there are some that think this should be the responsibility of the entire Freyhell family, to answer for what happened, while others think the blame should fall only on… the instigating party.”

Jordan looked at him blankly. “I… don’t understand?” He admitted. Before they could say more, the large metal door opened.

“Duke Freyhell? High Justiciar Sphrantzes will see her in his office now.” A woman with horn rimmed glasses, tight female business dress, and large sweeping leathery wings ushered them inside. She looked incredibly nervous and… guilty? Jordan stared at the secretary in wonder as they were brought into the room, but jumped when he was stopped short by the visage of the Brat’s mother filling his view.

“Aureliana, listen closely.” She whispered. “No matter what, speak the truth as best as you can. Mercy can be granted, and Redemption is offered for those protected by seeking Justice. If you lie, however, you’ll close off all avenues of salvation. Petrus should… well, I love you. No matter what. Okay?” She gripped at Jordan’s shoulder with a free hand as they walked inside.

As the door swung closed behind them, Jordan looked around the grand office. The floors, walls, and ceiling were the same marbled stone that formed the entirety of the building, but the ceiling swept upward more than a dozen feet high. Painted murals covered it, bringing to his mind an air of religious majesty. The furniture in the room was all dark stone, and a fireplace sat lit and crackling in the stifling room.

The secretary was sweating notably, as Jordan realized the room was incredibly hot, near to the Brat’s body temperature. He fought his instinct to run from the heat, and turned to look at the man sitting at a stony desk as large as the Brat’s makeup dresser. Pages of books, glowing with magic defiantly against the heat, rested on his table as he looked up at the group of them. With a nod towards the woman who had let them in, she fled gratefully to escape being cooked alive.

The man stood politely to welcome them, before sweeping a hand out and saying, “Please—sit.” The group of them obediently did so, but Jordan didn’t miss how the man waited on Constantine before sitting just before him, allowing the Duke to sit last. Even if this trial put the power into this Judge’s hands, the dynamic was clearly in favor of the Brat’s father.

“High Justiciar Sphrantzes, this is my daughter Freyhell Aureliana.” Constantine introduced Jordan formally.

The judge was unlike the other races he had seen coming in. His hair seemed to be literally fire, though it laid about acting like hair except for the occasional flare from the burning strands. The smell of ash and heat rolled off of him, and his skin was dark with small cracks running through them, burning from within. His nose was rather large and sharp, making him look strangely like the villain from the Zelda franchise to Jordan, though his expression was nothing but kind. When he opened his mouth to speak Jordan could see a small glow of embers from the back of his throat, emphasized as it was by the thin-shaped, but thick fiery beard around his mouth.

“Good morning, Young Freyhell. It saddens me to have to meet the daughter of the Duke under such dire circumstances.”

His eyes were orange and crimson, filled with glowing fire leaving him near pupil-less. They met Jordan’s own and Jordan gulped.

“While I have had your conditions explained to me,” His deep voice crackled out. “I would like to speak with you openly before the trial to ascertain your mental fitness for myself. Would a discussion be alright with you?” He asked kindly, looking between the Brat’s parents for additional confirmation.

Jordan felt a pressure from the Brat’s mother and glanced back at her. She was standing a bit away, having decided not to sit, which confused Jordan, but then he remembered what she had told him. He needed to speak the Truth, for any Lie could be his undoing. Should he continue to harbor a secret desire to perform the ritual again then Redemption from his misguided Path, born of Ignorance, was his only saving grace. Lies would get him killed. He should tell the Truth and—

Jordan blinked. What the hell was he thinking? That didn’t even sound like his own inner voice!

“Duchess. Do I need to ask you to leave?” The Judge’s eyes were… sad? But they gazed up at Mercia, who had the good graces to blush.

“I was just reminding my daughter to be truthful. I know it isn’t within your—”

“Enough. We do not speak of our Skills in truth saying so that those prone to lying will do so. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. It’s better I speak with her alone anyway.” He nodded towards Jordan’s father, who looked… downcast, but only for a moment before nodding in agreement.

Mercia looked quite displeased, but assented and was led out. Catella followed, looking extremely worried, tugging at Jordan’s heart in the process as she ran up and gave him one last hug before scampering off. He hated children, but she was so damn precious!

Er, wait! Stop it! I hate kids, enough of that! He shook his head and turned back to the judge.

The fireplace crackled merely in the quiet room as Jordan squirmed awkwardly. After a minute or so, the Judge spoke.

“Do you know why you’re here, Lady Freyhell?”

“Um…” Jordan started off not so strongly. “A ritual?”

The man nodded, and then… made some notes? He wrote on one of the pages he had on his desk while stroking at a bit of his flaming beard. The hair kept curling against his fingers, emphasizing the fact that it wasn’t really hair so much as well behaved fire growing on his face. Jordan was only a tiny bit jealous. Super tiny.

Finishing his note, the man sighed, a few embers floating out and bouncing off the table. “I truly do wish we could have met under better circumstances. Your father speaks of you often. Some might say a bit too much.” He chuckled good naturedly. Jordan could understand though—he’d had plenty of coworkers that loved to talk about their children, and he had the impression Constantine may have been the type. He really does remind me of my own father, Jordan thought.

The Judge steepled his fingers and looked thoughtfully at Jordan, who met his eyes, still unsure what the meaning of this ‘discussion’ was. He didn’t have to wait long.

“The trial you will be undertaking is what is known as a Review. It isn’t… common in use outside of Academia. The last Court Review, to my knowledge, was decades ago. It’s the kind of treatment given to war criminals or terrorists. To Outcasts seeking Redemption. To Ronin. Though there were talks of holding one for the Westhells after their daughter… well, you got your heart from somewhere after all.”

Jordan raised an eyebrow. The Brat’s mother still hadn’t explained the whole situation to him, having put it off. Wait, didn’t the Brat’s father mention the Westhells? I thought that was a place he came from? Was that also the family’s name?

“I know that… I got a heart transplant. Right?” The Judge looked… confused? The way his eyes bored into Jordan made him…

Lies. Shit, did me pretending to be the Brat count as a lie? Fuck!

“Interesting.” He began to write down more notes.

“W-what?”

He glanced up as Jordan gave him his best ‘I’m-innocent’ smile. It… didn’t really work.

“Well,” The Judge said, “I can already tell it will be difficult to get verifiable answers. The Conditions you’re under will muddle things on our ends, that’s all.” He waved dismissively, though clearly meaning to put Jordan at ease.

It didn’t work. The room felt like it was closing in, despite its size. Was his panic attack potion wearing off or something? He should be sweating. Why wasn’t he sweating?

I can’t… really die here, right? That was just… a joke the Brat’s Mother told me, right?

The man noticed Jordan squirming, and sighed sadly. “I know, this isn’t exactly comfortable. I’m sure your parents would have preferred we put this off and give you more time to recover. We don’t have the time, however.”

Without thinking Jordan blurted out in response, “Because that Grand Justice guy is coming?”

High Justiciar Sphrantze’s raised a smoldering eyebrow. “I would have preferred for the Duke to have kept that to himself, but yes.”

“Why? Is it really that… ah…” Jordan trailed off weakly under the man’s stern look.

“I know what your father would choose,” the man said in a huff, “but I must weigh the scales for not only you, but for the People. Slapping a fine on you for your actions and forcing you to sign a contract to ensure cooperation should be enough. But…”

“But…?”

“There is precedence for cases such as yours being brought before the High King.” He admitted. “Because of the High Laws, should His Majesty wish it—the punishment that would befall you could exceed what you are possibly able to pay back. In such an event, it would have to fall to your family to share your burdens. I am well aware of what will occur in that situation.”

“Wait, what?” Jordan tried to interject but the man powered on.

“If that is the path the High King would choose, then this court’s decision would be overridden. You would be dragged before the Grand Court, and the most powerful family in the Kingdoms would be brought low. It’s no secret that since the formation of the Binder’s Guild many noble families have been seeking the removal of the Freyhell’s presence in their lands.”

Jordan looked at him in confusion. Shit, more politics. Lacking anything to go off of, he tried to wrestle some concrete answers from the Judge.

“Okay, so… so the Frey-family made the Binder’s Guild? Why would people want them removed from it?”

“Because of the profits that pour into the Guild thanks to its work binding Dungeons or other contracts. There is a history here, Lady Freyhell, that you’ve forgotten to your detriment. Taxes could be lowered, and profits with other nobility increased tremendously should the Freyhell’s position be toppled. And without your family distributing the massive amount of wealth they bring into the Duchy, the entirety of the Hellwastes would collapse on itself. While that would please many religious fanatics who hate your kind still, those of us who live here, however, need your family. Without them…”

“Taxes? This is all… about taxes? Money?” Oh for fuck sakes!

“Yes,” he nodded seriously. “I don’t think you could understand the levels of wealth we’re discussing here. The power it represents. It’s enough that I must weigh the costs of the complete destruction of the Duchy against how to measure your guilt. Unless the ruling is indisputable to even the Grand Courts, it will be overturned. Your family will be destroyed and all of us with them.”

Jordan met his fiery eyes. “Wait, what do you mean… indisputable?”

“As I said…” his eyes blazed solemnly, “You will be given a Review. It isn’t like a typical hearing. You will be questioned, not only for your actions, but for who you are as a person. Before and now. You will be held to account for everything the court can force on you. More than your life will be at stake because of it.”

“That…” Jordan struggled for words before saying, “How can something be worse than death? More taxes?”

“I wish that were true, Lady Freyhell.” He almost smiled. “I think this discussion is over, however. I knew from the moment I saw you how difficult this would be for all involved, but I wanted… to give you some warning. You deserved to know the real reasons the trial will be held, beyond the scope of your own guilt.”

“You deserve,” He said, lacking his earlier kindness “To know why I will do all that I can to destroy you.”

----------------------------------------