I had never ridden a horse before, and quite frankly, I much rather preferred traveling by carriage.

The smell it had was unpleasant, and it was wild and with a mind of its own that I did not know how to tame. A few times during the three days of riding—at a slower pace than the men had done—I tried to insert thoughts into the horse, but that yielded no success.

I finally gave up and let the cavalrymen of the Corisseri regiment guide and command it instead.

As we rode on, I tried to strike up a conversation with Florencia, who I sensed was distraught. She was silent, cast her eyes down without making eye contact with anyone, not even me.

I tried making idle conversation with her, but she was not in the mood for it and only gave single-word answers. The reason dawned on me only later on—she had been a prestigious and influential member of a proud lodge for mages, privileged amongst the privileged, but now she was a prisoner.

And every small town or village that we traveled through, our great column drew much attention and speculation. Amidst this, I was certain that Florencia thought she had been utterly disgraced, taken through her homeland in chains, like a common criminal.

That’s what I thought it was, but I could not confirm it.

I huddled more into the warm embrace of the cloak, but even its thick grey wool wasn’t enough protection against the cold.

We were traveling towards the snow-peaked Leden mountains again, its great range expanding from north to south in a majestic display. When we reached closer, the weather grew cold and a piercing wind came from the great plains to the right.

On the first day of travel, the land we rode through was mostly uninhabited, with forests and small villages and plains and narrow rivers.

But soon on the second day, the wilderness turned into countless farmsteads and workshops and dairy farms and massive pastures, where grazing cows and goats and pigs and great oxen and horses all calmly and peacefully spent their days. All of this was to support the capital of Lienor with food, material, and everything else a massive city needs to stay alive.

Traveling silently behind Jace and I were Iskander and Jaxine. They had their wrists chained to the horn of the saddle and ignored everyone around them. Every once in a while, Iskander shot me accusatory glances before returning to his hushed conversations with Jaxine in their native tongue. Although their language was foreign to me, I could make out a few words here and there, enough to understand just how much they protested against their mistreatment.

My sympathy deepened as Florencia did almost force them to work with us, even though Jaxine had been reluctant from the outset. Had they kept away, they might’ve been saved from their current fate.

And while Florencia was riding silently ahead of me, Jace, on the other hand, was in high spirits. This surprised me, as what happened in Scorro had deeply troubled him, and the three following days had not entirely healed the damage. But now, his mood was better, and we talked a lot on the way.

“I’ve never been there,” Jace said about the capital. “I’ve always wanted to go, but I never had the chance.”

He explained Estalarch was actually a twin city with the neighboring Artelarch—a city in the neighboring country of Lith. Lith and Lienor were very close allies. Rumors even circulated that the King himself had blood ties to the Lith royalty.

Jace said when the road straightened out and the wind died down for a moment, that it started as a mining camp built on the foot of the tallest peak Estaldren, almost two thousand years ago. After countless years, the city spread wide and high along the mountain range.

When the third day was almost over, and the bright orange sunset illuminated the rocky peaks of the Leden mountains, we arrived in the capital.

I was awestruck.

To me, Estalarch was to Bessou, as Bessou was to Scorro. The city was massive, at least three times the size of Bessou.

In the high tower of Aarnost, half built into the very stone of the mountain uncounted years back, when Lienor was called by a forgotten name, dwelt the King of Lienor.

The domed roof of the tower was adorned with heavy gold that shimmered orange and with mighty beams of black iron. In that great and tall tower, uncounted generations of great kings and queens had lived and would for many years, unless struck down by powers greater than those of nature and time.

All along the stonewall were streams of water flowing from the crevasses that gave power to myriad wheels of steel and wood. Endlessly spinning, those wheels powered incredible machines and pumps and great forge hammers. Who had first built these mechanical wonders, none now knew, for too many pages of time had passed.

And when none could build higher into the mountain, the city spread itself around the base of Estaldren. Now there were even more houses and buildings and theaters and palaces and halls, and marketplaces. A river, coming down from between the jagged mountainside, split the city in two.

“By Hanuos, what a sight!” said Jace, calling out for the major god of earth and stone, the builder and giver.

Everyone else agreed, nodding and mumbling similar words of praise. Even Iskander and Jaxine, who had seen their fair share of wonders, seemed impressed by the beauty and craftsmanship on display.

Despite the late hour, the streets were wide and bustling with people. As we passed by, the crowds parted, bowing and exclaiming with delight at the sight of the Corisseri returning.

We were taken through the entire city, but before reaching the street heading up towards the tower of Aarnost, we turned right and rode in double column through more streets until we reached a massive building that I thought must’ve been a palace.

The wide, but single-storied building sat snugly beside the narrow but fast-flowing river. Its perimeter was fenced with a tall, black iron fence whose tips were gilded, reminding me of those back in Cappesand.

As we rode through the gate, we passed ten guards donning deep royal blue and gold uniforms, holding tall halberds, who saluted the envoy as it made its way forward.

“Hail, Corisseri!” they exclaimed loudly, but as the members of the Lodge rode past them, a silence befell them, and I could sense their growing suspicion.

We stopped.

Finally, after three days of voyaging, we stopped to the delight of the dirty and smelly horses.

The plumed and gilded colonel Matteos Carbael dismounted with another muted grunt. With stiff steps, he marched to us and ordered us to come down and face him.

“We have arrived at Sanermo, the Royal Court!” he said stiffly. “You shall be taken to your rooms, from where you will not leave. I won’t take your equipment or weapons as a gesture of good faith. I have guards behind your doors, patrolling the hallways, and all across the perimeter. The guards of the Royal Court are present as well, so do not think for a moment you can escape. The hearing will begin midday tomorrow. Until then, you shall remain in your rooms!”

“What about the Lodge—” Florencia called out before the colonel ignored her, turned around on his heel, and walked towards Philemon Petridies and Ardovar Verrier.

They seemed to have a much more pleasant trip in their carriage, but everyone else in the Lodge seemed to be rather worried, and standing awkwardly in front of their horses. And all around them, more guards kept appearing from behind the corner, or oddly patrolling the area close by.

The same guards who had taken us in Scorro grabbed us by our chains and took us through the dark and echoing courthouse.

It all seemed too imposing to make any fuss or resist in any way.

There was something at play here that I knew not the reasoning of, and I sensed strongly I should play along. Jace seemed to sense it as well, and every time our eyes met, walking through the wide and tall hallways, he would smile and nod.

I returned the gesture.

With little ceremony, our guards opened a small door, removed our chains, and shoved us in.

“This is your room,” said the tall Corisseri, whose unshaved chin was at eye level with me. “There’s food, water, and a fire set up for you. Don’t make any noise. Uh, good night.”

It must have been some kind of small office before it was repurposed for our holding cell for the night, as there still were some papers and an empty inkwell on the windowsill.

When we were by ourselves, Florencia exploded.

“Like a common criminal!” she said, still whispering. “Paraded on the streets of the capital like a common criminal! In chains! I’ve given my entire life to them, and this is how they repay me?”

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She then began to pace back and forward while releasing all the pent-up anger and kept repeating pretty much the same thought until I grew bored with listening to her.

I kneeled in front of the small fireplace that was nothing more than an iron furnace where some kindling were burning. A tall and slim kettle full of water was quietly simmering.

“I could’ve split those chains in two with just a thought, Jonas,” she said. “I’ve never been this insulted and humiliated.”

“The colonel knew—”

“And… and tomorrow I’m gonna meet the King and Pitties as a prisoner? And… and everything that you said about your… thing, the maul, and how it’s always listening and how it’s talking to you and…”

Florencia was having a total meltdown. I moved in close, wrapped my arms around her, and pulled her into a tight embrace. I held her there, feeling her tears soak through my shirt, but said nothing.

“You’re not always listening, are you?” I asked Goxhandar.

“Not always,” it replied with a strange songlike tone that seemed to come from very far away, and was still irritated. “This bores me, master. If I must, I shall pay attention, but I prefer to bathe in the thoughts of others for the time being. Many are so pure and others so delectably wicked. I find the variation fascinating!”

“Um, alright, this is fine by me,” I awkwardly replied to it and immediately, I felt its presence leave, but the weight stayed.

“You were just talking to it, were you?” Florencia asked, having sensed something.

“I was.”

“Did… did it ask about me?”

“No. Goxhandar was annoyed that we didn’t fight Ardovar, so it kind of went to sleep,” I confessed, twisting the truth slightly, and it seemed to work.

Florencia calmed down, and for some strange reason, I started swaying from side to side, still holding her. Almost like dancing.

“You know, Jonas,” she said after some time. “We’ve never properly danced. Like this, as a couple. Even before.”

“I think we have to fix that someday. Until then, this is rather nice, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Florencia said, and I felt her smile.

We kept dancing to the quiet crackles of the flame, not knowing what will come next. But my heart was calm, and I was filled with an odd confidence.

*

The next day came quickly and we slept little.

The bed was comfortable enough and reminded me of the one in the Cappesand attic room—an old and lumpy mattress and stiff wood board underneath.

A great commotion outside began even before sunrise, and we heard many voices and noise coming from everywhere. There was running and synchronized marching, and the clang of metal. Amidst the chaos, Florencia and I felt the unmistakable radiance of strong powers, but they were much too veiled to make out any more details.

As the hours passed, many more great souls entered the building, and the surrounding air was almost alight with psychic static.

Then, a thin man entered our room sometime before midday.

A blunt; was my first thought.

He wore long and stiff robes of grey and gold, a gold brooch pinned to his chest, and wearing black polished dress shoes.

He introduced himself as the court herald Piedro Corro and explained that the hearing was due to begin shortly.

The man took us through great hallways filled with busy-people. The halls were made of white and pink marble, carved into shapes of men and women, reaching for the heavens or held back by chains of judgment. Evenly spaced between the columns were windows of painted glass decorated with circular shapes of gold or black iron.

Marching past us were all kinds of guards, many wearing different uniforms. Some were draped in charcoal cloaks, while others had donned sapphire, deep purple, or crimson coats, each with steel cuirasses underneath and polished helmets, wielding long halberds or spears or shortswords. Among them, I recognized some of the Corisseri that had escorted us the previous day, and we exchanged nods before going our separate ways.

To the court herald, it was of the utmost importance that we looked presentable before those who would attend the hearing.

He took us to an austere washing room, where we took off our ragged and muddy clothes from Scorro. Florencia had to leave her sword in the possession of a burly guardsman. We bathed, hurried along by the herald, and dressed in bland dark grey and blue outfits that were, by the court herald’s words, the outfit of the many stewards of the courthouse.

Then, escorted by a retinue of ten guards, we were taken through ever-widening halls with tall windows and high ceilings and walls decorated with paintings and sculptures, until we entered what seemed to be a circular waiting room.

There waited a disgruntled Iskander and Jaxine, arms crossed and with sour expressions painted on their faces.

They were also better dressed for the occasion, and Iskander had his wild, black hair combed properly for once. Further back in the room was a smiling Jace, who stood next to a window that overlooked the river. He held the black book he took from Scorro, and had been reading it for the entire night.

“Usually we would not let the accused parties be together in this manner,” the court herald said with an overly pleasant voice compared to his strained face. “But this is a day of many exceptions. I will now explain the rules and what will come. Please pay attention!”

None of us said another word, gathered before him and waited.

“The hearing of Sanermo will begin shortly,” the court herald said nervously and read from a long list written on a long, yellow piece of paper. “In attendance will be our majesty, the King along with his son. His royal advisor, Rainier Pitties, and chief justice, Verralger Fontegno, will also attend, along with high priestess Naeve Landoros—”

“The King’s mother,” Florencia whispered quickly.

The herald cleared his throat as Florencia stopped talking, and continued: “Furthermore, the Cappesand Academy High Council and its dean, Mr. Petridies, as well as the leading members of the Yasman Lodge, will stand under trial. And the five of you will also stand among the accused.”

There was silence as the gravity of our situation set in, but Iskander didn’t take this as well.

“The accused?” he exploded. “Accused of what? This is bullshit. We came willingly, but not to be taken prisoner and—”

From the previous room came quickly a dozen guards, their halberds aimed at us, and their faces grim and ready. I almost could taste their nervousness.

“I won’t have any of this,” the court herald said calmly, while also hiding a hint of fear under his words.

He then turned to the rest.

“Some simple rules to follow that apply to every one of you,” he said, now regaining some composure. “First rule is that you do not talk until you are spoken to. You will stay seated for the entire duration of the trial. You will not stand or make any sudden moves toward the court, or its guards, as it will be taken as a sign of aggression. Keep your hands visible and open at all times. You will not suddenly grab anything from your pockets or the table in front of you without being asked to. This will also be taken as aggression against the court, and you will be taken into custody. You will address the King as, your Majesty; or Your Majesty, King Landoros. You will address the royal advisor as the esteemed Mr. Pitties. You will address Verralger Fontegno as chief justice, or chief justice Fontegno.”

He stopped for a quick pause, reread what was written on his paper, and then continued: “And last, but the most important rule is none of you will use any magical abilities in any capacity! No… mind reading or moving things with your thoughts or whatever your kind does. Is all of this understood?”

We could only mutter that we did.

Florencia, Iskander, and Jaxine seethed with a barely contained anger, each wearing a different shade of fury on their faces, while Jace and I remained calm. I felt Goxhandar on my shoulder stir alive again, now actively paying attention to what was happening. But he did not speak a word.

The five of us followed willingly with our escort of guards, who led us into the grand courtroom of Sanermo.

As the massive double doors were opened, I was awestruck again.

It was an immense room, its square dimensions underlined by tall and arched windows. Above us was a dome of painted glass, casting a brilliant mixture of colors onto the walls below. The walls were carved from a stunning white marble that almost seemed to glow by itself, and hanging from brass chains were three crystal chandeliers that illuminated the entire massive room in a warm, yellow light.

Straight ahead, maybe a hundred paces, was an empty, long table of carved wood. On it were stacks of papers all spread around.

To my right sat the entire Cappesand crowd, looking upset over the entire thing. Nobody said a single word.

I recognized most of them—Philemon Petridies, Verrier, Sofia Dion, Rian Gallos, and even Ferchell Maore. Sitting between Dion and Ardovar were a young man and a woman, both with blonde hair. I immediately recognized them from Veneiea—they were the two I rescued from the debris. But something about them seemed off—their expressions were entirely blank, and they sat unmoving and barely blinking.

Mind-wiped; was the first thought that sprung to mind. That must’ve been it. I heard Ardovar tell Philemon that he would wipe their minds or do something to their memories.

But then, as the guards sat us down opposite the Cappesand people, another thing caught my attention.

Casually sitting closest to the empty long table was, I theorized, the Cappesand High Council.

The previous night, laying on the bumpy mattress, Florencia had explained that those five were those who made the important decisions about the academy and who ultimately reaped the benefits of Cappesand’s work. They were all powerful mages, and old.

Old, all except one—a captivatingly beautiful woman with deep and wavy dark hair that was fastened high with a golden pin. She wore a rich crimson-colored coat with golden patterns embroidered into the wide collar.

And she was the only one smiling. As I sat down, she held my gaze, still smiling warmly, until an old and weathered-looking man began talking to her. She rolled her eyes and leaned over to focus on the words.

The court herald walked all around the room and checked on the chairs, the colorful carpets, the ceiling, the walls, and the papers until he noticed the chatting. He coughed in front of them and asked politely to not talk.

“It’s…” the old man said, stuttering his words. “My apologies.”

“Very well, um—” the court herald read from his papers, “Mr. Rollodan Arde. But please do not talk again.”

With a content smirk, the court herald turned, and for another long while, walked around and made sure everything was ready.

Four guards were standing still and mute by the double doors. Another two were behind the five of us, gripping their halberds firmly.

Then, the court herald loudly exhaled, sucked in his gut, and walked through the second pair of doors opposite where we entered.

He was gone for some time, before he came back, pale white, and without saying a word, left the room.

A silence fell for a moment, as none dared to talk.

And then, the doors opened, and three people walked in.

The first figure to enter the room was an average-height man, with wispy white hair, a long, hawkish nose and thin, pursed lips. His unsympathetic gaze was hard as he swept over the room, taking in everyone in attendance. He wore long robes of black and white, trimmed with silver.

Walking beside him was a graceful and dignified old woman, moving with a slow and measured step. Her robes were of modest cut, but with a myriad of bright colors that blended harmoniously together. Her eyes were gentle, but not kind.

They sat down on opposite sides of the table and shuffled to their papers around.

And lastly behind them, entered the courtroom a tall and slender man with the most radiant presence I’ve ever sensed. His gaze was fixed on the Cappesand High Council and Philemon Petridies, only momentarily looking our way before focusing back at the lodgemen.

His face was clean-shaven, and he wore a sweeping, immaculate coat of black and dark grey. A golden medallion bearing the royal coat-of-arms hung from a thick golden chain, glinting in the sunlight as he walked.

“I welcome you to Sanermo on this dark day,” he said to everyone attending in a calm but deep voice, and nobody dared to utter a word. “I am Rainier Pitties, advisor to Our Majesty.”

He strode confidently into the center of the courtroom, his movements measured and calm, and placed on the floor a strange device. Hanging from a fine silver chain was a black pendulum that reflected the sunlight in an odd, rainbow-like way. The thing was supported by three delicately engraved pincers.

“The King will come soon. But first, I must say a few words…”