Lord Darian's hand trembled as he withdrew it from Aelindra's shoulder. His mind reeled, childhood tales of elven sorcery clashing with the reality before him. This wasn't the world-shattering destruction he'd been taught to fear. This was... protection. Salvation.

As he stared down at her, memories began to surface, unbidden. They were both sixteen when their parents were killed. Traveling to the High King for negotiations that promised to strengthen the realm, their party had been ambushed by bandits. Darian remembered the day vividly—the hushed voices that delivered the news, Aelindra’s mother had died her beside his own parents, and Aelindra herself, standing with her chin raised, eyes hollow.

His father had been different from the other lords. Though he had taught Darian the history of the elves—the tales of tyranny and unchecked magic that had led to their downfall—there was always a subtle hesitation in his words, a hint that perhaps the truth was more complicated. "Remember, son," he had once said, his voice quiet as they watched Aelindra playing in the garden, "history is written by the victors. What we know of the past is often what those in power wish us to believe."

Darian had been too young then to fully grasp the meaning behind his father's words, but he had sensed the danger in them. His father had never openly questioned the status quo—he couldn't afford to—but he had planted seeds of doubt. Seeds that had grown slowly over the years, nurtured by the sight of Aelindra’s gentle spirit and her unwavering loyalty despite her circumstances.

After their parents' deaths, Darian had become the head of the household. Aelindra had knelt before him, obedient and expectant, awaiting his orders as he was now her master. He had used her as she was meant to be used, just as society demanded. She had been his loyal servant, trained in the arts of service and companionship. And for years, he had been content to play his role, to uphold the rules that had been forced upon them.

Yet, even then, there had been moments. Fleeting flashes of doubt when Aelindra looked at him with her haunted eyes, when he saw a person instead of a possession. Over time, those moments had become more frequent. The ease with which he'd once given her commands had been replaced by a growing sense of guilt. He had begun to see the unfairness of it all—the chains that bound her, the burden she bore because of her heritage. She deserved more than this life of servitude, and that thought, traitorous as it was, had begun to fester within him.

"Mistress Helene!" he barked, his voice cracking slightly. The house mistress materialized instantly, her face pale with shock. "Take Aelindra to her chambers. Tend to her. Speak of this to no one." His eyes locked with Aelindra's for a fleeting moment, confusion and something unreadable flickering in their depths.

The pounding on the door jolted Darian from his fitful sleep. Sunlight barely crept through the heavy curtains, painting the room in a sickly gray. His heart hammered against his ribs as he stumbled to his feet, silk nightshirt clinging to his sweat-damp skin.

"My lord!" A guard's voice, urgent and muffled. "The King's Council summons you. Immediately."

Darian's mouth went dry. He'd known this was coming, but so soon? Fingers fumbling with buttons, he dressed hastily. No time for his usual meticulous appearance. Every second counted now.

He threw open the door, meeting the grim faces of the royal guards. Their hands rested on sword hilts—a warning? A threat? Darian straightened his spine, chin held high. He was still a lord, still held power. But as they marched him through corridors thick with whispers and sidelong glances, a chill settled in his bones. The coming trial would test every ounce of his political acumen... and quite possibly, his loyalty.

The journey to the council chambers felt interminable. Each echoing footstep on polished marble sent a jolt of anxiety through Darian's core. His mind raced, piecing together fragments of strategy, discarding them just as quickly. The weight of Aelindra's fate—and his own—pressed down on him like a physical thing.

Guards flanked the massive oak doors, their faces impassive as stone. As they swung open, a wave of hushed voices washed over him. The circular chamber beyond was filled with the kingdom's most powerful figures, their gazes sharp and calculating. At the far end, upon a raised dais, sat King Aldric himself. The monarch's steel-gray eyes fixed on Darian, unreadable.

"Lord Darian," the king's voice cut through the murmurs like a blade. "You stand accused of harboring an elven magic-user. How do you answer these charges?" The room fell deathly silent. Darian could hear his own pulse thundering in his ears as he took a steadying breath. Everything hinged on what he said next.

Darian's voice rang clear, a practiced calm masking the turmoil within. "Your Majesty, esteemed council, I stand before you not as a harborer of magic, but as a victim of treachery." He recounted the assassination attempt with carefully chosen words, painting a vivid picture of the danger that had threatened not just him, but the stability of the realm.

"The magic," he continued, his tone measured, "was as much a shock to me as to anyone. My faithful servant, overcome by loyalty, acted purely on instinct. She saved my life, yes, but in doing so, revealed a power that poses a grave threat." Darian's gaze swept the room, meeting the eyes of key allies. "I propose a solution that affirms our laws while recognizing the... unique circumstances."

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Murmurs rippled through the chamber. Darian pressed on, his words a delicate balance of contrition and calculated political maneuvering. "A public disciplining of Aelindra. To demonstrate that even unintentional use of magic cannot go unpunished, while allowing for mercy in light of her years of loyal service and the extraordinary situation."

King Aldric leaned forward, interest piqued. Darian continued, his heart racing beneath his composed exterior. "This would serve as a powerful reminder of our stance against magic, while showcasing the crown's wisdom and justice. It would quell rumors, satisfy those calling for harsh action, and..." he paused for effect, "...provide an opportunity to study this manifestation of magic, potentially yielding valuable insights for our kingdom's security."

The council chamber buzzed with hushed discussions. Darian held his breath, acutely aware that his fate – and Aelindra's – hung in the balance of the next few moments.

Darian's words hung in the air, met with a wave of horrified gasps and angry mutters. The High Lords' faces twisted with disgust at the mere suggestion of studying elven magic. Lord Varen, a staunch traditionalist, rose to his feet, face flushed with indignation.

"Blasphemy!" he thundered. "We cannot entertain the idea of *studying* this evil! It must be eradicated, root and stem!"

The chamber descended into chaos, shouts of agreement mingling with fearful whispers. Darian felt the tide turning against him, his carefully constructed argument crumbling. Just as all seemed lost, a raspy voice cut through the din.

"My lords, if I may..."

The crowd parted, revealing High Scholar Thorne. Ancient and frail, he rarely spoke at council meetings, but when he did, all listened. He shuffled forward, leaning heavily on his gnarled staff.

"During the Great War," Thorne wheezed, "our ancestors crafted an artifact of immense power. The Nullstone. It suppressed elven magic, rendering their greatest weapon useless." His rheumy eyes fixed on the king. "We still possess it, locked away in the deepest vaults. Perhaps... perhaps it offers a solution to our current predicament."

A hush fell over the chamber. Darian's mind raced, seeing a glimmer of hope in this unexpected revelation.

The council chamber erupted into a cacophony of conflicting voices. Lord Varen's face reddened further, veins bulging at his temples as he shouted, "Execution is swift! Clean! Why risk unleashing such a potent relic?"

Across the room, Lady Elara's cool voice cut through the din. "And waste an opportunity for knowledge? Short-sighted, as always, Varen." Her lips curled into a sneer.

King Aldric raised a hand, silencing the squabbling nobles. His weathered face was etched with concern as he turned to High Scholar Thorne. "This... relic. What are its limits? Its dangers?"

Thorne's gnarled fingers tightened around his staff. "Sire, I-I fear much of that knowledge has been lost to time. Our ancestors were not... forthcoming in their records."

A ripple of unease passed through the assembly. Darian's mind raced, weighing the risks against the potential to save Aelindra's life. He stepped forward, voice steady despite his racing heart. "My lords, my lady... perhaps there is a middle ground?"

King Aldric contemplated before excusing for a quick recess while he consulted with his council. What seemed like an eternity passed before Lord Darian was summoned back into the room.

King Aldric's weathered face hardened as he considered the situation. The chamber fell silent, tension thick in the air. Finally, he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of mistrust.

"The elves have long been subdued, their magic a fading memory. Yet here we stand, faced with a threat we thought vanquished." His eyes swept the room. "We have no living memory of their true power – only dusty tomes and faded legends."

High Scholar Thorne shuffled forward, his gnarled hands clutching an ornate box. "Your Majesty, the Nullstone Collar – our ancestors' greatest weapon against elven magic. It has lain dormant since the Great War, but perhaps its time has come again."

King Aldric nodded grimly. "Very well. The elf shall be bound with the Nullstone Collar." He turned to Darian, eyes glinting. "Lord Inquisitor?"

A figure stepped from the shadows – tall, gaunt, eyes gleaming with zealous fervor. The Inquisitor bowed deeply. "I shall personally oversee her containment, Your Majesty."

"Let it be known," King Aldric continued, his voice ringing through the chamber, "any further display of magic will result not only in the elf's execution, but the eradication of House Darian. Root and stem." He fixed Darian with a piercing stare. "Do you understand the consequences of your... mercy, Lord Darian?"

Darian felt a chill run down his spine, but he kept his face impassive as he bowed. "Perfectly, Your Majesty."

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across Lord Darian's study. He stood at the window, jaw clenched, watching as workers erected a wooden platform in the town square below. The sight made his stomach churn.

Aelindra knelt silently in the corner, her delicate hands folded in her lap. Her emerald eyes, usually so bright, were now dull with resignation. The weight of tomorrow's "discipline" hung heavy in the air between them.

A sharp rap at the door broke the oppressive silence. The Lord Inquisitor entered, a cruel smile playing at his thin lips. In his hands, he cradled an ornate box – inside, the Nullstone Collar waited. "Everything is prepared for tomorrow's... spectacle," he said, his voice dripping with barely concealed glee. "I trust your slave is ready to face justice?"

Lord Darian turned from the window, his face a mask of cold nobility. He met the Inquisitor's gaze unflinchingly. "She will," he stated, voice low and firm. "Aelindra understands her duty."

The elf's shoulders tensed at the sound of her name, but she remained motionless, eyes fixed on the floor. A faint tremor ran through her slender frame.

"Good," the Inquisitor purred, setting the box on Darian's desk with exaggerated care. "I look forward to... overseeing her punishment personally." His eyes glittered with malicious anticipation. "Until tomorrow then, my lord." With a mocking bow, he swept from the room, leaving a chill in his wake.