Claude stood at the edge of the town square, the cold morning light cutting through the mist that clung to everything. He kept his head down.
The market was slowly waking up around him, the murmurs of morning gossip weaving through the air. People shuffled towards the town square. Claude’s fingers tightened around the small pouch of grains he had brought.
As the square began to fill with more people, Claude’s shoulders hunched slightly, trying to shrink into himself, to avoid drawing attention. He could hear the snide comments starting to stir in the crowd. But today, he had resolved not to respond. He had promised himself to keep his calm, to hold on to the peace he had found in his new life with Ryne and the others.
“Just a little longer,” he muttered under his breath, watching as people began to gather around the central stage for the tributes. He thought of Ryne beside him at the meadow with Belle leaping about. He thought of the cool quiet lake.
Claude gave his tribute, bowing to Lord Bahram. But as he turned to leave, something strange shifted in the air. Before he could take another step, the bailiff’s rough grip seized his arm, yanking him back around with a force that left him gasping in surprise.
A sharp yelp escaped Claude’s throat as he faced the cold, calculating gaze of Lord Bahram. The noble’s eyes narrowed, and Claude watched as he unfurled a scroll of paper. The weight of its contents hung in the air as he read aloud, his voice dripping with disdain.
“You are charged with magic and secrecy. Your neighbor saw you in the thick mist, whistling for the shadows to come. You have brought ruin to this land and made a pact with the Chaos to sustain you and your family while your neighbors struggle. You will be tried tomorrow.”
The words struck Claude like a thunderclap, each syllable sinking into his skin, branding him. His heart raced, panic seizing his chest as his thoughts spun wildly. It didn’t make sense. He had done nothing wrong—nothing to deserve this.
Lord Bahram’s gaze remained cold as he calmly addressed the bailiff. “Send him to the dungeons.”
The command was final, and in an instant, Claude felt himself being dragged away. His body moved instinctively, trying to break free, to run, to make sense of it all. But his panic only worsened as the bailiff’s club swung toward him, striking him hard against the side. The blow knocked the breath from him, sending a sharp pain coursing through his ribs.
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Claude stumbled, gasping for air, his vision blurring as the weight of the club’s force left him reeling. His legs buckled, and he nearly collapsed under the weight of his own confusion and fear. He tried to claw his way back to some sense of control, to find some explanation for the madness that had descended upon him, but his body betrayed him, leaving him helpless in the bailiff’s grip.
The crowd around him remained eerily silent, some eyes wide in shock, others simply watching with detached curiosity. It was as though they were all waiting for the verdict to be carried out. But Claude, his heart pounding in his chest, could only think of one thing: the dungeon. He was going there. And he didn’t know if he would ever come out again.
“Don’t struggle!” Gabriella’s voice cut through the tension, but her plea barely reached Claude’s ears as he was roughly shoved forward. He looked over his shoulder to see her, desperation in her eyes, but before he could call back to her, her husband’s hand seized her arm. With a forceful shove, he pushed her toward the door, slamming it shut behind her. The sound of the lock turning echoed in the silent street.
Claude's heart pounded as he tried to gather his bearings. His gaze flicked back to the priest, whose smug expression only fueled the fire of confusion and anger within him.
The priest stood there, arms folded, watching the scene unfold with satisfaction. "We tried to give what we have," Claude whispered, almost to himself. The words fell from his lips, bitter and hollow, as if his last ounce of hope was being drained from him in the cold air.
His eyes turned toward his neighbors. Faces that once might have shown a flicker of kindness or understanding now turned away, their expressions hard and unforgiving. A sharp hiss rang out from one of them. “We want nothing from you.”
The words stung more than any physical blow. The bailiff’s grip tightened on Claude’s arm, pulling him roughly toward the cart waiting at the edge of the square. The wheels creaked as he was shoved onto it, the sharp sting of the wood against his skin reminding him of the reality closing in around him. The crowd, some of them neighbors, some strangers, watched in silence, murmuring amongst themselves but keeping their distance. The street felt colder now, the mist clinging to everything.
Claude was going to the prison—a dark, cold cell near the lord’s keep, where iron bars would hold him like a forgotten animal. His heart pounded louder with each step, but there was no escape now. He could feel the oppressive weight of the judgment that had been passed upon him, and all he could do was stare at the faces of the people he had once known, watching him as if he were a thing to be discarded.
The cart jolted as it began to move, and Claude sank back, staring at the sky as the prison loomed ever closer. His thoughts were a blur, of betrayal, of confusion, of fear.