Sorin jolted awake to a loud, relentless pounding at the door. Panic surged through him, the rhythmic thudding dragging him back into the nightmares he thought he’d left behind. In his mind, he was once again trapped in that maze of shadows and fear, endlessly striking the flesh of his hands against invisible doors, desperate to escape. His pulse raced, his breath shallow as he reached under his pillow, grabbing the knife he kept there for emergencies. Instinctively, he raised it, poised to throw as he felt trapped again, unable to breathe.
But just then, a sharp squawk sliced through the fog of panic. Vestian, his familiar, perched on his bedpost, his yellow eyes fixed on Sorin with a steady, grounding presence.
Sorin stopped mid-throw, his knuckles white around the knife handle. He took a shaky breath, focusing on Vestian’s watchful gaze. The dark haze lifted, reality snapping back into focus around him.
“Thanks, Vestian,” Sorin murmured, his voice still thick with the remnants of fear.
Another loud pound at the door snapped him fully back. He took a steadying breath, quickly throwing on a pair of pants. Sorin opened the door, only to find Johanna Fenton standing there, looking tired and distinctly unamused, as she took in his disheveled, half-dressed form.
“Put on clothes and follow me,” she commanded curtly, her voice brooking no argument. Before he could respond, she turned on her heel, waiting for him to close the door.
Sorin threw on a shirt, shoved on his boots, and hurried out into the hallway, catching up with her. “What’s going on?”
Johanna’s face was set, her tone clipped. “The Silverblade Masters got to the City Overlord first,” she said, irritated. “Not only that, but they reached out to the other academies, fanning the flames and stirring them into a frenzy. We don’t know exactly what they told the City Overlord, but whatever it was, it was damning enough to prompt him to call a hearing.”
Sorin’s stomach tightened. “A hearing?”
“Yes,” she said grimly. “The City Overlord has sent his enforcers to arrest you. They’ll escort you to the Overlord’s council hall to face the accusations and recount your side.”
Sorin felt a rush of anger but kept silent as he processed the situation. His reasons didn’t matter; the political maneuvering was already at play. Silverblade Masters had outmaneuvered them by seizing control of the narrative.
“It would be best to leave your familiar here,” Johanna said.
Sorin turned back to his room, the door still open. Vestian met Sorin’s eyes, and he sighed.
“Stay here, little buddy. I will be back before you know it,” Sorin said.
Vestian responded with a squawk from his perch but made no move to follow. Sorin nodded in approval to the familiar. He left the door open in case Vestian wished to fly around the academy. Most had seen him so he would not come to any harm. Sorin did not worry about his room being ransacked either, considering he had quite literally kept all of his belongings in the spacial ring upon his finger.
With that sorted, Johanna turned and led Sorin down the hallway in silence, each step heavy with the weight of what was to come.
Sorin felt a surge of anger and frustration as they made their way through the dimly lit halls of the academy. "But the Silverblade Masters trespassed, and that twin was going to kill Jackson! How am I the one in trouble here?" he sputtered, his voice rising in indignation.
Johanna stopped him with a raised hand, her gaze steady. "I know, Sorin. But right now, the City Overlord doesn't have all the details. That's why there’s a hearing—to bring all of it to light and let him sort out what happened." Her voice softened slightly. "The academy's hands are tied until the hearing. Zane has already gone ahead to speak with the Overlord and make our case. He'll do everything he can to ensure the truth comes out, but you need to cooperate for now. It’ll be uncomfortable, but you won’t be in a cell for long."
Sorin let out a grudging sigh, nodding. "Fine… I'll cooperate. But this all feels so wrong."
"That’s politics," Johanna said, a trace of weariness in her tone. She gestured for him to continue walking, and they set off toward the academy gates.
As they moved through the halls, Sorin couldn’t help but notice the clusters of students who stopped what they were doing, watching him pass with wide eyes. Whispered conversations trailed him, and he caught fragments as they made their way through the academy:
"Did you hear? He killed someone from Silverblade Masters… in cold blood, they say."
"Apparently, the guy didn’t even stand a chance. I heard Sorin just struck him down on the spot."
"They say the City Overlord’s furious. Could Warbringer lose its hunting grounds over this?”
Sorin gritted his teeth, feeling the weight of their stares. Each snippet of gossip twisted the truth, feeding the rumors that now seemed to engulf him.
Finally, they reached the academy gates, where four Enforcers awaited them, each dressed in the distinct black-and-silver armor of the City Overlord’s Enforcers. Their expressions were stoic, faces obscured by helmets with narrow, intimidating visors. The Enforcer at the front, tall and broad-shouldered, carried a silver sword in a matching silver sheath. The silver of the sword caught the light, gleaming sharply even in the early morning haze.
To his right he stood a slender Enforcer with a long spear, his stance poised and alert, while another beside him wore a double-edged axe strapped to his back. The fourth, the shortest of the group, held a crossbow at the ready, eyes scanning the academy courtyard with practiced vigilance.
The spearbearer, apparently the leader, stepped forward, his voice a cold monotone. "Sorin of Warbringer Academy, by order of the City Overlord, we are here to escort you to the council hall for questioning. Please surrender any weapons and come quietly."
Sorin glanced back at Johanna, who nodded reassuringly. He took a steadying breath, relinquished his weapons to the Enforcers, and fell in line, his mind racing as they began the long walk through the city streets to the council hall.
Once Sorin had surrendered his weapons to the spearbearer, the man with the polished silver sword strapped to his side—stepped forward, eyeing Sorin with a sneer. His voice was high and pompous, laden with disdain. “So, this is the criminal we came for?”
Johanna immediately bristled, her voice sharp as she spoke up. “Ziker, he is no criminal. Sorin is an accused party, awaiting the City Overlord’s judgment, and only the Overlord’s judgment, on this matter. Until then, I suggest you keep your personal opinions to yourself.”
At the mention of his name, Ziker’s expression faltered briefly, but then he simply scoffed and waved his hand dismissively. “Details. It won’t matter soon enough.”
Johanna’s jaw tightened, her gaze icy as she looked at Ziker. “A reminder, Ziker: you swore an oath to discard previous affiliations when you entered the City Overlord’s service. Leave your past rivalries where they belong.”
But Ziker only shrugged as if her words were inconsequential. Johanna’s face hardened further, but she held her tongue. Sensing the rising tension, the other Enforcers stepped forward to break it.
“We’re here to escort Sorin to the City Overlord’s Castle. No verdict has been reached. Back off, Ziker,” said the leader of the Enforcers announced flatly, giving Ziker a sideways glance as if to bring him back to the task.
Sorin barely had time to process it all before two Enforcers took him by the arms, leading him through the academy gates and to a waiting carriage. A large, sturdy vehicle, the carriage was pulled by two powerful black horses, their dark coats gleaming under the morning sun. The Enforcers guided Sorin into the carriage, seating him firmly between them on the worn leather bench. Ziker climbed onto the driver’s seat on top of the carriage, taking the reins, while another Enforcer joined him, the two of them casting occasional glances back at Sorin as they prepared to depart.
The carriage lurched forward, wheels rumbling as it pulled away from the academy grounds and into the bustling streets of Cestead. Sorin, sandwiched between two silent Enforcers, tried to break the tension with a few polite questions, but they remained quiet, eyes forward and expressions blank. Eventually, he gave up and turned his attention to the passing scenery.
As they made their way through the city, Sorin took in the sights outside. The lively, colorful market stalls lined the streets with merchants selling everything from rare herbs and alchemical ingredients to enchanted trinkets. A crowd bustled around the vendors, haggling and chatting; the city's energy was palpable even from within the enclosed carriage space. Young children dashed between shoppers’ legs, their laughter echoing through the streets, and street performers captivated small audiences with feats of magic and acrobatics. Despite his situation, Sorin felt a pang of longing to join the crowds, to be just another face in the city without the burden of his current troubles.
As the carriage moved through the residential districts, the houses became grander, the streets wider and cleaner. Ornate manors with tall, wrought-iron gates and lush gardens lined the avenues. Noble families and well-dressed citizens strolled along the sidewalks, glancing curiously at the passing carriage bearing the City Overlord’s insignia. Guards on horseback patrolled these areas, their eyes vigilant and their swords gleaming in the midday light.
After nearly an hour, the carriage veered off the main streets, heading up a winding road that led to the City Overlord’s Castle. As they climbed the hill, Sorin caught his first glimpse of the imposing structure. The castle loomed ahead, surrounded by high, thick stone walls topped with iron spikes. Dark banners bearing the Overlord’s emblem—a silver hawk clutching a sword—fluttered from the battlements, their sharp contrast visible against the pale stone.
The main gate was a massive iron portcullis guarded by soldiers clad in armor emblazoned with the City Overlord’s insignia. The gatehouse above was lined with crossbowmen, their eyes trained on every inch of the approach, vigilant and ready for any threat. Sorin couldn’t help but be impressed by the sheer strength of the defenses. The carriage slowed as the Enforcers hailed the sentries, and after a brief exchange, the portcullis creaked open, allowing them entry.
Inside the walls were cobblestone paths winding through manicured gardens and statues of past Overlords standing watch. Knights and officials moved purposefully across the grounds, and a small company of soldiers trained in formation, their disciplined movements a testament to the Overlord’s military prowess.
The carriage rolled to a stop in a courtyard near the castle’s grand entrance, an impressive set of double doors adorned with intricate carvings of battles and ancient symbols.
“Everyone out,” the Enforcer who sat beside Ziker in the driver's seat called. There were a few thuds on the carriage roof from where the drivers sat as an Enforcer pounded on the carriage.
The two Enforcers inside the carriage rose and opened the door. They left the carriage and gestured for Sorin to follow.
Sorin stepped out of the carriage, his boots landing on the polished cobblestones of the courtyard. As he took in his surroundings, the scale and precision of the City Overlord’s stronghold became immediately apparent. The courtyard stretched wide before him, meticulously organized and bustling with activity. Rows of stone pathways crisscrossed through manicured green lawns, broken up by sections of training grounds, each marked by the trampling of countless booted feet.
To one side, barracks stood in a solid line of gray stone buildings, their walls reinforced with iron and guarded by thick oak doors. Soldiers moved in and out, some dressed in the Overlord’s black-and-silver armor, others in lighter training gear. The barracks were accompanied by a mess hall, from which Sorin could catch the scent of warm bread and stew drifting through an open door.
Directly across the courtyard was an armory, where racks of gleaming weapons were displayed with the utmost care. A handful of guards were checking and preparing gear, their movements brisk and practiced. Beyond the armory, Sorin spotted a blacksmith’s forge, the dull orange glow of molten metal flickering against the walls as a blacksmith hammered rhythmically on a glowing blade.
A few soldiers drilled in formation nearby, each one moving in perfect synchronization under the watchful eye of a grizzled sergeant. They wore hardened expressions, each one standing with the discipline expected from those in the Overlord’s service. Even the stablehands seemed focused, tending to a line of stabled horses that shifted and snorted, their dark coats reflecting the early morning light.
The central feature of the courtyard was a fountain carved from pale marble, depicting the City Overlord’s emblem—a fierce hawk with wings outstretched, clutching a sword in its talons. Water poured from the hawk’s beak, cascading into a wide stone basin below. Around the fountain, a few noble courtiers and high-ranking guards conversed quietly, casting wary glances in Sorin’s direction as he passed.
The castle itself loomed beyond the courtyard, its towering stone walls lined with narrow, arched windows and intricate carvings. A series of heavy double doors led to the castle’s interior, guarded by sentries standing at attention. Each wore the silver-trimmed black armor of the Overlord’s enforcers, with visors pulled down over their faces, their postures rigid and alert.
One of the Enforcers escorting Sorin gave him a slight shove forward. “Move along,” he ordered coldly. “We don’t have all day.”
Sorin felt the weight of dozens of eyes on him as he made his way across the courtyard, the presence of the guards and castle staff a stark reminder of the power the City Overlord commanded. He could only hope that the judgment waiting within would prove to be just.
As the enforcers led Sorin to a smaller, yet still massive, set of buildings off to the side by the barracks. Inside the building, the walls were constructed from heavy, pale-gray stone, which was undecorated and cold. Lanterns hung along the walls, their flames casting a flickering, almost eerie light over the carved archways and vaulted ceilings that loomed high above. The entire place wasn’t built to impress but to intimidate. A mirror of the fortress of political power as much as military might that was outside.
They passed through an arched hallway lined with statues of past Overlords, their stony gazes cold and indifferent, and rows of massive doors guarded by sentries who stood like statues themselves, unmoving and solemn. Every turn they took seemed to take them deeper into the heart of the building, where the air grew colder and more stale. Sorin began to wonder if this building was attached to the castle after all, whatever this place was. The building seemed far more extensive on the inside than on the outside. They must have been descending deep underneath the castle. After a while, the grand architecture gave way to narrower, dimly lit corridors, and the soft scent of incense was replaced by the damp, musty smell of stone and mildew.
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Finally, they reached a spiraling staircase that led them down, the walls becoming rougher and the light dimmer with each step they took. They descended into the lower levels of the building, where iron sconces held guttering torches that filled the air with smoke. The faint sound of dripping water echoed off the walls, and Sorin’s footsteps joined the hollow reverberations of the Enforcers’ boots as they made their way into the dungeons.
They arrived in a cold, dimly lit jail block lined with narrow cells, each one barred with rusted iron and barely large enough for a cot and a slop bucket. The air was thick with dampness and the lingering stench of decay. Ziker, who had been silently following from behind, finally spoke up, his voice carrying a smug satisfaction.
“I’ll take it from here,” he announced, stepping forward. The other Enforcers exchanged a brief glance before nodding and retreating up the stairs without saying another word. Apparently, being in jail detail was not the most sought-after job, and the other Enforcers were happy to let Ziker handle it.
Ziker seized Sorin by the shoulder and gave him a harsh shove, sending him stumbling forward. Sorin managed to catch himself, his heart pounding with frustration. But before he could regain his balance fully, Ziker shoved him again, harder this time, and Sorin fell, his hands scraping against the damp stone floor. As Sorin went down, he bit his lip, causing it to bleed.
“Hey!” Sorin protested, scrambling to his feet. “I’ve been cooperating—there’s no need for this.”
Ziker sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. “Cooperating, are you?” He shoved Sorin again, sending him sprawling onto the ground. “Get moving, Warbringer scum. Your cell is at the end of the hall.”
Gritting his teeth, Sorin pushed himself up once more, only to feel Ziker’s heavy boot pressing him back down. “What’s the matter? Too weak to follow simple orders? Or too stupid? The Warbringer Academy always contained all the muscle-bound dimwits,” Ziker mocked, his voice laced with contempt.
Sorin clenched his fists, a surge of anger rushing through him as he realized that Johanna’s earlier comment about “leaving past affiliations behind” had been a warning. Ziker was enjoying this far too much to be acting out of simple duty. His hatred wasn’t personal; it was emblematic of the rivalry between Warbringer and Silverblade Masters. It was now evident that Ziker had once been a part of that rival academy. Granted, the sword should have easily clued Sorin into Ziker’s past.
“Why aren’t you moving, boy?” Ziker sneered, applying more pressure with his boot, his eyes gleaming with sadistic satisfaction. “You think you’re better than the Silverblade Masters just because you’ve got the Overlord’s attention? You’re nothing but a spoiled, arrogant brat who goes to an academy that got lucky.”
Sorin’s breathing slowed as he forced himself to remain calm, realizing that any retaliation would only make things worse. He met Ziker’s gaze, his own expression calm and resolute. “I’m not here to fight you. You’ve already got what you wanted—now do your job.”
Ziker scowled, his boot digging in one last time before he relented, stepping back. “You think you’re so clever.” He jerked his head toward the cell at the end of the hallway. “Get moving, or we’ll see just how clever you are when you’re shackled in that cell.”
Sorin wiped a trickle of blood from his lip and looked up at Ziker, forcing himself to speak with calm defiance. “Pushing around an innocent man isn’t exactly going to reflect well on your record, Ziker.”
Ziker’s smirk deepened. “I treat all prisoners fairly. And when they don’t comply, or they threaten me, they’re punished. Simple as that.”
Sorin opened his mouth to respond, but before he could form a word, Ziker’s boot collided with his face, sending him sprawling backward, tasting more blood in his mouth. His head spun as Ziker yanked him upright by his collar and, with a sneer, landed another brutal punch to his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs.
“Did I tell you to talk?” Ziker growled, hitting Sorin again. “Did I say you could open your mouth?”
Sorin’s head lolled to the side, his vision blurring, yet he tried again to get a word in, only to be met with another sharp strike, this time to his stomach. Every attempt at speech was silenced by a fist, a boot, or a vicious shove until Sorin’s body began to numb to the pain. His strength faded as his muscles gave in, refusing to respond, and he went limp in Ziker’s grip.
Seeing his prisoner barely conscious, Ziker sneered with satisfaction. He grabbed Sorin by the hair and dragged him along the cold stone floor, ignoring the trail of blood left in his wake. Reaching a cell, he opened the door and tossed Sorin inside, watching as he hit the ground, unable to resist. With a heavy clang, the iron bars slid shut and locked, trapping Sorin within the dark confines of the cell.
As he lay there, his mind began to sink into a dark fog, the pain and brutality of the beating pulling him into memories he had tried so hard to forget. He felt the eerie, chilling sensation of his powers slipping away within the cell’s enchanted walls, just as they had in Wuthum’s tower, where he’d been stripped of his abilities and tortured mercilessly. The wounds, the isolation, the screams—all of it flooded back as he drifted helplessly into unconsciousness.
In his dreams, Sorin was back in that prison of his own mind, his hands pounding against doors that would never open, his voice echoing in endless, terrified screams. The searing pain of each blow, the helplessness as he endured torment after torment, surrounded by darkness with no escape. The cell, the beating, the powerlessness—it was all too familiar, too close to the horrors he thought he’d left behind.
And as the nightmares continued, Sorin felt himself slipping deeper, consumed by the haunting memories of the past, his mind lost once again in a maze of pain and fear.
He found himself standing in a long, dimly lit corridor, each wall lined with endless rows of locked iron doors. The stone underfoot was ice-cold, slick with condensation, and every step he took echoed hollowly through the hall, magnifying the oppressive silence. There was no warmth, no light save for the faint, sickly green glow that flickered from lanterns mounted high on the walls, casting shadows that twisted and writhed as if alive. The air was stale and heavy, saturated with the metallic stench of blood and the pungent tang of decay.
Sorin’s heart raced as he pressed forward, reaching for the door nearest to him and pounding on it with his fists. His knuckles struck the iron with sharp, raw impact, but he felt no pain—only a desperate need to escape. The door didn’t budge; it was a cold, unyielding surface mocking his efforts. He tried another door and another, but each one remained stubbornly locked, taunting him in his helplessness. Panic surged through him, turning his blood to ice.
"Let me out!” he shouted, his voice ragged and hoarse, reverberating down the endless corridor. But the darkness swallowed his cries, leaving only an eerie silence in its wake.
Then, without warning, a shrill, familiar voice cut through the silence like a knife, echoing from somewhere deep within the shadows.
“Sorin…” the voice whispered, twisted with malice and amusement, its mocking tone dripping with cruelty. “You think you can escape me? Trick me? I know you do not follow the Dark Pantheon.”
The voice was unmistakably Wuthum’s. It was as though the necromancer himself were there, lurking in the darkness, hidden just beyond Sorin’s reach. Sorin’s heart pounded painfully, his breaths quickening, and he stepped back, casting frantic glances at the doors around him. He was trapped, cornered, and utterly alone.
From the shadows, skeletal hands clawed their way out of the ground, bony fingers scratching against the stone as they reached toward him, dragging themselves up with agonizing slowness. Their hollow eye sockets glowed with an unearthly green light as they fixed on Sorin, their empty jaws opening in silent, endless screams. Each movement was deliberate, as if savoring his fear.
Sorin stumbled backward, his back colliding with a door. The moment he made contact, the metal began to heat, searing into his skin until he was forced to tear himself away, stumbling to his knees as the skeletal hands drew closer, surrounding him. Desperately, he tried to summon his powers, to cloak himself in shadows or strike at the bones with darkness, but he felt… nothing. There was only emptiness, a void where his powers once were, as though the tower itself had swallowed his spirit whole.
One of the doors creaked open, and the sound of nails dragged across the stone. From the darkness beyond it, a figure emerged—a twisted, grotesque version of himself, pale and hollow-eyed, with bloodied hands that mirrored his own. The figure’s lips twisted into a sneer, eyes gleaming with a dark, mocking intelligence.
“This is what you are,” it rasped, the voice both his own and yet something far more sinister. “Weak. Helpless. Pathetic. You’ll always be trapped here, Sorin. Always.”
The skeletal hands seized his limbs, pulling him toward the door, and he fought, thrashing desperately, his voice raw with fear as he struggled to free himself. But the hands tightened, cold and merciless, dragging him toward that shadowed doorway, toward himself—a twisted, monstrous reflection, waiting with open arms.
Sorin’s screams were swallowed by the darkness; his voice was lost in the endless corridor as he was pulled into the gaping maw of his nightmare.
Sorin’s eyes fluttered open, his mind still clouded with remnants of the nightmare as rough hands grabbed his arms, pulling him upright. Panic surged through him, and he instinctively thrashed, trying to fight off the unseen force gripping him. His movements were sluggish, his muscles unresponsive and weak, and despite his struggles, he couldn’t escape the iron hold pinning him in place.
Distantly, he heard voices, their tones sharp and filled with frustration.
“What the hell happened to him?” one of the voices muttered, its rough timbre tinged with anger. “He’s in rough shape. This wasn’t how he looked when they brought him in.”
Sorin barely registered the words, his mind reeling as he tried to piece together where he was and what was happening. His memories were hazy, blending nightmare with reality.
Another voice replied, lower and more hesitant, “I think he’s barely conscious. Might not even be aware of what’s going on.”
The first voice cursed, louder this time. “We’re going to get a lot of shit for this. Who put him in here in this condition?”
There was a brief pause, and then the second voice responded quietly, “Ziker. He put him in the cell after bringing him down here.”
The first voice cursed again, his tone laced with frustration. “Of course, it was Ziker. Why the hell would he be assigned to this with the situation going on?”
The second voice hesitated, then offered a lame defense. “The Overlord’s Enforcers are supposed to cast off their past affiliations. Ziker’s here as one of us—”
“Don’t be an idiot,” the first voice interrupted sharply. “We all swear that oath, but you know damn well how few actually keep it. This was about loyalty to Silverblade Master Academy and his own vendetta. He shouldn’t have been near this kid, let alone in charge of him.”
The second voice fell silent, and Sorin felt himself being lifted, his legs nearly dragging as they supported his weight between them. His head lolled forward, but fragments of their conversation slipped through the fog, clouding his thoughts. Ziker… Silverblade Masters… the beating… It began to coalesce in his mind, though each thought carried a dull ache that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.
“Look, I didn’t assign Ziker,” the second voice said finally, his tone defensive. “Take it up with the commander if you’re that worried.”
The first voice breathed a frustrated sigh, muttering something under his breath before speaking louder. “For now, let’s get him to the trial. If we are late, the City Overlord will not be pleased. If anyone asks, Ziker’s going to have a lot to answer for.”
The words barely registered to Sorin, but the pressure lifting him eased as the two Enforcers began to move him out of the cell.
As the two Enforcers dragged him from the cell, Sorin’s senses slowly returned, pulling him from the haze of his nightmare. He jerked back and forth as he once again fought against what he registered only as a threat—more faceless, shadowy enemies coming to drag him back into darkness. The enforcers halted, gripping him tightly to keep him from collapsing but careful not to harm him further.
“Easy, easy,” one of them said, his voice level and calm. “We’re not Ziker. We’re just taking you to the trial. Try to relax.”
The words cut through the last remnants of panic, and Sorin stilled, his breathing ragged but slowly steadying. A flicker of clarity returned to him, and he nodded weakly, realizing he didn’t have the strength to resist. He allowed himself to be supported, his feet barely skimming the floor as the Enforcers led him through the twisting corridors of the dungeon and through underground passages into the main castle.
Sorin lost track of where they were; between his mind being so cloudy and the endless matching tunnels, it would have been a miracle if he could have. Sorin was also reasonably positive he might have slipped into unconsciousness several times during the trip as well.
Sorin jerked to attentiveness as they stopped before an imposing set of doors towering high above them. The double doors were carved from dark mahogany, their polished surface gleaming under the light of nearby torches. Intricate designs covered the wood, depicting scenes of judgment, justice, and past trials—carvings of scales, swords, and stone tablets filled with symbols of ancient laws. Heavy iron studs reinforced the edges, while the handles themselves were wrought in the shape of hawk talons, clasping silver orbs as though guarding the entrance. Ornate patterns of gold leaf outlined the carvings, giving the doors an aura of majesty and solemnity.
Two Enforcers at the doors pushed them open so the Enforcers holding Sorin could enter with him between them. The doors swung open with a low, resounding creak, revealing the grand trial room beyond. The two men pulled Sorin forward, guiding him into the chamber.
The City Overlord’s trial room was a vast hall, every inch of it crafted to intimidate and inspire awe. Massive stone pillars, veined with gold and silver, stretched up to the high ceiling, supporting a series of vaulted arches. Between each pillar hung heavy tapestries, each embroidered with the crests of Cestead’s primary academies—Warbringer Academy, Silverblade Masters, Darkplight Institute, Valoria, and Stormhold Academy—reminders of the alliances and rivalries that converged within these walls.
At the far end of the hall, on a raised stone platform, sat the Overlord’s throne. It was a masterpiece of black iron and silver, crafted to resemble a hawk with outstretched wings, the feathers overlapping in intricate patterns across the armrests and back. Perched atop the throne, above the Overlord’s head, was a gleaming silver hawk, its talons clutching a sword—the symbol of the Overlord’s absolute authority. The City Overlord, clad in black and silver robes, sat imposingly on the throne, his expression unreadable.
The City Overlord was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his mid-fifties, his frame wrapped in a suit of ceremonial black and silver armor that glinted under the dim torchlight. His face, framed by close-cropped iron-gray hair, was chiseled and stern, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones that hinted at a noble lineage. His skin was tanned and weathered, bearing faint scars that told of past battles and struggles—a man who had once fought his way to power and held onto it with an iron grip.
His eyes were piercing and cold, a shade of pale blue that seemed to see right through anyone who stood before him, judging with an intensity that made even the boldest hesitate. They were eyes that rarely softened, accustomed to ruling and imposing order. His expression was impassive, almost mask-like, revealing nothing of what he thought as he looked down over the hall. Draped over his shoulders was a silver-trimmed black cloak, fastened by a hawk-shaped clasp inlaid with onyx—a symbol of his authority. His fingers, thick and robust, rested on the armrests adorned with heavy rings of silver and obsidian, marking his rank and wealth.
Beside him, seated on a smaller but equally ornate chair, was a young woman around Sorin’s age. Her beauty was striking, almost unnerving—her face was pale and flawless, with high cheekbones and a sharply defined jawline that gave her an elegant but severe look. Her dark eyes, framed by long lashes, glittered with a predatory intelligence, the kind that made her seem more like a danger than an ally. There was a gleam of mischief and cruelty behind those eyes, a gleam that hinted she took pleasure in toying with people and perhaps even in their suffering.
Her lips were painted a deep, rich crimson, curved into a slight, knowing smile that seemed both inviting and dangerous, like a venomous flower. She wore a fitted black dress embroidered with silver patterns that shimmered under the light, wrapping her form in an air of dark elegance. Her long, inky-black hair flowed down over her shoulders in glossy waves, accentuating the paleness of her skin. On her fingers, delicate rings in the shape of thorns coiled around each digit, adding to her dangerous allure. A thin, silver choker encircled her throat, a small gemstone glinting at its center—a ruby that matched the color of her lips.
The young woman sat with a relaxed poise, her gaze flitting over Sorin with a look of detached curiosity as though assessing him like a piece of prey. It was clear she was accustomed to the Overlord’s side, her aura one of quiet but unmistakable power, as if she knew her place and was aware of the influence it afforded her.
As Sorin met her gaze, her lips curled into a faint smirk, one that conveyed both interest and a veiled threat, a look that promised she wouldn’t hesitate to strike if given the chance. The combination of her beauty and her dangerous air made her presence nearly as imposing as the Overlord himself.
In front of the throne were long tables and benches, each arranged in an orderly fashion, designated for representatives from each academy. Behind each table, representatives of the academies sat, some glancing curiously at Sorin as he was dragged inside, others whispering among themselves.
Around the perimeter of the room stood guards and Enforcers, stationed with rigid posture, their expressions set in stoic vigilance. Each held a weapon at the ready, and their sharp, watchful eyes swept the room, ensuring no disruption marred the solemnity of the trial.
Above, gallery seats lined the walls on either side of the hall, filled with spectators who had come to witness the proceedings. Nobles, merchants, and officials whispered amongst themselves, their faces a mix of curiosity, disdain, and interest as they glanced at Sorin. The combined weight of their scrutiny bore down on him, the murmurs creating a low, continuous hum that filled the chamber with tension.
The Enforcers hauled Sorin toward the center of the hall, where a lone bench awaited him, facing the throne directly. They lowered him onto the bench, then stepped back, their gaze fixed forward as they took their places behind him. Sorin sat slumped, his strength depleted, aware of the hundreds of eyes upon him, every gaze measuring, judging, and waiting for the City Overlord’s voice to echo through the hall and signal the start of the trial.
A sudden shout cut through the heavy silence of the trial room as Zane Warbringer surged to his feet, his voice filled with fury. "What in the hell happened to my student?" he demanded, his eyes blazing with anger as he took in Sorin’s battered state. "He’s beaten and bloodied! Aldric, you told me he’d be safe under your watch—what happened?"