The Trial

The heat was suffocating.

Ilyra stood in the public gallery, looking down at the trial floor where her brother would soon answer for his crimes. The Imperial Courthouse had been built for winter sessions, its marble walls designed to hold the warmth of braziers and the press of bodies. In summer, it became an oven. Sweat beaded on noble brows despite the fans working furiously in gloved hands. The smell of too many people in too small a space hung thick in the air.

Evander stood beside her, his presence fixed as always. She reached back until her fingers found his, intertwining, his warmth giving her strength. A reminder. An anchor.

She needed both.

The gallery was packed. Nobles lined the rails, craning for a better view. Common people crowded the back, their voices rising and falling in waves of speculation. Ilyra caught fragments as they drifted past. Drug empire. Human experiments. Bodies in cellars. The rumours had swept through the capital in hours, and the trial had drawn every gossip and sensation-seeker in the city.

She found Alistair in the Crown Prince’s box across the chamber. He sat with military stillness, his expression unreadable, but his eyes moved constantly. Watching the proceedings. Watching the crowd.

Watching her.

She held his gaze for a moment before looking away. Whatever he was calculating, she would learn it soon enough.

Seraine occupied a separate gallery, surrounded by her ladies and her priests. Her lips moved in what might have been prayer. Her eyes gleamed with something hungry.

Their parents had not come. Too frail to attend, the official statement read. The truth was simpler: the Emperor and Empress could not bear to watch another son’s disgrace made public. They had retreated to their private chambers days ago and showed no signs of emerging.

The doors at the far end of the chamber swung open.

Cassian was brought in chains.

He did not look broken. Ilyra had expected broken. Had prepared herself for the hollow-eyed wreck of a man that prison made of princes. Instead, her brother walked with his spine straight and his chin raised, his dark green eyes burning with fury. The chains on his wrists clinked with each step, but he moved as if they were ceremonial ornaments rather than restraints.

He looks like Dorian, she thought, and the observation caught her off guard. The same green eyes. The same stubborn set of the jaw. She had forgotten the resemblance.

The Chief Justice called the court to order. The charges were read. Trafficking in controlled alchemical substances. Conspiracy to conduct illegal experiments on imperial subjects. Murder in the pursuit of said experiments.

Murder. The word fell into silence, and the marble seemed to swallow it.

The evidence was presented. Ledgers seized from the Crimson Theatre, documenting years of drug sales to the nobility. Letters from alchemists, describing test subjects and failed transformations. Witness testimony from survivors who had escaped the cellars, their voices shaking as they described what they had seen. She let go of Evander, unconciously stepping closer.

Bodies. Failed experiments. Test subjects who had died screaming while Cassian’s alchemists took notes.

Ilyra gripped the gallery rail, her fingers tightening until her knuckles ached. She had known. She had seen the evidence before anyone else, had understood what her brother had been doing in those cellars. But hearing it spoken aloud, watching the court’s faces shift from curiosity to horror, made it real in a way the documents had not.

This is why, she told herself. This is what we stopped.

But her hands would not unclench.

Whispers rippled through the gallery. The evidence was worse than rumoured. Some of the noble faces had gone pale, and Ilyra wondered how many of them had purchased Cassian’s products without knowing their source. How many of them were calculating whether their names would appear in those ledgers.

The prosecution finished its presentation. The Chief Justice turned to the accused.

“Prince Cassian,” he said, “you may speak in your own defence.”

Cassian rose.

He did not beg. He did not deny.

He attacked.

“Defence?” Cassian’s voice rang clear through the marble chamber, cutting through the murmurs like a blade. “What defence could I possibly offer against such carefully curated evidence?”

The Chief Justice’s expression tightened. “If you have no defence to present…”

“Oh, I have things to present.” Cassian smiled, and there was nothing of the cultured aesthete in that smile. It was the baring of teeth. “But not a defence. A reckoning.”

He turned to face the gallery, chains clinking, and began to speak.

He named names.

Lord Hartwell, who had purchased enough dream-dust to stock a pharmacy. Lady Vance, whose letters requesting specific compounds still sat in Cassian’s archives. The Marquess of Thornwood, who had been a silent partner in the Crimson Theatre’s legitimate operations, and the Duke of Morrow, who had provided the initial investment for the drug network.

Faces went grey in the gallery. Men who had smiled at court last week now stared at their hands, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. The whispers became a roar.

“You think I am the only one with blood on my hands?” Cassian’s voice rose over the chaos. “You think I built this empire alone? Ask Alistair about his black prisons. Ask Seraine about the believers who vanished. Ask our mother about the servants who disappeared.”

The court erupted. Gavels pounded. Guards stepped forward, hands on sword hilts. Cassian laughed, and the sound was wild, unhinged, the laughter of a man who had nothing left to lose.

His eyes found the gallery. Found Ilyra.

Knowledge flickered in his gaze. Recognition beneath it. A question she could not quite read.

“Sister.” His voice carried across the chamber, pitched to reach every ear. “You’ve learned to stand very still. Who taught you that, I wonder? Because it wasn’t Mother. Definitely not Father.”

She did not flinch. She had learned that much.

But her heart was pounding, and her gloved hands gripped the rail so tightly the leather groaned.

Evander’s hand grazed against her elbow, providing quiet reassurance.

“You all sit there in your finery,” Cassian continued, “judging me for crimes half of you participated in. But mark my words.” His eyes swept the gallery, the Crown Prince’s box, the Chief Justice’s bench. They returned to Ilyra and held. “The house of Aurelius will devour itself. This is only the beginning.”

The gavel cracked down like a bone breaking.

“Remove the prisoner,” the Chief Justice commanded. “This outburst will be noted in the record.”

Guards seized Cassian’s arms. He did not resist as they dragged him back, but his eyes never left Ilyra’s face.

Devour itself.

Dorian had gone quietly, too stunned to fight. Cassian was burning the house down on his way out.

Evander’s breath ghosted against her ear. “Desperate ravings,” he murmured. “Nothing more.”

She nodded. Her grip on the rail remained fixed.

Word came at midday that the artists were rioting.

Ilyra glimpsed them from the courthouse windows, smoke rising in grey columns above the eastern quarter. Cassian’s sycophants, the hangers-on who had orbited his court of culture and refinement, had taken to the streets in protest. Glass shattered. Voices rose in chants she could not quite make out. The distant crackle of flames painted orange light against the summer haze.

“They burn their own credibility,” Evander said, standing beside her at the window. “By tonight, no one will question the verdict.”

She nodded. The riot would strengthen the case against Cassian, would paint him as the corruptor of impressionable artists rather than their patron. Relief should come.

An unease settled in her core instead.

A noble nearby muttered to his companion, just loud enough to be overheard. “Hanging’s too good for him. Let him swing slow.”

Others murmured agreement. The gallery’s mood was shifting, the shock of the morning’s revelations curdling into something uglier. Spectacle. Prolonged suffering. Blood.

Ilyra’s stomach turned.

Not because she wanted Cassian to live. His crimes had been monstrous. The bodies in those cellars, the screaming test subjects, the failed transformations that had left people twisted and broken. All of it deserved punishment.

But she knew what came next. And she knew what it would cost her to watch.

The verdict was announced in early afternoon.

Guilty. The word fell into silence, and then the crowd roared. Voices rose from every corner of the gallery, from the common people at the back, from the nobles who had spent the morning calculating their own exposure.

“Hang him slow!”

“Let him suffer!”

“Justice for the dead!”

Ilyra rose.

Evander’s squeezed hers, just for a moment. Support, or instruction, she could not tell.

She descended from the gallery, her footsteps steady on the marble stairs. The crowd quieted as she approached the trial floor, curious whispers replacing the cries for blood. A princess. Walking toward the accused. What was she doing?

She stopped before the Chief Justice’s bench and spoke.

“He is condemned by law.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “But he remains a prince of the blood.”

The Chief Justice’s expression was unreadable. “Your Imperial Highness, the court has rendered its verdict.”

“I do not contest the verdict.” She kept her voice level, formal, the court speech Evander had taught her. “My brother’s crimes were monstrous. The experiments alone warrant the harshest penalty.”

Murmurs from the gallery. Cassian watched her from the dock, his expression shifting from suspicion to something that might have been surprise.

“But exile would serve justice as well as death,” she continued. “Strip him of titles, lands, name. Send him beyond our borders. Let him live with what he has done.”

The crowd stirred. Some nodded. Others shook their heads.

“I ask this court for mercy.” Her voice did not waver. “Not for him, but for the dignity of this house. We have lost one brother already.”

The words hung in the air. She felt the weight of every eye in the chamber.

The Chief Justice conferred with his advisors. The crowd grew restless, the calls for blood beginning to rise again. Ilyra stood her ground, waiting.

Cassian’s eyes met hers across the chamber. She could not read what she saw there. Surprise, certainly. He had not expected her to try.

The Chief Justice straightened.

“The princess’s mercy is noted,” he announced. “But the crimes demand a final answer. Exile is… insufficient.”

Her chest tightened. She had known. She had known before she spoke that they would not grant exile, that the evidence was too damning, the public fury too hot. But she had tried anyway.

“However,” the Chief Justice continued, “in recognition of the accused’s blood, the court will grant a swift death. Beheading, rather than hanging. The execution will take place at dawn tomorrow.”

The crowd accepted this with mixed grumbling. Some wanted the spectacle of a slow death. Most were satisfied.

Ilyra returned to the gallery.

Evander met her at the rail. She reached for his hand without thinking, her grasp desperate in his hand.

“You tried,” he said quietly. “That matters.”

She waited for her hands to shake. For the room to blur. For the weight that had crushed her after Dorian, the sleepless nights and the tears she could not control.

Her hands were steady. The room was clear. His hand remained passive in hers.

Across the chamber, Alistair watched her return to her seat. His expression was unreadable, but as she met his gaze, he inclined his head. Just slightly. An acknowledgment.

She had tried for mercy. That counted for something.

In her separate gallery, Seraine’s lips moved. Prayer, perhaps. Or curse. Ilyra could not tell which.

Dawn broke grey and heavy.

Ilyra stood in the gallery overlooking the courthouse courtyard, watching the execution platform take shape below. She had not slept. Her gloves were fresh, silver-threaded black silk that Evander had given her. Four mourning.

The courtyard was packed. The crowd had gathered before first light, eager for blood. Vendors moved through the press, selling bread and ale as if this were a festival rather than a death.

The summer heat was already building, the grey sky pressing down like a lid.

Cassian was brought to the platform.

He looked smaller without his cultured airs. Just a man in chains. Her brother. Dark green eyes, the same as Dorian’s. The stubborn jaw that ran through all the Aurelius children.

The executioner positioned him on the block. Tested the axe.

Cassian refused the blindfold.

His eyes swept the gallery. Found Ilyra. Held.

He did not speak. He smiled. Bitter.

The axe rose.

Ilyra did not look away. She had made this. She owned it.

The axe fell.

She flinched. Just once. The wet sound of impact, the roar of the crowd, the shocking red against grey stone. All of it crashed over her in a single terrible moment.

Evander’s hand closed over hers. Silk against silk. The only spot of warmth in her body that had suddenly grown cold.

She let him hold her hand. She did not look away from the platform.

Cassian was dead. Two brothers now. Her hands.

Not literally. But the paths led back to her.

“You did well,” Evander murmured, guiding her away from the rail. “You stayed.”

She had stayed. She had watched.

She wondered if that made it better or worse.

Her chambers were quiet after the roar of the crowd.

Mira was waiting with tea. No soft words came. The maid stood at the threshold like a stranger, her face closed, her hands folded with the precision of the perfect servant.

“Leave us,” Ilyra said.

Mira hesitated. Her eyes flickered to Evander, not seeking permission, but something else. Warning, perhaps. Or the final surrender of hope.

“Mira.” No “please.” No softening. When had she stopped softening? When had Mira stopped being the woman who held her hand on a burning rooftop?

The maid curtsied and withdrew. No backward glance. No lingering. The door closed with a sound like a seal breaking. The quiet pressed in.

And the mask cracked.

She cried into Evander’s shoulder, fingers gripping the fabric of his coat, her whole body shaking with sobs she had held back since dawn. Two brothers dead. Both by paths she had lain. Both by choices she had made.

His arms came around her. His chin rested atop her head.

“Every ruler carries deaths. It is the weight of the crown, whether worn or not.”

She shook her head, unable to speak.

“You watched. You did not look away.” His voice was measured, like a lecturer’s. “That is what separates those who can rule from those who cannot. The ones who turn away, who let others carry the consequences of their decisions, they break eventually. You did not break.”

“The experiments would have continued,” he continued. “How many more bodies in how many more cellars? You stopped it. That cost you something. It should.”

She pulled back, wiping her eyes with the back of her gloved hand. “I tried for exile.”

“You shaped the court’s perception. The reasonable princess. The voice of mercy.” A pause. “They will remember that when the time comes.”

“It wasn’t…” She stopped. What had she expected? That the court would set aside a death sentence because she asked nicely? “It was never going to work, was it.”

“Not for those crimes.”

She knew he was right. The experiments had been monstrous. Beheading was appropriate. The mercy she had managed to negotiate, even if not the mercy she had asked for.

“He looked at me.” Her voice came out raw. “At the end. He knew.”

His expression did not change. “He saw a sister who did not flinch. Nothing more.”

“His curse…”

“Words from a man trying to drag others down with him. They mean nothing unless you give them weight.”

She wanted to believe him. She did believe him. Mostly.

His next words landed as she crumbled internally.

“This was harder than before. It should be. You are not a monster, Ilyra.”

She leaned into him. The only comfort available.

“But you did what was necessary,” he continued. “That is what rulers do.”

What rulers do. The words lodged somewhere deep inside her.

His fingers still drew small cirles on the fabric of her dress, but his eyes had gone distant.

“Seraine is watching you now. She sees a rival where she once saw a child.”

Ilyra nodded. She had seen the look in her sister’s eyes at the trial. The calculation behind the prayers.

“But Alistair…” Evander paused, considering. “He watched how you handled yourself. The mercy plea. The composure at the execution. He respects strength.”

He held her for a long time after that. She let herself be held, let his presence steady her, let the comfort wash over her like warm water.

By evening, the grief had faded.

Not gone. But manageable. A bruise she could press on without wincing, rather than an open wound.

With Dorian, she had cried for days. The guilt had haunted her sleep for weeks. She had questioned herself endlessly, turning the events over and over in her mind.

With Cassian… she had cried. She had grieved. And then she had stopped.

It was easier this time. Not much. But enough to notice.

That should frighten her.

It almost did.

Evening fell. Evander had gone. Mira returned, quiet and careful, bringing tea that Ilyra did not touch.

She stood before the portrait of her grandmother, the Conqueror’s wife, studying the serene face that had witnessed so many similar endings. The riots had been put down. Cassian’s artists had scattered or been arrested. The streets beyond the palace lay quiet.

Two down.

The thought came naturally. She did not know where she had learned to think in those terms.

Seraine. Alistair. The remaining obstacles.

And then, unbidden: Her parents.

She stopped.

When did she start counting her parents?

They were not threats. They were tired old people in chairs too big for them. They had retreated from public life, had left the business of ruling to advisors and children. They were not obstacles.

Were they?

No. That was not right. That was not who she was.

She shook her head, pressing her palm against the cool stone of the wall. She was tired. The execution. The heat. Grief did strange things to the mind.

But the thought lingered.

When did I start counting?

“Your Imperial Highness.” Mira’s voice was soft behind her. “You should rest.”

Ilyra turned to look at her. Really looked, for the first time in weeks.

When had Mira started seeming so far away? When had the maid’s familiar face begun to look foreign?

“Yes,” Ilyra said. “I should.”

She did not rest.

She stood at the window as the sky darkened and the stars emerged, one by one. Cassian’s words circled in her memory, refusing to land.

The house of Aurelius will devour itself.

Desperate ravings. Nothing more. Evander had said so.

But when she closed her eyes, she saw her brother’s face at the end. The dark green eyes, so like Dorian’s. Lips shaping words meant for her alone.

Devour itself.

She opened her eyes. Looked down at her hands, still gloved in silver-threaded black silk. His gift. For this occasion.

Tomorrow she would mourn properly. Write the letters that needed writing, perform the rituals that needed performing. Be the grieving sister the court expected to see.

But tonight, in the quiet of her chambers with the tea cooling untouched beside her, she counted.

Behind her, Mira sat in her corner, needle and thread in hand. The same corner. The same chair. The same chaperone who had once shared secrets on rooftops and held her hand through grief. Now she was furniture. A presence Ilyra barely noticed and rarely addressed. Watching without appearing to watch. Seeing everything. Saying nothing.

Somewhere beneath Ilyra’s numbness, a small voice wondered: What does Mira see when she looks at me now?

She did not ask. She didn’t want to know the answer.

The bells were ringing somewhere in the city. Mourning bells, she thought. Or celebration.

She could not tell which.