King Tharion’s crimson eyes narrowed as Valemir’s words lingered in the air like a foul stench. He turned his gaze toward the woman on her knees—chained, trembling, broken. The sunlight shimring through the council’s grand windows caught on her tears, tracing thin lines down her dirt-streaked cheeks. Yet all Tharion could feel was revulsion. To him, she wasn’t a victim. She was a reminder—of darkness that once swallowed kingdoms whole, of the countless corpses that lay beneath the shadow of war.
His voice, deep and unyielding, broke the silence. "Disgusting," he said, his tone laced with disdain. "A woman of light... tainted by darkness. The very idea turns the stomach."
His hand curled into a fist on the table, the veins in his forearm straining. "King Valemir," he continued, his gaze not leaving the woman, "I must say, I agree with your judgnt. This is not rely a scandal—it is a warning. If such unions are permitted to exist, they will embolden the remnants of those accursed dark mages."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice carrying weight across the council chamber. "And if that happens, if those creatures believe they can once again walk freely among us—wooing our people, corrupting our hos—then the blood we spilled to cleanse this world will have been for nothing. The darkness will crawl back from extinction."
Valemir gave a slow nod, his expression cold but satisfied. "I see that the wisdom of Solara has not faded," he said smoothly. "You understand what’s at stake. The dark mages are serpents, waiting beneath the ashes of history. This... woman," his eyes flicked toward her, "proves that the rot still festers beneath the surface. If left unchecked, their kind will return, cloaked not in power, but in affection. Love, they’ll call it." His tone dripped with contempt. "And love will once again poison nations."
Berg Thuden’s mustache twitched as he leaned forward, his round face gleaming with sweat. "My kings," he said in his raspy voice, "King Valemir speaks truth. We cannot afford compassion here. The people... they already fear the whispers of shadowed forests and cursed births. If news of this spreads without proper control, unrest will brew. We must make a statent—a powerful one. Let them know that light will never kneel to darkness again."
Archmage Borges gave a solemn nod, his aged voice creaking like parchnt. "The advisor speaks wisely. Fear is a delicate tool, but it must be directed. A firm hand is what holds civilization in place." His eyes drifted to the kneeling woman. "And firm hands must deliver justice swiftly, lest pity weakens them."
Donella Largh, Solara’s royal advisor, folded her hands over the table, her tone calculated and calm. "Then it is settled, is it not? This cannot be allowed to happen again. The birth of such an abomination would undo decades of stability. If the people of Solara or Crescent co to believe that such heresies can be forgiven, they may start... sympathizing. That, my lords, would be our undoing."
King Tharion exhaled slowly, nodding. "Then a law shall be made. One that will ensure no man or woman dares defy the light with the shadow’s touch."
Valemir’s lips curved in satisfaction. "A law forged between our kingdoms, united in will and purity," he declared, his voice ringing through the chamber. "From this day forth, any act of union between a person of light and a wielder of darkness shall be punishable by death."
The words hung in the air like a decree from the gods themselves.
Mois Ashton, Solara’s royal mage, shifted slightly, the glow of his mystic robes flickering. "Your Majesty," he said carefully, "if I may add... such a law would require enforcent—constant vigilance. May I propose a system of surveys—monthly inspections within both kingdoms—to ensure this corruption finds no hidden roots?"
Donella nodded approvingly. "Indeed. The common people must know that their hos are not above scrutiny. Fear of discovery will breed obedience. And obedience, in turn, will breed peace."
"Excellent," Valemir said. "Then it shall be done. Monthly surveys in both Solara and Crescent. Should any household be found harboring or associating with dark mages, or bearing the spawn of one..." He paused, glancing to Borges, as if to grant him the next word.
The old mage raised his staff slightly, his voice echoing with finality. "Then there shall be no rcy. The mage, their lover, and the fruit of their corruption—all must be purged. For darkness cannot be redeed, nor can it be tad. Only fire and light can cleanse what has already been stained."
The woman whimpered softly as those words struck her ears. Her chains rattled as her trembling grew, her eyes darting from face to face—pleading, wordless, desperate. Yet none of them t her gaze. Not one.
Berg Thuden’s voice broke the silence first. "Yes. I agree wholeheartedly," he said, rubbing his hands together. "A clean execution—public, before both kingdoms. Let the people see that their kings stand united in purity. It will quench their doubts and feed their faith."
Mois Ashton gave a firm nod. "A fitting punishnt for the cri."
Donella’s cold voice followed. "Let her death be a declaration."
Then, almost as one, both Kings spoke.
"So it shall be."
Valemir’s tone was calm and deliberate. "She will be executed publicly, before the eyes of Solara and Crescent, as proof of our alliance and the sanctity of our new law."
Tharion’s voice was steady, rciless. "Her death will serve as a warning—to all who believe love can redeem darkness. It cannot. It will not."
The decision was sealed. No hesitation. No debate. Only certainty, and the faint sound of the woman’s quiet sobbing echoing through the hall.
And through it all, Serah stood silently behind her father, her expression a mask of perfect composure. The flicker of torchlight danced across her face, hiding the turmoil in her eyes. Inside, her heart burned—a storm she dared not let show.
She watched the woman kneeling before the council, broken but alive, clinging to a love the world had condemned. And in her, Serah saw herself—saw the reflection of her own secret heart, the forbidden affection she harbored for Marcus, a man of darkness. The thought clawed at her insides like a living thing.
She wanted to scream. To speak. To tell them all that love was not corruption. That it was not sin. That the child this woman carried was no monster. But the weight of duty, of loyalty, of kingdoms and crowns—pressed down on her like an iron shroud.
She could not move. Could not speak.
So she stood there, her hands trembling where no one could see, her lips pressed tight to stifle the guilt rising in her throat.
’Forgive ,’ she thought, her eyes softening on the woman’s fragile form. ’Forgive for standing still. For watching you condemned for the sa love I, too, have chosen.’
The woman lifted her head weakly, her gaze eting Serah’s for just a fleeting second. There was no anger in her eyes—only sorrow, and a faint, knowing sadness. As if she understood. As if she already forgave her.
And when that gaze broke, Serah felt sothing within her fracture—silently, deeply.
The kings continued their discussion, formalizing their decree, discussing the thod of execution, the spectacle it would make, the ssage it would send.
But Serah heard none of it.
She only heard the chains clinking. The faint sobs. And the slow, breaking rhythm of her own heart.
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