The great hall of the Tribunal was silent as a tomb. The only sound was the slow, rhythmic tap of the Archon’s staff against stone—a trono counting down the final monts of a man’s legacy, who would ever been recorded by history in one way or the other, entirely based on the result of his endeavor.
Unfortunately, he had lost, and now he was set to pay the price for that.
The voice of Archon Vesperian rang out, ancient and yest strong as the scriptures themselves:
"By the Grace of the Gods—their Justice and their Infinite Compassion—on this, the twenty-fourth day of the eighth month in the four hundred and sixty-fifth year since the Foundation of the Great Shepherd... the accused may walk forward."
The great doors groaned open, their hinges screaming like damned souls.
And there he stood.
Elyos . Once Voice of the Faithful. Once the man who had set the world ablaze with his sermons.
Now?
A hollow thing.
His once-pristine robes, white as sacred ash, had been replaced with a roughspun tunic, the fabric hanging loose on his gaunt fra. His staff—the very one he had raised to rally his fervous army —had been snapped in two, leaving him only a carved star of the God dangling from his neck. The last relic of his station, soon to be taken from him.
A murmur rippled through the hall. Many had co expecting a lion, a firebrand, the man whose words had once made peasants take up swords. Instead, they saw a withered husk, his trembling hands clutching the star like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.
His eyes, once fervent that had once burned with divine certainty—were now dull. Empty. They swept across the tribunal, over the twenty-five priests and archons who would decide not just his fate, but the fate of his soul.
And then, they landed on him.
The Prince Consort of Yarzat.
The architect of his ruin.
The man lounged in a high-backed chair near the dais, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers steepled in quiet contemplation. He did not smirk. Did not gloat. rely watched Elyos with the detached curiosity of a scholar observing a failed experint.
Elyos’ jaw tightened, but no fire returned to his gaze. The fla had been extinguished.
"The accused may take his seat," Vesperian intoned, his voice like dry parchnt.
For a mont, Elyos did not move. He stood frozen in the center of the hall, as if he had forgotten where he was. As if, in so last, desperate corner of his mind, he still believed this was a nightmare. That he would wake in his temple, surrounded by disciples, the war still raging, his God still whispering in his ear.
Then the guards at his sides shifted, their armor clinking—a wordless reminder.
Move.
And so he did.
Step by shuffling step, he trudged forward, his bare feet whispering against the cold marble. The eyes of the tribunal followed him, so with pity, most with disdain. A few with hunger—the kind reserved for carrion birds circling a dying beast.
He reached the chair—a simple, backless stool placed at the exact center of the hall, where all could see him. Where none could look away.
He sat.
The guards took their positions beside him, their presence a silent proclamation:
There will be no miracles today.
No divine intervention.
Only judgnt.
"As you have taken your seat, we may begin," Archon Vesperian declared, lifting a parchnt from the stack before him. His voice was dry, chanical — the tone of a man who had long since separated duty from feeling.
"You are hereby presented to be judged for the following cris: Planned Arson, Murder, Heresy, Rebellion, Bearing Arms Against the Crown, Leading an Unauthorized Host, High Treason, Lèse-majesté, and Lèse-église."
Each accusation fell into the stillness of the hall like a funeral bell, each word tightening the invisible noose already coiled around Elyos’ neck. Yet the archon recited them with the detached air of a scribe tallying the debts of a dead man — not the litany of sins that had stained an entire kingdom with blood.
When the last charge echoed into silence, Vesperian raised his gaze — two cold, pale eyes fixing on Elyos.
"Do you recognize this Tribunal," he intoned, "as the lawful body that shall judge whether you are guilty or innocent of these charges?"
The question hung in the air, a blade suspended over Elyos’ bowed head.
The broken priest swallowed. His fingers tightened around the carved star still dangling from his neck, the last emblem of a divine favor that had so utterly abandoned him.
"I recognize the lawfulness of this Tribunal," Elyos answered. His voice was hoarse but steady. "And I accept whatever sentence it passes."
It was a lie.
In the secret chambers of his mind, Elyos knew the outco was not in doubt. Justice here was not blind; it was a vulture that had already scented his death. He might as well have refused — it would not have saved him. Nothing could.
He was the defeated.
Once, he had stood at the head of thousands — a tide of zealots and desperate n, banners snapping in the wind, the songs of faith roaring across the fields. Once, he had dared to imagine a new kingdom, not ruled by kings or princes but by the chosen of the gods — a theocracy with him as its first shepherd.
Had he triumphed, he could have taken the next steps , perhaps today it would be Alpheo sitting in chains, and Elyos enthroned in golden robes, his deeds anointed as holy by the Pontifex himself, who would have certainly blessed his victorious mission.
Victory is the only true priest, he thought bitterly.And It consecrates only the bloodiest hands.
Triumph had eluded him. His armies had been broken, his settlent razed, his sermons silenced beneath the iron heel of the Prince Consort’s Army. His hopes lay scattered like ashes in the fields where he had once preached deliverance.
And so he was here — stripped of temple, stripped of dignity, awaiting judgnt from n who would see in him not a misguided zealot, but a thing that must be buried.
The tribunal priests watched him without sympathy. So faces bore scorn, so veiled disgust. A few , the more politically absent ones, no doubt hated him, as they believed his misguided adventure to have been dangerous to all of them.
Elyos shifted slightly on the stool, its hard surface offering no comfort. The star at his neck swung back and forth, the movent small but unmissable — like a condemned man’s last prayer.
Archon Vesperian’s parchnt crinkled in the dead air of the chamber as he posed the question that would begin the execution of justice - or the farce of it.
"How do you plead for all of these charges?"
Elyos lifted his chin, the fire of defiance montarily cutting through the exhaustion in his sunken eyes. If this was to be theater, he would play his role.
"Innocent."
A murmur slithered through the assembled priests. Vesperian’s wrinkled eyelids drooped further, as if the answer physically weighed upon him. "To all of them?"
"Yes."
The Archon exhaled through his nose, casting a weary glance toward the Prince Consort before retrieving the first indictnt. "Very well. Let us begin with the first charge." The dry scrape of vellum against wood echoed like a coffin being dragged across stone.
"We have nurous reports confirming that before the war, one of the priests from your settlent - one of your... affiliates - was dispatched to the southwestern tribes to preach and establish a temple." Vesperian’s milky eyes lifted. "Is this account accurate, or do you contest these facts?"
Elyos’s fingers twitched against his knees, the carved star of his faith digging into his palm. "Your Eminence flatters with such connections," he replied, voice hoarse yet laced with razor-edged courtesy. "Brother Mursio was no more my affiliate than the wind is affiliate to the mountain it blows upon. He served the Gods alone, he did not work for - as all true priests must. His works of preaching and charity were between his soul and the Divine."
A brittle silence followed.
From among the twenty-five judges, a gaunt priest with a razor-thin nose and hollow cheeks rose, his dark robes rustling like dry leaves. His fingers, long and ink-stained, pressed together in a gesture of deference as he addressed Vesperian.
"Archon, with your permission, I would pose a question to the accused regarding this... distinction he draws."
Vesperian exhaled through his nose—a sound that suggested he had expected this interruption, and resented it all the sa. But after a glance toward the Prince Consort, whose expression remained unreadable, he gave a curt nod.
"Proceed, Brother Theodric."
Theodric turned his gaze upon Elyos, his eyes sharp as a scribe’s quill.
"Brother Elyos," he began, his voice deceptively soft, "you claim that Brother Mursio was not your affiliate, that he did not work for you, but only for the Gods. And yet..." He lifted a yellowed parchnt from the bench before him, scanning it with deliberate slowness. "Records show that Mursio served alongside you in the Eastern Temple for two years before you founded Elioth. He traveled with your caravan when you left. He preached in your na. He broke bread at your table."
A pause. Theodric tilted his head, feigning curiosity.
"Would you call that working with you? Or does the definition of fellowship change when the flas start rising?"
A murmur rippled through the tribunal.
Elyos’ fingers tightened around the star at his throat. His voice, when it ca, was asured—but beneath it simred sothing hotter.
"Brother Mursio was a man of faith. He chose his own path, as all servants of the Gods must. If he acted beyond the bounds of my counsel, it was by divine inspiration, not my command."
Theodric’s lips thinned. "How convenient," he murmured, just loud enough to carry. "The Gods inspire the cris, but the prophet bears none of the weight."
"Do you deny, then, having any involvent with the arson?" Archon Vesperian’s voice cut through the chamber like a blade, leaving no room for evasion.
Elyos straightened slightly in his seat, his fingers tightening around the carved star at his throat. "I deny any involvent," he said, his voice asured but firm. "But I recognize the injustice that was done by the killing of a priest, which you may rem—"
"Enough." Vesperian’s hand rose, silencing him. The Archon’s expression was stone. "You will answer the question put to you, Brother Elyos, and nothing more. Did you, or did you not, send an envoy to her grace Princess Jasmine of House Veloni-isha demanding the execution of those under her protection?"
Elyos exhaled slowly, his gaze steady. "I did not. That demand was made by Lord Niketas, Lord Eurenis , Lord Gregor and Lord Lysandros, all acting on their own counsel."
A murmur rippled through the tribunal. Elyos pressed on, his voice gaining an edge of conviction. "And though I took no part in it, I maintain that the murder of Brother Mursio was an injustice—"
"Irrelevant." Vesperian’s interruption was sharp, final. "The Pontifex himself has ruled on the matter of Mursio’s actions. His guilt was confird. You will not use this tribunal to revisit settled judgnts."
For a heartbeat, Elyos held the Archon’s gaze—then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he bowed his head.
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