Silence did not last.
It curdled.
Lady Maria's hands trembled at her sides, knuckles white, breath uneven. The courtyard—once rigid with judgment—now leaned toward something far more dangerous: exposure.
"I did not call him," Maria said suddenly, her voice sharp, cracking through the stillness. "I never called him back."
Lucas opened his mouth—
But Ascirick stepped forward.
"That is enough," he said, his voice carrying the weight of command. He placed himself subtly—but unmistakably—between Maria and Bereshith.
Protective.
Defensive.
A father.
"My daughter has endured years of humiliation," Ascirick continued. "Whispers. Pity. Questions she never asked for. And now a child presumes to dissect her heart in public?"
Bereshith did not flinch.
"I didn't mean to shame her," he said softly. "I meant to free her."
That was when the air turned cold.
"Enough," Ascirick said again—harder now. "You speak as though you understand things far beyond your place."
Bereshith lifted his eyes to meet the lord's gaze.
"Truth doesn't belong to age," he replied. "It belongs to God."
A collective intake of breath followed.
Maria's eyes burned. "You speak of God," she said bitterly, "yet you know nothing of what I prayed for. Of how many nights I begged Him to bring Lucas back."
Lucas' chest tightened.
"I begged Him," Maria went on, voice rising, "and He was silent. And now you come, a child, to tell me what love is?"
Her voice broke—not into tears, but fury.
Ascirick raised his hand sharply.
"Enough," he said—this time final.
He turned to Bereshith, eyes stern, disappointed, resolved.
"You will be disciplined," he said. "Not because you spoke of God—but because you forgot respect."
Lucas stepped forward instantly. "Sir Ascirick—"
Ascirick did not look at him.
"In this house," the lord continued, "children do not rebuke nobles. Faith does not excuse insolence."
Two guards shifted uneasily.
Bereshith felt Lucas' hand tighten around his shoulder—but he stepped forward anyway.
"If truth offends power," Bereshith said quietly, "then power has already fallen."
That was the moment.
Ascirick's jaw set.
"Take the boy," he ordered.
Levanah gasped. "No!"
Lucas moved—but steel blocked his path.
"This is not punishment," Ascirick said firmly. "It is correction."
Bereshith did not resist as a guard took his arm. He did not cry. He did not argue.
He only turned back once—looking at Lucas.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn't mean to hurt her."
Lucas' heart shattered at the calm in his voice.
"Bereshith—" Lucas began.
"Enough," Ascirick snapped.
The boy was led away—to a quiet stone room, empty save for a bench and a locked door. Not a dungeon. Not cruelty.
But isolation.
Silence.
The kind adults used when words frightened them.
The door closed.
And for the first time since the road east began—
Bereshith was alone.
Outside, Maria stood shaking.
"I didn't ask for that," she whispered.
Ascirick placed a hand on her shoulder. "You needed protection."
From a child? From truth?
Lucas stood frozen, fists clenched, fury and restraint warring inside him.
"He spoke without malice," Lucas said lowly. "You punished him for honesty."
Ascirick finally turned to Lucas, eyes cold.
"And you," he said, "are being judged for every grave you've ever dug."
Lucas held his gaze.
"Then judge me," he said. "But don't confuse authority with righteousness."
The lord said nothing.
That silence—that refusal—was its own verdict.
And somewhere behind stone walls, Bereshith sat quietly, head bowed—not in shame, but in understanding.
Truth, he was learning, always had a cost.
And sometimes—
The innocent paid it first.