The pain in his wounded sole throbbed with every subtle shift of weight, and the guards tugging at his chains made no effort to hide their irritation. Yet in the middle of it all, Areth remained unnervingly composed. The irony was palpable. The men who had tried to unsettle him were now the ones unsettled, because ever since he had been dragged up from the dungeon, he had been whistling in a steady, rhythmic cadence.
Rumors had begun circulating that he had lost his mind. The guards had heard them, of course, but hearing gossip was one thing. Seeing it with their own eyes was another. How could a man remain so calm while walking toward the tribunal that would condemn him?
When they halted before the massive double doors, they exhaled in quiet relief, grateful to be rid of this disturbing lunatic. The doors swung open. Before the assembled court, the disheveled Areth was shoved roughly into the iron cage positioned at the center of the hall. The chains at his wrists were fastened to thick iron stakes on either side, and the guards withdrew.
Moments later, the doors opened again.
Archduke Rolan, head of House Bunrean, entered with measured steps. After casting a cursory glance at Areth, he seated himself upon the throne that had once belonged to Areth's father. Then came Areth's so called mother and his siblings, taking their respective places. Finally, his fiancée deigned to appear.
Inside the open topped cage, Areth tugged lightly at his chains. The guards' hands flew to their weapons, and for a fleeting instant, a glimmer of unease flickered in Rolan's eyes. But Areth merely stretched, as though he had just awakened from a nap, loosening his bones in plain view of everyone. The yawn lingered long enough that Rolan had to clear his throat to regain command of the room.
Everyone present had heard the whispers of madness. Reassured that the rumors appeared true, they straightened in their seats and focused on the archduke. Meanwhile, Areth surveyed the chamber. The first thing that caught his attention was his mother avoiding his gaze.
In the novel, her betrayal had been shocking not only because she had betrayed her son and disrespected her newly deceased husband, but because she had agreed to become Archduke Rolan's second wife. It had been a sordid tale of adultery layered atop treachery. When Ethan had read that part, he had been so furious at Areth for forgiving everyone that he had punched a dent into the wall.
And now, by some absurd twist of fate or divine mockery, he inhabited Areth's body.
That was why he was happy enough to ignore the pain lancing through his limbs. He did not even attempt to hide the faint curl at the corner of his lips.
The chains were still taut. Iron scraped against bone with every pulse of his heart, and the gash in his sole stung each time he shifted. Rolan rose to his feet.
"In the presence of the High Tribunal—"
Areth whistled again.
The note changed.
The hall's acoustics were immaculate. Stone walls carried the sound; delicate vibrations traveled down to the iron stakes. The chains quivered faintly. The guards tightened their grip on their sword hilts.
Rolan did not pause, but his voice rose half a tone.
"—for treason, rebellion, and collusion with the enemy…"
Areth tilted his head slightly. This time, his gaze found his fiancée. The young woman did not avert her eyes. She watched him closely. There was no fear in her expression.
There was calculation. Just as in the novel.
His so called mother had folded her hands in her lap. Her fingertips had gone white. Guilt, or fear? It would be simple enough to test.
"—I sentence you to death."
Silence engulfed the hall.
His death meant the Duchy of Landerbern would pass naturally to a new line of succession. His brother would become duke, and Lysandra, his former fiancée, would become betrothed to Caelum. It also meant that through his daughter and his new wife, Archduke Rolan would effectively control Landerbern. He would become, by a wide margin, the second most powerful man in the kingdom after the king himself.
His ultimate objective had always been to seize the throne from that senile old monarch. Landerbern was merely a stepping stone.
One stone, three outcomes.
The duchy. The army. The tax revenues.
And beyond that, the road to the throne.
Areth laughed quietly to himself.
In the novel, Rolan had been a patient schemer. Poison, slander, diplomatic marriages. Long term plays. But at one critical juncture, he had erred.
Overconfidence.
The chains tightened again, this time deliberately. Metal scraped faintly across stone. One of the guards stepped forward.
"Stand still!"
Areth turned his head toward the man. His eyes were calm. Too calm.
"If you are going to execute me," he said evenly, "at least define my crime correctly."
Rolan frowned. "The Tribunal has rendered its judgment."
"No." A faint smile curved Areth's lips. "The Tribunal echoed yours."
An invisible ripple moved through the chamber.
Because everyone knew.
Landerbern was the wealthiest border duchy in the realm. Mines, trade routes, mercenary contracts. Its strategic value was immense. Under a weakening king, control of such territory was worth gold.
Rolan descended the steps slowly and approached the cage.
"Your only mistake," he said quietly, "was being weak."
Areth's gaze darkened.
Weak.
Yes.
The Areth of the novel had been weak. Not physically, but mentally. That was precisely what Rolan meant. A man who forgave. Who bowed his head. Who tried to preserve his family at any cost. That was why he had not avenged his poisoned father, had ignored his mother's betrayal, had silently accepted his fiancée's political remarriage.
However, Areth, whose body was now weak, had never been so strong mentally. Because this body now belonged to someone else.
Ignoring Rolan entirely, Areth turned toward his mother. Their eyes met briefly before she looked away. He simply grinned and prolonged the moment, deliberately. While the entire hall fixated on Rolan, he did not even acknowledge him.
"So you have just enough courage to avert your gaze, you whore…"
The air in the hall sharpened at once, as though every candlewick had been snuffed simultaneously. Areth's voice was low, yet it carried cleanly against the stone walls. Duchess Elizabeth's hands flew from her lap to her mouth. Her fingers trembled. Her eyes widened in disbelief; her breath caught in her throat. The Areth she had known, the soft hearted boy who weighed every word and whose voice had trembled even when calling her mother, now stood before her uttering something vile in full view of the court.
Elizabeth sank back in her throne like chair, not in retreat but under the crushing weight of shock. Her face went pale, then flushed abruptly with blood. Tears had not yet formed, but her lips quivered. She struggled to swallow, as though an invisible cord had tightened around her throat.
Rolan's brows drew together. He stepped forward, closing the distance to within an arm's length of the cage.
"Watch your tongue, you wretched—"
Areth turned to him slowly. That same calm, almost amused glint remained in his eyes. "I am not speaking to you, old man. Least of all to your prostitute daughter."
A vein bulged along Rolan's temple. His jaw tightened. For a moment, everyone in the hall believed blood would spill.
Areth did not fall silent.
The chains shifted inside the cage. The rasp of metal against metal carried more menace than his words.
"What is it?" he asked mildly. "Did the truth sting?"
Lysandra sprang to her feet. The silk of her skirts tore through the silence.
"I will not tolerate this disgrace any longer!" she shouted. "This man has lost his mind. Immediately—"
"Have I lost my mind?!" Areth roared. "Or is it the mother who betrayed me with our enemy? Or you, who broke our engagement to pledge yourself to my brother like a common harlot? And I am the one who has gone mad?"
The final words exploded from him.
The stone walls hurled the echo back. It multiplied beneath the dome and returned in waves. The iron stakes trembled. The chains rattled violently. Even the dust motes in the air seemed to quiver.
Lysandra took a step back.
Instinctively.
Her heel slipped on the marble floor. She did not fall, but that fleeting reaction was enough. The calculating composure in her eyes fractured. Her breathing quickened. This voice, this tone, this fury did not resemble madness. One of the siblings shrank deeper into his chair. The guards had drawn their swords halfway but none dared advance.
Because there was more than anger in that outburst.
There was legitimacy.
Areth's chest rose and fell, but his eyes were clear. These were not the eyes of a deranged man. They were the eyes of someone who saw everything with brutal clarity.
"Was it I who sat at the table with our enemy?" he demanded, voice lower now but still edged with steel. "Was it I who shared a bed before my father's body had even grown cold?" His gaze slid to Elizabeth. "Was it I who watched my engagement ring removed and placed upon my brother's finger?"
Each question struck like a slap. Elizabeth wiped her tears and began to rise, gathering her strength to silence him, but Rolan cut in first.
"Enough!" he shouted.
Yet beside Areth's earlier roar, it sounded hollow. Areth pulled the chains again. The iron links emitted a strained groan. One guard flinched backward. Another swallowed.
Areth slowly turned his head toward Lysandra.
"Look into my eyes," he said.
She did.
And in that instant, she felt fear.
Because the man before her was not broken.
He was not a dethroned heir.
He was not prey resigned to slaughter.
What stood there was something waiting.
A predator.
Areth parted his lips slightly.
"You all deserve death… all of you!"