Those in the chamber fell silent beneath Areth's words. The stillness held until the Archduke gave a curt signal, and Captain of the Guard Sir Eddart drove the shaft of his spear brutally into Areth's back. Areth convulsed in pain and his head struck the floor. The gash that split open across his back began to bleed freely.
His former fiancée, Lysandra, appeared as cold as ever. In truth, something inside her had begun to stir with discomfort. She was her father's perfect daughter, conditioned to act for the sake of her house and stripped of indulgent sentiment. That was how she had been trained. Yet even her petrified heart throbbed faintly at the spectacle before her.
As for his brothers, they were no different from carrion vultures. Not all of them were present, but every one of his brothers stood in the hall. Since childhood they had grown up envying their elder brother Areth and the strength he possessed. It was not enough that he had been their father's favorite and the darling of the people. He had also been the favored of the Moon Goddess.
After several ragged breaths, Areth tried to straighten his back and rise, but Eddart immediately planted his boot on Areth's head. As the strongest knight of House Bunrean and a seasoned general renowned throughout the kingdom, the weight behind that simple motion was devastating.
Areth's head slid sideways across the marble floor. The cold stone contrasted sharply with the warmth of blood along his cheek. A dull ringing filled his ears. It felt as though the ceiling had risen and the walls receded into the distance.
Eddart pressed down harder.
"Do not raise your head," he said in a hard tone. It was less an order than a reminder. A reminder of where power lay.
Areth's fingers clawed at the marble. Blood and dust filled the gaps beneath his nails. His eyelids trembled but did not close. If they closed, he knew he would lose. No. The only thing he would not lose in this hall was his honor.
Slowly, stubbornly, he began to lift his head, millimeter by millimeter.
Eddart's brows drew together. He increased the pressure. Yet despite his weakened state and the disadvantage of his position, Areth resisted the crushing force of that boot. After all, he was not only the feared favorite of the Moon Goddess, but also a warrior rigorously trained since childhood.
The marble cracked.
The sound echoed through the hall, and several nobles flinched involuntarily.
Areth's eyes shifted upward. He saw his mother first. Her shoulders trembled. There was mercy in her gaze… but also fear. The fear that had betrayed him.
Then he looked at Lysandra.
Her face bore a mask. Cold, measured, flawless nobility. But the fingertips of her left hand were trembling, almost imperceptibly. A betrayal so slight most would have missed it.
Eddart pressed harder still. This time he truly applied force. A dry cracking sound rose from between the vertebrae of Areth's neck. Yet what he expected did not happen. Areth's resistance did not break.
On the contrary.
The muscles of Areth's back tightened. Blood continued to stream from the open wound, but his spine straightened. His head, crushed against the marble, began to rise inch by inch.
The murmur in the hall swelled.
One of his brothers let out a mocking laugh. "Look at him. Still pretending."
Another leaned forward for a clearer view. Hunger gleamed in his eyes. The hunger of a moment long awaited.
This time Eddart did more than frown. He shifted his footing for better leverage and committed his full weight. Under such force, an ordinary man's skull would have cracked. No, it would have shattered.
"That is enough. Sir Eddart, stand down," Archduke Rolan commanded.
Eddart's foot remained in place for a moment longer.
He had heard the order. Yet reflexes forged on battlefields continued to drive pressure into the muscles beneath his heel. Finally, grinding his teeth, he withdrew. He struck the butt of his spear against the floor and stepped back.
Areth's head was free.
It remained motionless on the marble for several seconds more. The hall seemed to forget how to breathe. Everyone expected him to lose consciousness, to lie still.
Areth pressed his fingers against the floor.
Slowly, he rose.
He tilted his head, and a sharp crack sounded from his neck. It was not the sound of something breaking, but of bones settling back into place. The cut across his back still bled, a crimson line trailing down to his waist. Yet when he lifted himself onto his knees, his shoulders did not sag. He did not bow.
Archduke Rolan straightened on his throne.
"Your honor has been broken enough. Resistance will gain you nothing, Areth," he said evenly.
Blood trickled from his hairline down toward the edge of his eye. But in his gaze there was no portrait of a man whose honor had been shattered. Certainly not. Areth raised his head and spat out the blood pooling in his mouth.
"You're right. Resistance has no meaning… for now"
Kneeling upright, he fixed the Archduke with a steady stare. Despite blood loss, his pupils were sharp. His mind was not clouded. Strangely… it was lucid.
Archduke Rolan lifted a brow slightly.
"Let me repeat the court's decision in front of everyone. Before the High Council, for treason, rebellion, and alliance with the enemy… in the name of the Exalted Moon Goddess, I, Archduke Rolan, head of House Bunrean, sentence you to death, Areth, son of Oregon."
At these words, Areth, bound hand and foot in heavy iron chains at the center of the chamber, broke into a grin. The Archduke was disturbed by the boy's composure, but he clenched his teeth and restrained himself. There was no need to burden himself with stress over a whelp who would soon be dead.
Areth turned his attention to his fiancée. Now it was her turn to speak.
Lysandra did not carry the cold, superior indifference she had possessed in the novel. Instead, she looked tense, almost hesitant. She kept scratching at her hand and seemed reluctant to interject. Areth withdrew his gaze with a quiet sigh. Somehow, he had frightened her. Or more likely, stirred her conscience.
He realized he needed to correct that before it was too late. To become the champion of his goddess, he needed the sword Amelum to be present. That was how events had unfolded in the novel, at least. The blade might not be the sole catalyst for his ascension, but possessing an overwhelmingly powerful sword at his disposal was critical.
He forced his mind to work as quickly as possible, focusing on steering events to mirror the novel's version. Then an idea formed. With visible reluctance, he leaned forward and gave voice to the foolish line he had constructed.
"You may kill me, Archduke. But if you do, you will lose the Moon Goddess's blessing. Our king will not be pleased to hear that a potential champion was executed. My death could mean the blessing passes to another kingdom."
Areth's words echoed through the chamber. Several nobles muttered. It sounded like a threat, but it was not a direct challenge.
At that moment, Lysandra intervened, and Areth felt a measure of relief.
"I believe… I have a solution to prevent that. We can use the sacred sword Amelum to transfer the blessing in a controlled manner."
The murmur in the hall shifted at once.
This time, all eyes turned from Areth to Lysandra.
The young woman steadied her breathing, as though paying the price for her earlier silence. Her shoulders were straight, though her voice was not entirely steady.
Areth lowered his eyes. The relief he felt did not show on his face, but some invisible tension eased from his shoulders. The plan had begun to move.
The Archduke spoke slowly.
"So you suggest transferring the blessing through the sacred weapon before the execution?"
"Yes, Father. I recommend the blessing pass to Caelum. They share the same blood. That should reduce the risk of incompatibility."
It was a clever proposal. It eliminated divine risk from the execution while leaving Areth powerless.
There was movement among the brothers. A tall young man with a sharp jaw stepped forward. His face bore measured seriousness, but his pupils were dilated. He stood on that thin line between hunger and fear.
Areth tilted his head slightly. A faint smile touched the corner of his lips. This was precisely what he wanted. A controlled transfer meant Amelum would be brought forth. It meant the sword would physically enter this hall.
The Archduke spoke again.
"Bring the sacred sword."