"Your Honor," Chloe interjected, "the defendant's mockery proves more than his guilt. It reveals a character who poses a genuine threat to society."
"Ah, yes… of course."
Aren's voice was smooth as silk. He fixed a faint, mocking smile directly on Chloe.
"What is truly disturbing isn't my laughter, Prosecutor. It's that you are all applauding the cheap melodrama unfolding before you. You really think making your witness cry on cue and handing her a handkerchief proves anything?"
His words rang through the hall, followed by a suffocating silence. The gallery and reporters traded glances, caught between the defendant's biting sarcasm and the witness's pitiful display. No one dared to interrupt the unfolding tension.
Judge Serena Winter exhaled slowly, her piercing gaze locking onto Aren. "The defendant's attempts at manipulation are too transparent to sway this court. Between the witness's testimony and the forensic evidence, the crime remains beyond dispute."
Chloe Smith offered a subtle nod. She slanted a triumphant look at Aren, savoring the weight of the judge's words.
A murmur rippled through the room. Judge Serena Winter raised a hand, commanding order before she continued.
"Aren Donovan," Judge Serena Winter began, her voice a cold, melodic bell that echoed against the stone vaults. "Based on the overwhelming evidence and the testimonies brought before this court, your guilt has been established beyond dispute. The atrocities committed fall under Chapter 7, Articles 4 and 5 of the Mohen Sacred Kingdom Laws—specifically, the high treason of kin-slaying and the stain of mass murder."
Serena paused, letting the heavy, suffocating silence of the courtroom anchor her authority.
"Taking into full account the investigative records and the physical evidence on file, this court orders that Aren Donovan be remanded to the IMFA Maximum Security Prison. Under Article 11, Section 3 of the Constitution, your sentence shall be served under the strictest protocols of special discipline and constant monitoring. You are sentenced to life without the possibility of reprieve."
The gavel fell. The sharp crack against the wood signaled the end of the trial, but the start of a new storm. A tide of whispers rose from the gallery, a cacophony of judgment.
"To kill his own flesh and blood... what a tragic end."
"The evil was always there, hidden in plain sight. They should have executed him years ago."
"Monsters like him tarnish the very name of our Sacred Kingdom."
"Exile to Bone City would have been too kind for him." "And the sister? Does she not carry the same tainted blood?"
"What if she is just as rotten inside?"
"Nonsense! Lady Amy is a paragon of skill and virtue."
"Do not bind them together—they are as different as high noon and the abyss!"
"Any last words?" Serena asked, her gaze cutting through the noise to find Aren.
Aren stood. He did not try to soften his expression or hide the mocking glint in his eyes. From the moment he had opened his eyes in this world, he had been breathing in a nightmare—a scenario so bleak it felt plucked from the ink of the darkest tragedy.
He had been captured in the worst possible way, endured agonies that would have shattered any other mind, and hadn't seen a sliver of sunlight since his arrival.
He wondered briefly why the universe had chosen him for this torment. There was no answer—only a cold, binary choice. He could swallow the blame for crimes he hadn't planned and rot in the iron bowels of IMFA, or he could face a fate far, far worse.
Or, he could take the gamble—choose the shadow path and slip through the fingers of justice under a shroud of doubt.
Aren drew a jagged breath, locking eyes with Serena Winter. His gaze was no longer just mocking; it was unflinching, a tempered blade of resolve.
"I have a request, Your Honor," he said.
The courtroom held its collective breath. Every spectator leaned forward, a wave of predatory curiosity washing over the benches.
Some expected a pathetic plea for mercy; others waited for him to dig his own grave with a final, shameless insult. But the words that left his lips struck the room like a physical blow.
"I invoke Divine Judgment."
A heartbeat of stunned silence followed, then—chaos.
"What?"
"Divine Judgment? Is he mad?"
"He's lost his mind!"
Disbelief and shock rippled through the gallery. People exchanged frantic glances, questioning the defendant's sanity.
It was a reaction grounded in history; the rite had not been invoked in over a century. It was a relic of a bloodier age, a double-edged sword that offered no middle ground.
The procedure of Divine Judgment was deceptively simple, yet utterly macabre. A sacred blade would be driven through the defendant's heart.
If the soul were innocent, the steel would pass through like mist, leaving the flesh unmarred. But if the heart carried the stain of guilt, the sword would twist, tearing the organ apart in a paroxysm of agony.
Yet, a dark shadow hung over the ritual's history. Sixty-six years ago, a Nyx had razed an entire city, an atrocity witnessed by thousands. When cornered, that same Nyx had demanded Divine Judgment.
The crowds had gathered, thirsting for a torturous execution, only to watch in horror as the sacred blade failed to draw a single drop of blood.
Aren remembered the aftermath—how that Nyx had continued their duties, shielded by a "purity" no one believed in. This was his hesitation. Even if the sword spared him, he would walk free as a pariah, forever followed by the scent of suspicion.
Still, the path ahead was blocked. The evidence was a mountain he couldn't climb, and the only survivor—Eli Bryne—had already pointed a trembling finger at him. There were no other options left.
Aren's instincts scream a warning: if he allowed himself to be shackled here, his life was forfeit. Even if he had to walk under a permanent shadow of suspicion, securing his freedom was the only priority that mattered.
The silence in the room stretched, brittle and thin, until Serena Winter finally spoke.
"Divine Judgment?" she repeated. Her voice, usually as steady as stone, betrayed a flicker of genuine startle.
The courtroom remained frozen. The very term felt like a ghost summoned from a forgotten age. Aren kept his gaze locked on the judge, his breath shallow but his resolve hardening.
He knew the risks—the history of the blade was stained with uncertainty—but between the iron walls of IMFA and the bite of a sacred sword, the choice had already been made.