A stunned silence followed Lucien's words. His voice had not been loud, yet it carried like thunder across the hall, silencing whispers and turning heads.
Aveline's breath hitched, her eyes flickering to his. He wasn't looking at her—but standing firm, gaze locked on the trembling noble who had dared to raise his voice against her.
"You would defend her?" the man scoffed, his bravado already shrinking.
Lucien stepped forward slowly, deliberately. "I would defend what's mine," he said coldly. "And right now, she stands under my protection. Try your luck if you doubt me."
A ripple ran through the room. This wasn't just a defense. It was a declaration.
Aveline turned her head away just slightly, hiding the spark of something unfamiliar that lit her chest—anger, relief… or something far more dangerous.
Lucien's words hung in the air like a drawn blade. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the rustle of silk gowns and the faint crackle of the hearth fire. Courtiers froze mid-whisper. Candles guttered in the tall bronze sconces, as though buffeted by the sudden storm of tension that had erupted in the grand hall. Every head turned, every eye shifted toward the pale-faced knight-commander standing just a pace ahead of the dais. He stood perfectly still, cloak clasped at his throat, voice low and sure.
Lady Aveline remained at his side, only marginally less still—her shoulders squared, her chin lifted so imperceptibly that only those looking closely would notice. She held the ends of the ancient scroll in her hands, the waxen seal cracked, the faded ink of her mother's words visible to those who dared peer at it. All eyes darted from the scroll to Lucien's unblinking blue gaze and back again, the gravity of the moment sinking in. They were witnessing something unprecedented: a noble of Lucien's stature openly defending a woman accused of treason.
For a long moment no one spoke. Even the High Magister, standing grandly beneath the carved stone columns near the royal throne, seemed momentarily at a loss for words. His sweeping robes pooled around his feet as he stepped forward, each movement measured with the grave dignity of his station. His expression, carefully composed a heartbeat ago, now twisted slightly as he realized the gauntlet that had been thrown at the court. His thin lips curved into a smile as cold and sharp as steel.
"My Lord Lucien," the High Magister said at last, his voice echoing softly off the chamber's marble. The tone was low, courteous, but laced with a clear undercurrent of menace. "It seems you have much to say today." He turned then to the King upon the dais. "Your Majesty, my apologies for this intrusion," he added, bowing his head slightly. "It seems House Edemar has delivered a surprise."
Whispers shivered through the assembly. House Edemar—Lucien's own house—was old and honored, but none had ever heard its scion speak with such boldness. The King, seated on his raised throne and flanked by advisors, sat stiffly as the High Magister took the floor. The monarch's dark eyes flickered past Lucien and Aveline to regard the scroll on the low table at their feet.
Lucien kept his gaze respectfully fixed on the High Magister, noting the subtle tension in those elegant shoulders. He knows what this means, Lucien thought. He knows everything. The High Magister's words hung in the air with a lethal menace.
Aveline's pulse hammered against the inside of her wrists, but her face remained calm, almost regal in its quiet dignity. She found herself breathing a little easier with Lucien standing guard. He has changed everything, she thought softly. His clear-eyed support was like a shield around her. In that instant she felt fortified, more certain than ever that the scroll would be heard.
The High Magister inclined his head once more. "My apologies aside, let us cut to the heart of this matter," he said, voice now cold. "Lady Aveline has presented us with this scroll—a relic from a covert decade past—allegedly proving that her late mother was falsely accused of treason. While it is not our custom to tolerate statements made with one's back turned to the High Tribunal, we will address it." He paused, giving Lucien a once-over as though measuring the man's resolve.
"Lord Lucien," the High Magister continued evenly, "you threaten the enforcement of our laws and the safety of this court over the claims of a woman whose origin is, forgive me, rather modest. You stake your honor against the combined might of this council. On what grounds do you stand so boldly?" His gaze hardened at Lucien.
The courtiers held their breath as Lucien answered with a voice that did not waver. "On the ground of truth, High Magister. On the memory of a life unjustly taken." He did not hurl barbs or smear the High Magister. Instead, each syllable was slow and measured. "A princess may be slain for treason, and a peasant gibbeted for theft, yet neither was done without evidence. The King expects justice above all. This scroll bears that evidence."
A hush fell deeper than before. Lucien's words were measured but carried the quiet weight of stone. Even the guards at the hall's pillars lowered their weapons a fraction, sensing the lethal calm rolling off him. Across the ornate floor, a cluster of nobles exchanged glances. Some shuffled nervously, the heavy tapestry of their wealth suffocating them with its glinting threads of gold and silk.
The High Magister's eyelids flickered. He stepped closer, voice leaning a half-octave. "This document…" he began, gesturing toward the scroll. A young royal scribe scurried forward, reverently lifting the fragile parchment from Aveline's hands and placing it on the Council table. Lucien neither moved nor whispered. From the sidelines, the Marshal of the Royal Guard in cerulean helm straightened at the sharp gesture of Lucien's captain—their old eyes flicking between the two uneasy champions.
Seated at the council table, the King finally broke his silence. "High Magister, what say you to these charges?" His voice, though calm, carried authority and an undercurrent of uncertainty. He glanced at Lucien. In that moment, the young noble's stance was unwavering, as if carved from marble. The King knew Lucien's reputation—brave, honorable, perhaps reckless. Now he recognized one thing: he could not easily dismiss him without facing conflict.
The High Magister's eyes glittered. From his robes he produced a slender, rune-etched cane and lightly tapped on the table. "Your Majesty, the facts have been grossly misrepresented," he said, each word crisp. The room's atmosphere tightened, as if every breath required purpose. Lucien's face remained composed, but inside he felt a subtle shift of power—surely others were noticing.
Aveline took a quiet breath, clasping the wrist of the chair before her. It will be alright, she told herself. He is here. The feeling of danger did not dissipate—it settled around her like the creeping night on a summer field—but it was tempered by the awareness that Lucien guarded her side.
Several nobles leaned forward now, unable to hide their interest. The Marquess standing at the edge of the chamber inclined his head, bridging the distance to speak softly to his neighbor; she tipped her ear toward the scene, curiosity alight in her gaze. A few others reached for teacups and glasses, pretending casual disinterest but casting furtive looks. Even from the back bench, a count cleared his throat. "This scroll," he said, indicating the parchment before the King, "bears the royal sigil. If it is authentic, how can we ignore its contents?"
The High Magister's lips thinned. "It was never meant to be seen by eyes such as ours," he snapped. "According to legend, it was hidden to protect the kingdom from fomenting unrest."
Lucien's eyes flicked to the King. The monarch's expression remained inscrutable, but his fingers tapped on his scepter handle in tight, impatient pulses. Everyone in the hall held their breath as the King examined the scroll.
Aveline tilted her head slightly toward Lucien, confidence blooming at the sight of his silent support. Thank you, her eyes silently communicated. You have changed everything. There was no arrogance in her glance—just steadfast resolve. She would not flinch. To do anything less would dishonor this brave moment.
Finally, the King spoke. "High Magister," he said slowly, "you instructed this court to condemn her mother." His words were calm yet forceful, resonating in the high chamber. "Now we learn the charges were false. By what authority do you interfere?"
The High Magister's composed mask faltered momentarily as every face in the hall turned to watch him. His pride bristled, then subsided; he straightened, striding to the throne steps. When he spoke, his words were sharp with reproach. "Because, Your Majesty, this council is not innocent of mistakes. But casting blame onto a man's retinue and family is treasonous," he retorted softly.
Tension simmered as he gestured at Lucien's House Edemar insignia gleaming on the Knight-Commander's surcoat. "This lord stands here shielding a woman proven to have a proud lineage, but his own mother as well—tarnished by association," the High Magister bit out. "Do not tell me the King has not seen through Aveline's friends who now swarm around her."
Lucien's jaw twitched. Quiet now. Focus. His right hand drifted inward, hovering near the crossguard of his sword. Lady Aveline felt her pulse pick up and gripped the edges of the scroll as if it were an anchor. The hall had grown stifling; one could feel the mounting urgency as every eye bore into the High Magister's face for any sign of weakness—and he showed none.
Then, before the High Magister could continue, Lucien stepped forward one pace. The clank of his boots on the marble floor was the only sound besides the distant crack of a dropping candle flame. He did not raise his voice, but each word was crisp. "I would remind the High Magister, and all present, that justice is not served by threats in silence," Lucien said. "Lord High Magister, I ask you: who benefits from the silence of the innocent?"
Murmurs rippled through the court. Even the courtiers at the very back of the hall leaned forward now. The King's dark gaze burned in Lucien's direction. A few steps away, the High Magister's grip on his cane tightened, knuckles whitening beneath his gloves.
"I have one more question, High Magister: Why did you sanction these false charges against Lady Aveline's mother?" Lucien's tone held a steel edge. The court gasped. He had laid bare the realm's darkest suspicion—that the High Magister himself might be implicated. Gasps echoed as realization sank in.
Aveline's throat tightened, but she forced a slow breath. The air crackled around her. She felt Lucien's presence like a steady heartbeat beside her.
"Enough!" The High Magister's voice boomed suddenly, startling everyone. He banged the butt of his cane on the floor as if to punctuate his words. "You would tear this court apart on the strength of an old parchment? Do you think I cannot produce evidence—evidence—to the contrary?"
In the hush that followed, Lucien's quiet confidence remained unbroken. His cool eyes never left the High Magister's face. "Do as you must, High Magister," Lucien replied evenly. "Show me the evidence that stands against the truth."
A thin smile flickered on Aveline's lips. The High Magister's challenge only made her feel more bold. Already, the seeds of doubt he tried to sow were wilting under the light of Lucien's words. Around them, the subtle shift in power was complete: what was once heresy now stood on the lips of a lord.
The court remained still, but Lucien could practically see the balance wheel tip. Eyes that had once pierced Aveline with suspicion now tracked her ally with caution. Lords in their silk and velvet corrected their postures, uncertainty running through their bodies. And though danger still lurked, the game had changed irrevocably. Aveline stood not as a lone supplicant begging for mercy, but shielded at the flank of House Edemar's champion—her destiny no longer solely in the hands of the King.