The rain cleared by dawn, leaving Alcolu draped in mist that clung to the pine trunks and drifted over the rutted roads like a ghost that wouldn't leave. But in the tiny courthouse at the town's heart, the air was thick with something heavier than fog — the first real taste of a fight the sheriff thought he'd buried long ago.
---
Elijah Carter stepped through the courthouse door with his satchel under one arm and Deputy Croft at his side. Croft's eyes flicked around the hall — the portraits of old judges staring down, the squeak of the bailiff's boots on the wood floor — all reminders of who really owned this room.
But Croft didn't turn back. He just wiped his damp palms on his trousers and kept his feet moving.
---
In the small hearing chamber, the judge — grizzled, half deaf in one ear — squinted down at the motion Elijah dropped on his bench like a hammer made of paper.
MOTION TO SUPPRESS FALSE CONFESSION
The words looked too big for that small room, like they belonged in some city courtroom where men wore silk ties and spoke Latin words that made liars sweat. But here, they settled like a stone in the judge's gut.
Hammond sat two rows behind, boots up, thumbs hooked in his belt. When Elijah turned to look at him, the sheriff's grin was a snarl wrapped in a smile.
---
Croft took the stand first — his hat in his lap, hands folded so tight the knuckles whitened.
"Deputy Croft," Elijah said, voice smooth but sharp, "tell His Honor exactly what you told me."
Croft's eyes flicked once to Hammond, then to the judge. His voice came out thin but steady.
"There was no signed confession. Sheriff asked me to say the boy admitted it. He didn't. Boy kept sayin' he didn't do nothin'. Sheriff wrote it up himself. Told me to witness it so's it'd look right."
A whisper rippled through the courtroom — mostly colored families pressed shoulder to shoulder at the back, all holding their breath like it might break if they breathed too soon.
Sheriff Hammond's boot scraped the floor. He leaned forward, eyes like coals. "Lyin' sack of—"
The judge slammed his gavel once, the crack echoing off the wood-paneled walls.
"That'll do, Sheriff. Let the deputy speak."
Croft kept going. He told how the paper was half-finished when he saw it, how the dates were wrong, how the boy's hands never touched it.
---
When Croft stepped down, the hush that followed felt like a storm rolling in off the pines — not here yet, but close enough to smell in the air.
Elijah packed his satchel slow, eyes never leaving Hammond's.
"This motion goes forward, Your Honor," he said. "We move for a proper hearing and a jury that sees the real truth."
The judge looked at Hammond, then at the rows of people pressed together like one heart beating loud.
"Mr. Carter," the judge said, voice rough as gravel. "You'll get your hearing. Next week. Bring every scrap you got."
Elijah nodded. "Yes, sir."
---
Outside, the crowd spilled onto the steps — neighbors whispering, children perched on railings, mothers clutching baskets of fresh-washed hope. Anna stood with Amie on her hip, her eyes locked on Elijah's when he stepped through the door.
"Next week," she said, breathless.
Elijah forced a tired smile. "Next week."
---
But a block away, Sheriff Hammond leaned against his idling car, the grin gone now — replaced by something darker, a promise written in the twitch of his jaw.
Deputy Croft stepped past him without a word, but Hammond's voice followed like a knife's whisper.
"You think you safe now, Croft? You ain't safe. None of 'em are."
Croft didn't look back. He just kept walking, each step pulling him deeper into the fight he could never step out of again.
---
And back at the jailhouse that night, Ikrist traced a flower on the stone wall with his finger, the shape clearer now than it had ever been.
Because now, someone was fighting for him in the daylight — and some truths were too big to lock behind bars.