Chapter 622: The Fate of The Wolf
In the high vault of the council chamber, a hush thicker than velvet settled over rows of gilded benches. Torches guttered against stone columns, their flames bending under a draft that smelled faintly of parchment, steel, and the distant perfume of ivy blossoms. The chamber, circular like an upturned shield, carried every breath in slow echoes toward the domed ceiling where the royal crest shimmered under lamplight.
Lucien stood at the very center on the rose-marble rostrum, an island under a hundred watching eyes. Sweat gathered beneath his collar, trickling along his spine despite the chill. Queen Elowen sat on the throne-dais, posture serene, golden gaze as calm as a candle protected by glass. She wore no crown tonight, only a simple silver circlet that made the nobles lean forward, uncertain which way power might tilt.
Behind Lucien, Serelith hovered like a patient shadow. Her cloak spilled across the floorboards in midnight folds; soft sparks of lilac magic traced her fingertips as she teased invisible threads that linked crystal projectors to memory orbs. Merrit, pale as moon-milk, clutched a sworn affidavit against his chest, knuckles white. He swallowed each time the gallery rustled.
A lord in teal brocade whispered to a baroness with too many opals. A bishop tapped the haft of his staff, impatient, sending a faint chime that rang down ribs and nerves. Every here and there, eyes flicked to Lucien’s mismatched cloak—too plain for court—but more often to the bruises that mottled his jaw, evidence of the captivity he’d fled.
Lucien drew breath, tasted dust and hope. When he opened his mouth, no words came, as though his lungs refused the leap. A phantom of the prison cell rattled its chains across his memory. Panic fluttered against ribs. Not here, not now.
He let his eyes lock on a single point: Queen Elowen’s steady regard. There was no pity in it, only invitation. Like still water waiting for the first pebble.
"My sister risked everything," he began, voice a shy flame in cavernous dark. Silence pressed close, threatening to snuff it. He steadied his feet. "I merely stand."
The sentence felt small, but it carried. You could hear its edges touch stone.
A noble near the back coughed—too loud, too derisive—and Serelith’s glare silenced him. She raised her hands, palms outward, fingers curling like a conductor calling unseen strings. Above the rostrum, four mage-crystals whirred awake, petals of quartz unfurling. Light spilled into a translucent screen, and Merrit’s testimony appeared as flowing script, each word shining pearl-blue. An echo of his voice—shaking, earnest—filled the chamber.
"I was ordered to etch deceit into the dueling glyphs," the projected voice confessed. "Sir Calderon promised payment, then threatened my mother when I hesitated..."
Gasps rippled through the semicircle of seats. A dowager duchess clutched her fan so tightly its ribs snapped. The bishop’s staff rose an inch, then settled, his lips forming silent prayer or curse.
Lucien’s heart pounded. From the corner of his eye he saw Serelith’s aura flare. Her spell drifted like silver pollen across the assembly—an emotional tether, coaxing empathy. One by one, brows furrowed, shoulders slumped; skepticism eroded under the gentle tide of shared feeling.