Chapter 63: Trial.
(At the Scyl Village)
Freyr lay on the cold, unforgiving stone floor of the prison, her body stiff from the countless hours spent curled up in the shadows. The damp air clung to her skin, the silence suffocating—until the sharp clang of metal shattered the stillness.
Bang! Bang!
Two guards pounded on the bars with iron batons, the sound ringing through the narrow corridor.
"Wake up!" one barked. "It’s time for your trial."
Before she could even lift her head, rough hands grabbed her arms, yanking her upright. Cold shackles clamped down on her wrists and ankles with a brutal snap, the weight dragging at her every movement. She barely registered the pain as they shoved her forward, forcing her to stumble through the stone passageway, each step dragging against the chains that bound her.
The streets beyond the prison were alive with murmurs, eyes staring at her as she was dragged through the village toward the open-air assembly. Men, women, children—all gathered in anticipation, their faces twisted with fear, disgust, and betrayal.
And at the center of it all, on his throne, sat King Ivar—his expression unreadable, his gaze like a blade cutting through the crowd. To his right stood the law speaker, the chieftains flanking either side of the royal dais, their expressions sharp and stern.
As Freyr was forced to a stop, the muttering of the crowd grew louder, turning into an unsettling chorus of bickering voices.
"Silence!" the law speaker’s voice boomed, commanding instant obedience.
The assembly fell still.
"The accused stands before us, charged with treason against our nation," the law speaker continued, voice crisp, controlled. "By the laws of our land, they are granted the right to defend themselves. But first, let the charges be spoken."