The night had thinned into glass.

Moonlight poured through the curtains like melted silver, slipping across tangled sheets and the outline of two bodies entwined in quiet exhaustion.

The storm that had raged in the hall hours before—blood, rage, judgment—was now nothing more than a memory painted in soft, sleeping breath.

Aiden stirred first. His eyes opened slowly, golden irises catching the dim glow as though reflecting embers beneath ash.

For a long while, he did not move. He simply watched her.

Lady Flora D. Leonidus—daughter of Augustus and Catherine, heir to the golden lion—slept as though the gods had finally granted her peace. The fury that had blazed through her earlier, sharp enough to silence lords and barons alike, was gone now.

Her face, bare of wrath, looked almost fragile. Strands of sunlit hair lay scattered across the pillow, her lips parted slightly in a soft rhythm of sleep.

Aiden felt something unfamiliar tug at him—gentle, dangerous. The kind of warmth a man like him had no right to feel.

He sat up slowly, careful not to wake her. The sheets slipped down his chest, revealing a body that bore no fresh wounds, no marks of the chaos that had nearly devoured the court. Somehow, he had walked through fire and come out whole.

Or perhaps, he thought grimly, the fire had simply learned to live inside him.

Quietly, he reached down and pulled the sheets up over Flora's bare shoulders. Her skin glowed faintly in the moonlight—soft, unscarred, utterly human. He brushed a stray lock from her face and pressed a single kiss to her forehead.

For one heartbeat, he allowed himself to forget the weight of everything else—the court, the politics, the blood. For one heartbeat, he was only a man who wished the morning would never come.

But morning always comes. As always, before the sun...

He rose, pulling on his coat, the motion silent but deliberate. His boots found the cold stone floor, and he exhaled.

The corridor outside was long and shadowed, breathing with the quiet pulse of sleeping stone. Torches guttered low, their light little more than trembling ghosts along the walls.

The smell of oil and iron lingered—a scent that belonged more to battlefields than keeps.

A figure waited near the archway ahead, framed by the flickering glow.

Blue hair glinted faintly; blue eyes sharper still.

Aiden didn't need to guess who it was.

"Aethal," he murmured, voice calm but carrying in the stillness.

The young man straightened, fists tightening at his sides. His armor was half-fastened, as though he'd been waiting for hours. "I wasn't sure if you'd come out," he admitted quietly.

Aiden smiled—just a faint curl of the lips that could mean anything. "I said I would, didn't I?"

The two stood in silence for a moment, the air between them heavy with everything left unsaid. Aethal's gaze drifted to Aiden's form, scanning for wounds that weren't there.

"You walked into the dungeon," Aethal said at last, almost in disbelief. "Every man expected chains, blood, or worse. Yet here you are—untouched. The commander's dead. The Earl is silent. And lady Flora…" His jaw tightened. "She sits on the seat of judgment herself."

Aiden tilted his head, the moonlight catching his pale hair. "You sound surprised."

"I'm not surprised," Aethal replied. "I'm… unsettled."

Aiden laughed softly—a quiet sound that echoed faintly down the corridor. "Good. The world should unsettle you. It means you're still... thinking."

He stepped closer and clapped a hand on the young man's shoulder. Aethal tensed, then relaxed, realizing the strength in that grip was not meant as a threat.

"You stood by me when all others doubted," Aiden said. "When the air smelled of shit and fear, and every whisper carried a knife, you stayed."

Aethal opened his mouth to respond, but Aiden leaned close, his breath brushing against the young man's ear. He whispered a few words—too soft to be heard by the torches or the sleeping walls.

Aethal's eyes widened. "You can't mean that—"

"Be ready," Aiden said simply. His tone was final, unarguable, and filled with something ancient—like an oath written long before either of them were born.

The air shifted, colder now. Somewhere outside, thunder rolled low and distant, though the skies were clear.

Aethal nodded, swallowing hard. "Tomorrow, then?"

"Tomorrow," Aiden affirmed, and turned away. His boots echoed down the hall—measured, steady, like the beat of an unseen drum leading armies that hadn't yet formed.

.

.

The Morning of Judgment

When dawn came, it came slow—gray first, then gold. The bells rang, summoning nobles, knights, and courtiers to the main hall.

The sound was heavy, reverent, like a prayer that none dared ignore.

By the time Aiden entered, the hall was already filled. The air was tense, thick with the scent of incense and fear.

Three great banners hung from the ceiling: the lion of Leonidus, the silver stag of Wessex, and the crimson boar of Saxon.

All three houses gathered—three powers balancing on a blade's edge.

At the highest seat of the dais sat Lady Flora D. Leonidus herself, robed in gold and white. Her hair, newly bound in ceremonial braids, shimmered like sunlight through honey. Yet her eyes—those fierce, molten eyes—burned with the memory of blood.

The nobles shifted uneasily beneath her gaze. Even the Earl of Saxon, sober for the first time in years, kept his head bowed.

The Earl of Wessex knelt below her—his shoulders trembling faintly, though he tried to hide it. His son, Aethal, stood among the gathered knights, face unreadable.

Aiden stood apart from them all, silent at the edge of the chamber. The scent of steel lingered near him, as though it followed wherever he went.

Flora's voice broke the silence.

"Let it be recorded," she said, "that by decree of the Leonidus House, this court is now in session. The charges of treason, corruption, and unlawful imprisonment are to be heard."

Her tone was calm, but the air itself seemed to bend around her words. Power clung to her every syllable—the kind that made even stone remember its place.

The Earl of Wessex tried to speak, his lips trembling. "My lady, I—"

Flora's gaze cut him down. "You will speak when granted leave."

The man bowed his head again, sweat beading on his brow.

Murmurs rippled through the court. Aiden caught fragments: She dares judge an Earl… "Leonidus blood is too bold…" "The commander's death—she did it herself…"

Flora ignored them all. "Last night," she continued, "the Blood Commander drew his sword against an unarmed man—against Aiden, servant of this court and envoy of Leonidus. In his madness, he raised steel before witnesses and struck against justice itself. For that, he paid the rightful price."

No one dared contradict her. Not after the sight of his head rolling in the torchlight.

"But the question remains," she said softly, turning her gaze to the Earl of Wessex, "why was such injustice permitted? Why was a man in chains when his only crime was truth?"

The Earl swallowed. His lips moved, but no sound came.

Flora leaned forward slightly. "Speak, my lord."

He shuddered. "I… I was deceived. The commander acted without my consent. His actions—his judgment—were his own."

Lies. The word rippled through the court like a whisper of steel being drawn.

Even the torches seemed to flicker in protest.

Flora smiled—a calm, terrible smile that made every man present feel suddenly cold. "Then, by your admission, you were not in command of your own house."

The Earl's mouth fell open. "I—my lady—"

"Silence."

The word struck like a blow.

She rose from the throne, her aura expanding, golden mana swirling faintly in the air around her. The courtiers stepped back instinctively, as though before a storm. Her gown rustled softly, but the sound carried more weight than any shout.

"When power falters," she said, her voice ringing across the hall, "it must be renewed. When a lord cannot bear the weight of his title, that title must pass to steadier hands."

Her gaze turned—not to the kneeling man, but to his son.

"Aethal of Wessex," she declared.

The young man's breath caught. "My lady?"

Flora's eyes softened just enough to be seen. "You have shown loyalty where others hid behind pride. You have acted with courage when your house trembled.

The court of Leonidus recognizes this. From this day forth, you are named temporary Earl of Wessex—until your father proves his worth anew."

The hall erupted—not in cheers, but in the stunned silence of something irrevocable. Every noble, every knight, every whispering servant felt the tremor run through the bones of the kingdom.

The old Earl of Wessex fell to his knees fully, his hands shaking. "My lady, you cannot—"

"I already have," Flora said simply.

Her voice carried the weight of lineage, of gods and kings who no longer walked the earth. For a moment, she did not look like a woman at all, but like judgment given form.

Aiden watched her, a quiet pride flickering behind his gaze.

He had known she was capable of power. But this… this was sovereignty.

As the scribes hurried to record the decree, Aethal approached the dais. He knelt before Flora, lowering his head. "I ....I will serve faithfully, my lady."

Flora regarded him for a moment, then nodded. "See that you do. The world shifts faster than you think."

Her words hung like prophecy. Somewhere deep within the hall, thunder sounded again—though no storm had yet reached the skies.

Aiden turned to leave, his cloak brushing the floor in silence. As he passed Aethal, he murmured without stopping, "I told you to be ready."

Aethal looked up sharply, realization dawning—but Aiden was already gone, his shadow melting into the corridors beyond.

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