The trumpets sounded before dawn.

They were not the thin brass calls of court ceremony, but the deep, throated roar of war-horns—iron crying out through mist. From the northern gate to the eastern battlements, every soldier of the garrison felt the vibration run through the stone beneath their boots.

Even before the first banner appeared, the rumor had already passed from tower to tower: the Leonidus fief approaches.

By the time the first carriage wheels were seen beyond the river road, the three castles of the garrison had gathered their court like a storm around its eye.

Earls and barons assembled beneath the banners of their houses. The Countess of Saxon stood pale against the torchlight. The air thickened with the smell of oil, steel, and fear.

Then came the procession.

The core knights of Leonidus rode first—twelve of them, armor black-lustered, each bearing the sigil of the golden lion on a sable field. Behind them rolled a single carriage wrought from dark wood and burnished gold, drawn by six obsidian stallions whose breath steamed in the cold. Its wheels whispered like thunder restrained. The crowd fell silent. Even the wind dared not move.

At the high balcony, the Earl of Wessex barked orders, his voice cracking.

"Ready the court! Make way for the heir of Leonidus!"

And so the sea of nobility bent like wheat in the wind. Earls, barons, countesses, knights, servants, maids, butlers—every one of them bowed until foreheads touched stone.

All except one.

Aiden stood alone at the center, wrists bound by the steel cuffs that glimmered dull silver in the torchlight. His hair, white as new-forged iron, caught the morning's first light. He smiled—small, knowing, dangerous.

When the carriage stopped before the triple gate, the world seemed to hold its breath.

The door opened.

She emerged like dawn breaking through storm cloud.

Lady Flora D. Leonidus, daughter of Augustus and Catherine, heir of the Golden Lion.

Her gown shimmered with threads of sunlight; her hair spilled like molten gold over her shoulders; her eyes—those impossible eyes—were the color of a summer horizon seen through tears.

Power radiated from her like heat from the forge. The mana in the air thickened until torches guttered and knights bowed lower, trembling under the weight of it.

For an instant the hall was blinded by her presence.

Then she moved.

Each step was deliberate, the heel of her gilded boot striking stone with the quiet authority of someone who had never known defeat. Her gaze swept over the assembled nobility and found him—the bound man who did not kneel. The moment their eyes met, something older than blood stirred in the air between them.

Aiden's smile deepened. Flora's breath caught.

Memory struck her like a wave: the echo of laughter in moonlit corridors, the whispered vows made behind the lion-standard, the way his hands once steadied hers when the world seemed to tilt. The ache of distance folded inside her ribs. And then—iron. The gleam of the cuffs. Her gaze locked on them, and all warmth left her expression.

A silence of a different kind entered the hall: one born not of reverence, but of dread.

Her aura flared. Light streamed from her like a second sunrise. Dust lifted from the stones; banners trembled against their poles. The mana current crackled against the iron shackles, making them hiss. When she spoke, her voice carried the timbre of command that could unmake kingdoms.

"Who bound him?"

No one answered.

Her eyes turned to the dais where the Earl of Wessex knelt. "Was it you?"

The Earl swallowed hard. "My lady, the matter was—was judicial. The Blood Commander handled the restraint. If fault lies, it lies there!"

The hall's tension snapped like a drawn bowstring. The Blood Commander—a towering man in crimson plate—shifted his stance. His hand twitched toward his sword, then froze. Sweat beaded under his helm.

Flora's gaze did not waver. "You claim justice and deliver chains?"

Her voice rose, a bright line of fury. "You name him criminal? You, who would not last a heartbeat against his blade?"

The Earl bent lower, muttering excuses. The Countess of Saxon pressed a trembling hand to her lips. Aiden merely watched, the faintest spark of humor in his eyes—as though the scene unfolded precisely as he had foreseen.

Flora's hands lifted. Mana shimmered around her fingers, gold turning to white flame. "Enough words."

In a heartbeat she crossed the hall—her movement more light than flesh—and stood before the Commander. The air screamed.

"Noooo-" the commander roared but it was already too late.

Then, with a flash like the striking of a bell, her energy cut the space between them. There was no need to show what happened; the silence afterward told all. Armor fell empty to the floor.

The smell of blood and iron filled the chamber.

No one moved. Even the Earl of Wessex was frozen, halfway between genuflection and collapse. The echoes of the act seemed to ripple outward, shaking dust from ancient rafters, whispering down corridors older than memory.

Flora turned back to the court. Her voice, calm again, filled the silence. Her faces litered with spat of blood.

"Justice, when delayed, rots. When corrupted, it poisons the root of every oath."

She glanced at Aiden. "We are done with poison."

For a moment, the only sound was the slow creak of banners settling back into place. Then, from the center of the hall, Aiden spoke softly, his voice carrying farther than any shout.

"...That's my girl."he whispered

A tremor of emotion crossed Flora's face—half anger, half impossible relief. But she did not answer. Not there, not before the eyes of a trembling nobility. Instead she turned, issued three curt orders, and left the hall through the western arch.

The hall did not breathe.

No one dared speak.

The nobles were stone.

Even the torches whispered in smaller flames, cowed.

Aiden only smiled.

That small, impossible curve of his mouth—defiance wrapped in calm—was the first motion in the frozen world.

His chains glinted where the light touched them. The golden eyes that had always unsettled kings and priests found hers. For a heartbeat, all the noise of rule, accusation, and ritual vanished, leaving only that gaze—like two mirrors that knew each other's secrets.

Flora exhaled slowly. The anger that had scorched the hall drained out of her, leaving the weight of consequence. What she had done could not be recalled; it would live in whispers and chronicles alike. But she did not regret it. Not when she saw him standing there, still alive, still unbroken.

She spoke at last, her voice low but carrying.

"Unbind him."

No one moved at first. The command hung like a spark waiting for tinder. Then Wessex, white-faced and trembling, motioned to the guards. They approached Aiden as though he were a blade half-drawn, their hands shaking as they touched the manacles. The sound of metal falling to stone rang like the toll of a bell.

Aiden flexed his wrists once. Blood returned to his hands. He did not rush forward, though every instinct called him toward her. Instead, he bowed his head—slow, deliberate, a gesture of respect so complete it became an accusation against everyone who had bowed in fear.

"My lady...," he said softly.

Flora's composure wavered at the title. Too formal, too distant, and yet necessary here. Around them, the nobles scrambled to restore order—commands, clean-up, the nervous clatter of armor—but the space between Aiden and Flora remained untouched, a circle of quiet in which the world dared not intrude.

She turned to the assembled court.

"Let this judgment be recorded," she declared. "The Blood Commander's treachery is ended. His crimes—against our house, against truth—are sealed by my authority.

The Earl of Wessex will account for his part before the High Table of Leonidus."

Her words fell like stone tablets—irrevocable, heavy, divine.

Then she looked back at Aiden. "Come."

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