“My name is Trinn,” the first witness began, lifting his casted arm slightly as if to emphasize it. “I was one of the guards stationed inside the Maw Pits quarry.”

  “Continue,” Velmira replied.

  Trinn glanced briefly toward Raian before lowering his gaze.

  “As on any other night, I was resting in the outer chamber with my partner—who cannot be present today. His face was slammed into a wooden table during the assault. He suffered a severe concussion.”

  The scratching of quills grew louder as the Kindroot scribes documented every word.

  “And that tom,” Trinn continued, raising his good hand to point directly at Raian, “attacked us without cause. He struck us down and proceeded into the vault chamber, where he murdered Boss Krann and Muzz. We only learned of their deaths after we regained consciousness.”

  A ripple moved faintly through the hall.

  Raian remained silent.

  Behind Countess Velmira, Sir Mellaro leaned slightly forward and murmured something low into her ear. She gave a single, controlled nod.

  Velmira’s eyes returned to Trinn.

  “Are you certain of what you claim?”

  “I am certain, Your Honour.”

  Velmira straightened from her slight lean and turned her attention back to the center of the chamber.

  “Lord Raian,” she said evenly, “do you wish to respond?”

  Silence pressed inward.

  Raian’s gaze met Trinn’s. Held. Then slowly, deliberately, he lowered his eyes to the cast binding the guard’s arm.

  “I recognize him, Judge,” Raian said calmly.

  No anger. No denial. Just acknowledgement.

  The chamber tightened.

  “Very well. Your testimony is entered into record,” Velmira said, her tone unwavering. Her gaze shifted to the second witness—the one wrapped almost entirely in bandages.

  “Second witness,” she continued, “state what occurred. And explain the condition of your eyes.”

  The bandaged tom lifted his chin slightly toward the sound of her voice. “May I show you something, Your Honour?”

  A pause.

  Velmira studied him carefully. “You may.”

  The tom’s paws rose slowly to his face. “This…” he said, fingers hooking into the cloth, “…is what he did to me.”

  The bandages unwound. Layer by layer. Cloth fell to the stone floor.

  When the final strip dropped—A sharp, strangled sound tore through the chamber.

  All eyes turned.

  Raian’s shoulders stiffened despite himself.

  Where the tom’s eyes should have been—There was nothing. Two hollow cavities stared back at the Council. Empty. Dark.

  The scent of old medicinal herbs and cauterized flesh lingered faintly in the air. Even the Kindroot scribes stopped writing for a heartbeat.

  Madame Sava, seated upon the fifth throne beside Lira, lifted her fan to partially veil her expression, waving it gently as if to disperse the heaviness gathering in the room.

  Brakka paused mid-crunch, chips suspended between paw and mouth.

  “…That cub’s got nerve, doesn’t he,” he muttered casually—then resumed chewing.

  Dum! Dum! Dum!” The gavel struck violently.

  “SILENCE!” Velmira’s voice rang out, elongated and sharp enough to slice through shock. The echoes faded slowly.

  Her eyes returned to Raian. Unblinking. Unforgiving.

  “Is this also your doing, Lord Raian?”

  Raian studied the second witness more carefully. The fur pattern. The build. The jawline.

  Memory struck. His pupils widened—then steadied. Slowly, he turned his head. Not toward the witness.

  Toward Rokkan.

  The orange tom stood behind Brakka, claws loosely clasped before him, lips faintly curved. Rubbing his palms together lightly behind his back.

  You noticed too late. Forest stray.

  Raian’s mind pulled backward—to the roar of the underground ring.

  To the stench of blood and sweat. To a fighter being brutalized before a cheering crowd.

  Stolen story; please report.

  This tom. He had been in the ring that night. Not in the vault. Not in Krann’s chamber. He had been mauled under torchlight while Raian slipped deeper into the quarry.

  Raian’s fists tightened at his sides.

  The bandaged tom had already been destroyed before Raian ever reached the vault.His blindness—Was not his doing.

  A slow realization settled like iron in his chest.

  So this is your play.

  His Sapphire gaze did not leave Rokkan now.

  You want to frame me.

  The fur along Raian’s spine rose.

  Rokkan.

  The name burned silently behind his teeth.

  But outwardly—He remained still.

  “Do you recognize him as well, Lord Raian?” Velmira asked.

  Raian steadied his breathing before answering. “I do, Judge.”

  Velmira’s head lifted slightly—subtle, but unmistakable.

  Behind Brakka, Rokkan snapped forward.

  “You hear that, Countess? He admits it!” he barked, claw jabbing toward Raian. “Blind him as he blinded ours! Execute him for the deaths of Krann and Muzz—the Overseers he slaughtered!”

  A ripple of agitation stirred the chamber.

  Then—A voice, colder than the stone beneath their feet.

  “Must I remind you where you stand, Rokkan?” Velmira’s gaze shifted toward him—cold, unwavering.

  Rokkan stiffened. The faint clink of metal ornaments at his collar and wrist echoed as he jerked slightly in surprise.

  “If you cannot remain silent,” Velmira continued evenly, “I will instruct Sir Mellaro to remove you from this chamber.”

  Behind her, Sir Mellaro straightened, eyes fixed on Rokkan.

  Rokkan said nothing. But his jaw tightened.

  Velmira’s attention returned to the center of the chamber. “Do you offer a defense, Lord Raian?”

  Raian let his shoulders lower—not in defeat, but in restraint. He met her gaze evenly. “Judge,” he said, voice steady, “on what grounds do you believe I would do such a thing?”

  A pause.

  “What motive would I have to commit unlawful violence within Clawscar-controlled territory?” The question did not echo. It settled.

  Across the chamber, Maeril adjusted slightly in her seat—her posture sharpening, one leg crossing over the other with quiet deliberation.

  From the fourth seat, a voice finally rose. Archivist Fenlo Ashfur—standing at the left side of the Kindroot throne—tilted his head slightly, pushing his round spectacles higher along the bridge of his nose.

  “Indeed,” Fenlo said, measured and precise. “What motive would you claim, heir of Sein’ei?”

  Raian turned toward the fourth throne.

  Seated upon it—frail in body yet immense in presence—was an elder far older still. Eighty, perhaps more.

  A long moss-colored beard fell to his chest, braided with thin threads of green and ash. His thin frame seemed nearly swallowed by the high-backed wooden seat carved from living root—yet the chamber bent subtly around his silence.

  Elder Timon of House Kindroot. The Record Keeper.

  Raian inclined his head—not a bow, but recognition.

  “I see Elder Timon of House Kindroot,” he said quietly. “Keeper of this Council’s record.”

  The chamber shifted.

  Elder Timon stirred in his seat, ancient joints protesting softly as he leaned forward. His paws lifted, fingers combing slowly through his long beard. His eyes—clouded by age yet sharpened by memory—rested upon Raian.

  Raian held that gaze. And continued.

  “Elder… remind us all of my family’s vow. Our sacred motto.”

  A stillness passed through the chamber.

  Elder Timon’s fingers slowed against his beard. His eyes did not leave Raian. Then he spoke—voice rough as leaves in late fall, yet rooted and unwavering.

  “Repay kindness twice,” he recited.

  “Repay vengeance… until nothing remains.”

  The words did not rise. They settled into bone.

  Raian gave a single nod. “Exactly.”

  He turned back toward the center of the chamber. His sapphire gaze shifted toward the blinded witness, who trembled near.

  Across the semicircle, Madame Sava’s fan lifted slightly. A smirk curved behind silk and painted calm. Beside her, Lira of the Sighing Veil stiffened—eyes widening at the confidence in Raian’s stance.

  Countess Velmira leaned forward, both forearms resting upon the polished surface before her.

  “Continue.”

  The invitation was precise. Not warm. Not hostile. Judicial.

  “As I mentioned before in this room,” Raian said, voice steady but carrying, “what I sought was justice for my sister.”

  Whispers spread—low and controlled—between adjudicators and Kindroot scribes as quills scratched faster across parchment.

  Raian continued.

  “I admit that I recognize both witnesses.”

  A stir.

  He stepped forward—slowly. The first witness recoiled instinctively, retreating a half step as Raian approached. The Peaceguard flanking the stand reacted at once—Steel sang. Blades leveled toward Raian’s chest.

  Raian stopped at the very edge of the sharpened line, the cold gleam of metal hovering inches from his fur. He did not flinch.

  Instead, he lifted a paw and pointed toward the cast-bound arm of the first witness. “Yes. That was my doing.”

  The chamber tightened. Countess Velmira’s fingers interlaced upon the table before her, posture rigid, eyes intent.

  “But—” Raian’s voice rose—firm, controlled—cutting through the tightening air of the chamber. He turned, his paw shifting toward the second witness—the blinded tom whose empty sockets faced the hall.

  “For the second witness…” Though sightless, the tom trembled. Instinct alone made the fur along his scarred body bristle.

  Raian eyes did not waver. “His testimony cannot be accepted,” he said evenly, his voice carrying across stone and silk alike.

  “He lies within this sacred chamber.”

  The words did not explode. They descended. Heavy. Measured. Irreversible.

  A ripple passed through the seats of the Five Houses. Accusing a witness was bold. Accusing him of lying before the Council—inside a sanctified hall of record—was something else entirely.

  A growl erupted from behind Brakka’s throne. Rokkan.

  “Objection!” he barked.

  “Denied.” Velmira did not raise her voice. She did not need to.

  The single word struck harder than any gavel.

  Her gaze returned to Raian. “Continue.”

  Raian met her eyes—and did.

  “I ask this Council…”

  A pause.

  “Have the bodies of Krann and Muzz been found?”

  The shift was immediate. Subtle. But real.

  Countess Velmira answered, her voice crisp and cold as frost on stone. “Their bodies were recovered.” “In a most wretched state.”

  A stir moved through the chamber. Even some of the elders adjusted in their seats, drawn toward the direction this line of questioning threatened to take.

  Raian did not look away. “Then,” he said evenly,“they received exactly what they deserved.”

  Gasps rose from several corners of the hall.

  A younger delegate stiffened. A Kindroot scribe paused mid-sentence. Even Brakka stopped chewing.

  Velmira’s eyes narrowed—just slightly. Not outrage. Interest.