The room felt smaller by the hour. Matrim sat on the cot, wrists raw from the iron manacles biting into his skin. The flickering lantern cast his shadow against the stone wall, stretching and distorting it until it looked like someone else entirely—someone more beaten down than he wanted to admit.

  Sleep didn’t come. His mind kept circling back to Varenhold—the shattered caravan, the blood in the sand, the sound of his commander’s last words echoing through the desert wind. The guilt gnawed at him, relentless and sharp. I failed them all. And now, here he was again, shackled, alone, staring down another uncertain path.

  Footsteps outside the door broke him from the spiral. He stood as the door creaked open, the same crimson-eyed Guardian from earlier stepping inside. Her expression hadn’t softened; if anything, it was more severe than before.

  “On your feet,” she said. No preamble. No ceremony. Just cold steel in her voice.

  Matrim rose, wary. “Where are we going now?”

  “To stand before those who’ll decide what to do with you.”

  The response sent a knot of unease tightening in his stomach. The city’s guards hadn’t bothered with explanations or pleasantries before, and now it seemed Silvermoon’s upper echelons were about to weigh in. Whatever this was, it wasn’t going to be simple.

  She led him down corridors he hadn’t seen before—winding halls carved from stone older than the city above, filled with faint glimmers of arcane inscriptions on the walls. The deeper they descended, the more oppressive the air became, as if the weight of the city itself pressed down on them.

  Eventually, they emerged into a vaulted chamber, lined with smooth marble columns etched with golden filigree. The room radiated authority—the kind that crushed dissent before a word was even spoken.

  At the far end sat a semicircle of robed figures, their faces partially obscured by the deep hoods of their ceremonial garb. The air practically hummed with tension as Matrim was pushed forward into the center of the chamber.

  For a few heartbeats, silence reigned.

  Finally, one of the council members spoke, a woman’s voice sharp and authoritative. “You stand accused of trespassing into forbidden sanctums beneath Silvermoon. Explain yourself, outsider.”

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  Matrim scanned their veiled faces. Outsider. The word stung more than it should have. “I didn’t even know this city had forbidden sanctums when I got here,” he replied, trying to keep his tone steady. “I was drawn to it. I followed the pull. That’s it.”

  “The pull?” Another voice, male this time, skeptical. “Do you mean to tell us you wandered into the most sacred ground beneath Silvermoon by accident?”

  Matrim clenched his jaw. He could feel their judgment before they spoke it. “Call it what you want,” he muttered. “I didn’t seek to defile anything. I was trying to understand why I feel like this city has been pulling me toward it since the day I arrived.”

  The woman with the crimson eyes stood off to the side, watching silently. Matrim could feel the weight of her gaze, sharp and unrelenting.

  Another voice chimed in from the semicircle. “You are not of Silvermoon. You have no connection to its lifeblood. Why should we believe you?”

  Matrim’s pulse quickened. The words felt like shackles of their own—tightening, closing him off from any sympathy. No connection? He wanted to argue, to tell them about the visions from the crystal, the strange resonance he felt coursing beneath his skin every time he walked the streets of this city.

  But how could he explain something he barely understood himself?

  “You can believe me or not,” Matrim said, biting back the frustration. “But I didn’t break in to steal, or to desecrate. I came because... something led me there. And whatever that something is, it’s tied to this place.”

  The silence afterward was heavier than any accusation. The council sat motionless, deliberating in that shared glance between those who already seemed to have made up their minds.

  Finally, the woman from the center of the council leaned forward, revealing the lower half of her face beneath the hood—stern, regal, and lined with age.

  “Silvermoon is not a playground for lost souls,” she said coldly. “You have trespassed on ancient ground, and while you may not yet understand the gravity of your actions, we do. You are to be held until further judgment.”

  Matrim’s fists tightened in their restraints. “So that’s it? No trial? No explanation? Just lock me away and pretend none of this happened?”

  The woman’s voice remained calm, but sharp as a blade. “You will remain under the custody of the Guardians until we decide your fate. Do not mistake patience for mercy, outsider.”

  The crimson-eyed Guardian stepped forward at that command, placing a firm hand on Matrim’s shoulder to steer him away from the chamber. As she did, Matrim couldn’t help but glance back at the council. Not one of them flinched beneath their hoods.

  As he was pulled from the room, the Guardian whispered just loud enough for him to hear, voice colder than before.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t leave you in that chamber beneath the city.”

  Matrim gritted his teeth, forcing himself to remain calm. Varenhold, the massacre... this is nothing compared to that. Keep moving. Keep breathing.

  But as they made their way back to the confines of his cell, one thing became clear—Silvermoon’s leaders weren’t just afraid of him.

  They were afraid of whatever he had awakened.