Hyura woke with a dull ache running through his entire body. There was pressure and cold around his wrists; when he opened his eyes, he realized he was hanging from chains pulling his arms upward. His shoulders burned, stiff and numb.

  The room reeked of dampness. The black-bricked walls were scarred with the blows of prisoners who had come before him. Between the cracks in the floor, small weeds had sprouted, feeding on the constant seepage of water.

  His head throbbed like a hammer. He could barely recall what had happened: fragments of the fight, rage slowly taking hold of him… and then, nothing. Only darkness.

  “Is anyone there?” he cried, his voice breaking.

  The echo faded unanswered. He struggled against the chains, but they allowed him almost no movement. Behind him, a crescent-shaped window let in a pale glow through its iron bars. In front of him, a black gate of solid iron separated him from the outside. Upon its bars, spiraling golden runes descended, faintly pulsing as if breathing.

  “Where am I? Vaenia? Thoiran? Elara?”

  His mind was still scattered. Hunger twisted his stomach; he must have been there for hours—perhaps an entire day. The dim light told him it was either dawn or dusk, but time had slipped beyond his grasp.

  The scrape of armored footsteps broke the silence. A guard appeared, clad in white armor trimmed with gold. He carried a spear, his expression carved from stone, and his folded wings barely fit in the narrow corridor.

  “Hey… can you tell me why I’m here?” Hyura whispered, his voice raw.

  But it was not the guard who answered. A colder, sharper voice came from behind.

  “You are here because you are a prisoner of Lybendol. You have broken our sacred laws.”

  Hyura felt the words not as judgment, but as sentence. The guard stepped aside—and then he saw him.

  Lucares.

  His stride was slow, assured. The silver embroidery of his blue robes shimmered under the faint light. Long, silver hair cascaded over his shoulders like a frozen river. His eyes, icy and unyielding, cut through Hyura like blades.

  Hyura swallowed hard.

  “What… what have I done? I don’t remember. Please, I just need an explanation…”

  Lucares stopped before the bars, leaning slightly forward like a hawk studying its prey.

  “You are not here to ask questions, boy. You are here to answer them.” His voice was low, poisonous. “Who are you, truly? A Valdori? A spy? What sort of magic did you unleash in the arena?”

  “Valdori?” Hyura’s eyes widened in disbelief. “No, I’m not—! I didn’t use magic, I…”

  His desperation pushed the words from his mouth.

  “It wasn’t my fault what happened with the healer!”

  Lucares raised an eyebrow. For a heartbeat, surprise flickered across his face—then a sharp smile curved his lips.

  “Interesting. I wasn’t speaking of the healer. But thank you for telling me there’s something there as well.”

  A knot twisted in Hyura’s throat.

  “I didn’t… I don’t remember!”

  “Don’t remember?” Lucares stepped closer, his ringed fingers gripping the cold bars. “I remember. I remember my son bleeding on the ground, half-dead. Do you know what I saw in his eyes as I lifted him from the arena? I saw fear. Fear of you.”

  “Your… son?” Hyura’s shoulders trembled beneath the chains. “I… I don’t know what happened. I swear I—”

  “Enough!” Lucares snapped, fury erupting in his voice. “Your oaths mean nothing.”

  Hyura raised his gaze, his eyes brimming with tears.

  “Please… believe me. I would never do such a thing. I’m not a killer.”

  Lucares drew a steady breath, regaining control. His tone turned cold once more.

  “You’ll tell that to the Council of Sages. And I will make certain they see the truth: that you are a monster, and your place is not among us, but dangling from the gallows.”

  He turned sharply, the gemstones on his hands flashing one last time before vanishing into the corridor’s darkness.

  “Wait! I didn’t do anything! Please—wait!” Hyura’s shouts slammed uselessly against the damp walls.

  That night, he did not sleep. He shivered, his wrists burned raw, and his mind swung between emptiness and terror. One thought devoured him: what if it was true? What if he really had tried to kill that boy—and simply couldn’t remember?

  At dawn, two jailers arrived. Their once-white armor was tarnished, pitted with rust, and stained dark. In some places the metal peeled as though corroded by damp. Their helmets covered their faces completely, but through the slits gleamed lifeless eyes. Swords hung at their sides, and a ring of keys rattled with each step. Their wings, folded and neglected, bore ragged feathers stripped of all shine.

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  “We’ll unchain you now. Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” one said flatly.

  The other pressed a blade to Hyura’s throat. He swallowed, resigned. A stinging relief washed over him as the chains fell, though his arms dangled numb with pain.

  They led him down a narrow corridor, so tight the guards could not fully extend their wings. Silent cells lined either side, their iron bars rusted, the stench a mix of mold and sweat. Within, the bedding was nothing more than damp straw piles. Chains hung from walls scarred by claw marks and names etched by desperate hands—echoes of those long gone.

  A spiral staircase of old wood groaned beneath their steps. The earth-colored bricks seeped with moisture, and patches of green fungus glimmered faintly in the lamp light.

  The staircase was lit by magical sconces carved into the walls, their bluish flames pulsing like living hearts. Shadows crawled across the walls, as if unseen figures followed them.

  When they finally emerged into a wider hall, the air grew warmer. A breeze carried the faint scents of incense and polished stone—so different from the reek of the dungeon that Hyura shuddered in relief.

  The echo of footsteps died as they passed through an arch. Before him rose a chamber like a temple of judgment, solemn and crushing. Marble, blindingly white, coated every surface. Golden columns soared to dizzying heights, their veins tinged with crimson hues, as though the room itself breathed.

  At its center stood a single seat—a plain stone bench. Beneath it stretched a mosaic of golden arcane sigils, radiating outward like an inverted sun. Light poured directly onto that spot, forcing the prisoner to stand as the sole focus of every gaze.

  Tiered benches of marble and onyx ascended in rings, packed with sages. Some wore golden-embroidered robes, others gleaming white armor. Their wings—folded in respect or flared in arrogance—formed a living wall around the chamber. Eyes bore into Hyura like invisible blades, whispers hissing in the air.

  Murals of faded gold loomed over them, depicting scenes of past judgments: chained heroes, kneeling traitors, gods towering over mortals awaiting their fate. Beneath them, blue crystal lamps glowed coldly, defying the solemn gold and white. The chamber itself screamed a single truth: Lynhes’ justice was not mercy, but weight—inescapable, crushing.

  “State your name,” commanded an elder, his trembling voice still carrying authority. “And be warned: we tolerate no lies or blasphemy here.”

  “My name is Hyura,” he answered faintly.

  “Where are you from?”

  “The tunnels… I live with a foster family.”

  “Why a foster family?”

  “They found me alone. No parents. I don’t remember what happened before.”

  The elder narrowed his eyes, sending a guard to confirm his words.

  “Very well. Tell us what happened during the trials.”

  Hyura’s palms were slick with sweat.

  “I… I don’t remember. I was fighting… and then, darkness.”

  A murmur rippled among the sages. Eyes met with suspicion.

  “You don’t remember striking your opponent unconscious? Continuing even after the horn? Attacking the guard who intervened?”

  Hyura shook his head, desperate.

  “No! I’d never do that! I’m not a murderer!”

  A roar shattered the chamber.

  “Liar!” Lucares thundered, leaping to his feet, wings flaring. “We all saw it! He tried to kill my son before our very eyes!”

  Hyura looked up at him, bewildered.

  “I… I don’t remember… I swear!”

  Lucares pointed a finger like a dagger.

  “Of course you remember. And even if you don’t, the evidence is clear. What I want is confession! I demand his execution! And before that—torment. If he’s a Valdori spy, we’ll tear the truth from his tongue!”

  The sages shifted uneasily. Some bowed their heads, others exchanged troubled glances. The chamber swelled with whispers.

  “Enough!”

  The voice cut through the storm like thunder.

  All turned toward Lord Arion. He rose with calm authority, his dark hair flowing, eyes burning with restrained fury.

  “Already I find it an insult to Aetherios himself, the way this boy has been treated,” he said, his deep tone freezing the hall. “We drag him in chains, starved, barely standing. Is this how we claim to deliver justice? Condemning before listening?”

  Hyura lowered his head, biting his lip to hold back tears.

  The elder frowned, visibly shaken by Arion’s words.

  “What do you propose, Lord Arion?” he asked.

  Arion’s gaze was steady.

  “I do not deny the need for truth. But not like this. I propose he remain under my watch for seven days. If he lies, we will know. And if not… perhaps we will uncover what truly happened.”

  Lucares scoffed, his fury boiling.

  “Under your care? You would coddle the boy who nearly killed my son? This is farce!”

  Arion did not flinch.

  “In the trials, accidents happen, Lucares. You and your son know this well. What we do not yet know is if Hyura’s case was accident… or something else. I want truth before condemning a youth as traitor.”

  Lucares slammed a foot down, rising to his full height.

  “Accident? My son still lies bedridden! And you speak of patience? What more proof do you need? The boy is dangerous!”

  A sage in white robes coughed softly.

  “We cannot ignore what we saw. There was something strange… beyond mere strength or rage.”

  “Precisely why we must understand it,” Arion replied firmly. “Not repeat past mistakes of hasty judgment that only sowed more hatred.”

  “Empty words!” Lucares spat, wings trembling. “The truth is simple: that boy nearly killed my son! Or has everyone forgotten?”

  Another elder, voice cracked with age, spoke.

  “No one forgets, Lucares. But we also remember Aetherios teaches us to listen before we sentence.”

  The hall erupted again, wings rustling, voices clashing—fear, pride, justice intertwining. Hyura, trembling at the center, felt each word like a whip striking his ears.

  At last, the presiding elder raised his staff. The gesture silenced the chamber.

  “Enough.”

  The elder’s gaze swept from Arion to Lucares, then to Hyura.

  “This must be resolved by our laws. Lord Arion proposes seven days under his supervision. Lucares demands execution. The council shall decide.”

  Whispers surged. The elder lifted his staff.

  “Let each sage declare their vote.”

  One by one, they stood. Some said, “With Arion.” Others, “With Lucares.” A few raised hands in silence. Each word lashed Hyura’s heart: every vote for Lucares tightened a rope around his neck, every vote for Arion offered a fragile breath of air.

  At last, the count was made.

  “The majority sides with Lord Arion.”

  Lucares slammed his fist against the bench, seething.

  “A mistake you will pay dearly for! Mark my words: when that boy shows his true face, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  The elder bowed solemnly.

  “So be it. Hyura shall remain under Lord Arion’s watch. In seven days, Arion himself will answer before this council. And if the boy proves enemy… it will be Arion who delivers the sentence.”

  He struck his staff against the marble. The sound thundered like divine judgment.

  Lord Arion descended toward the chamber’s center, his expression solemn, yet a faint, almost human smile touched his lips.

  He lifted Hyura to his feet.

  “From this day, you carry the doubt of an entire people. But under my watch, you will have the chance to prove who you truly are.”

  Hyura stared at him, speechless. He did not even know himself. Ever since being found in the tunnels, he had lived as a blacksmith’s foster child, with questions never answered. Now, he could not even recall what had happened in the trials. Had he truly tried to kill Lucares’s son—or was it all some terrible mistake?

  Would seven days be enough to discover who he was? For the first time, Hyura realized… he wanted the truth as much as they did.

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