The hearing. For fraud I didn't commit, for falsifying documents I'd never seen, for violating a "Legacy Code" I didn't even understand. None of it made sense, and the confusion only amplified my terror.
A sob escaped me despite my best efforts. The sterility of this place, the isolation, the handcuffs they'd used when dragging me from Covenant House, it all triggered flashes of my captivity with Damien. I could feel phantom pains from where the restraints had cut into my wrists during those endless weeks, could hear the echo of his voice taunting me in the darkness.
You're nothing. No one's coming for you. No one cares.
I pressed my hands over my ears, tears streaming down my face, as if that could block out the memories. "Stop," I whispered. "Please stop."
The sound of the lock disengaging jolted me to a sudden upright position. I scrambled back against the wall, heart hammering against my ribs as the door swung open. Two Trivium enforcers stood in the doorway, their expressions impassive behind dark glasses.
"Stand up," the taller one ordered. I complied on shaky legs, trying to swallow my terror. "W-what’s happening, is it, is it time for the hearing?" Neither answered. The shorter one stepped forward with handcuffs, and I couldn't stop myself from flinching violently.
"P-please," I stammered, backing away until I hit the wall. "I'll come quietly. You don't need those."
"Protocol," he said flatly, grabbing my wrist with bruising force. The cold metal against my skin sent me spiralling. Suddenly, I wasn't in the white cell anymore; I was back in that freezing basement, Damien's hands rough as he secured me to the wall, his breath hot against my neck as he whispered what he planned to do to me. The feel of him as he… A whimper escaped my throat as the enforcer secured the second cuff and snapped back into this horrible existence.
"Move," the taller one commanded, gripping my upper arm and propelling me forward. I stumbled into the hallway, blinking against the brightness of the fluorescent lights. More white walls, more sterile emptiness. They marched me down corridor after corridor, my bare feet slapping against the cold tile. The grey, itchy pants and top they'd given me after taking my clothes offered little warmth or dignity, and I felt exposed, vulnerable under the harsh lights. We stopped in front of a set ofimposing double doors. My escorts paused, and one spoke into a communication device on his wrist.
"Bringing in the accused now."
The doors swung open, revealing what looked like a traditional courtroom, except where a judge's bench should have been sat a panel of twelve men. They were arranged in a semicircle, elevated above the rest of the room, their faces uniformly stern and cold. Below them, rows of spectator seating stretched back into shadow. Most seats were empty, but I could make out perhaps two dozen figures scattered throughout, some in Trivium uniforms, others in business attire, all watching with expressions ranging from boredom to morbid curiosity.
And then, in the front row, I saw them.
Logan, Ryder, and Cole sat rigidly side by side, their faces drawn with exhaustion and worry. Logan's jaw was clenched so tightly I could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. Ryder's usual animation was gone, replaced by a stillness that seemed almost unnatural on him. Cole's eyes tracked my every move, his hands gripping his knees as if to stop himself from leaping forward. I could tell by the despair on their faces that we were in serious trouble. The sight of them nearly broke me. I wanted to run to them, to throw myself into their arms and beg them to take me home. But the enforcers' grip was unyielding as they marched me to a small, boxed area that resembled a witness stand. They positioned me there and stepped back, though they remained close enough to grab me if I tried to run.
I fought to control my expression, to not show the terror clawing at my insides. But when Logan's eyes met mine, filled with a helpless anguish I'd never seen before, I felt my composure cracking. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tastedblood, using the pain to focus, to keep from falling apart completely.
One of the men in the centre of the panel, older than the others, with steel-grey hair and eyes like chips of ice, cleared his throat. The room fell silent.
"This tribunal is now in session," he announced, his voice carrying effortlessly through the chamber. "We are convened to hear the case against Cadence Turner, accused of fraud against the Trivium Foundation, falsification of scholarship credentials, and violation of the Legacy Code." He looked down at me, his gaze clinical and detached, as if I were an insect pinned to a board.
"Cadence Turner, you stand accused of knowingly and wilfully falsifying your application to the Courts scholarship program by claiming Legacy status to which you were not entitled. How do you plead?" I swallowed hard, my throat dry with fear.
"I-I don't understand the charges," I said, hating how small my voice sounded. "I never applied for the Courts scholarship. I was on an academic scholarship. It’s all on record, look it up."
A murmur ran through the tribunal. The grey-haired man's expression hardened.
"Pretending ignorance will not help your case, Miss Turner," he said coldly. "We have substantial evidence of your deception." He nodded to someone I couldn't see, and a large screen on the wall illuminated. On it appeared a document, a scholarship acceptance form with my signature at the bottom. My stomach dropped.
"Do you recognise this document?" he asked. I stared at the signature. I recognised the document as the contract I had been given at the beginning of the year. It looked like mine, it was my signature, but I had no memory of signing it.
"That looks like my signature," I admitted, "but I didn't sign that. I never applied for the Courts scholarship."
"Yet you accepted placement in Courts House, accepted the financial benefits, and participated as a Courts student in multiple events, culminating in your selection as Consort to Covenant House," another panel member said, his tone suggesting he'd already decided my guilt.
"No!" I protested, my voice cracking. "I tried to get it cleared up! The first day I was transferred, I went to the administration to tell them there had been a mistake!"
The grey-haired man consulted a file before him. "Yes, our records indicate you visited the administration on September 17th. Records also show that following this meeting, additional funds were deposited into your account, funds you accepted and used."
"Because they wouldn't let me leave!" I cried, desperation making me bold. "They told me the contract was binding, that if I broke it, my grandparents would have to repay everything!"
"A convenient story," a third panel member said dismissively. Tears burned in my eyes. They weren't listening. They'd already decided I was guilty.
"The evidence clearly shows," the grey-haired man continued, "that you manipulated a time-honoured system for your own benefit. The Courts scholarship is reserved exclusively for those with Legacy blood. Can you provide any evidence of Legacy status to substantiate your claim?" I felt the last of my hope drain away.
"No," I whispered, the tears finally spilling over. "No, I can't."
The panel members exchanged glances, though it seemed more performative than consultative. They'd known the answer before they asked the question. The grey-haired man nodded gravely.
