But my skills were improving, so the discomfort was worth it.
A guard approached us from the wing, his steps echoing on the stone floors. He bowed and notified us it was time to begin.
I glanced at Harthon, who sat to my right on a velvet-lined throne that extended high above his head, donning his regal black ensemble and that golden crown. The top half of his hair was pulled back in a series of braids that only highlighted the striking lines of his face. Since our meeting with Aric, I hadn’t seen him much. Occasionally, he would attend my horse riding lessons, usually watching with a small smile on his face and speaking to Jac for a few minutes before leaving. According to Ana, when he wasn’t enforcing the crop plague mandates, he was working with his soldiers, strengthening them to prepare for an offense or defense against Koerlyn.
Ana sat on the other side of him, and Callen stood just beside her. North wasn’t with us.
The Lords from Harthon’s cabinet were in attendance, seated in two rows of chairs that lined a wall to our right. All of them had greeted us with bows, though some—like Jonathan—refused to meet my eyes, apparently still weary. Select townspeople were allowed to stand along the remaining walls, the audience necessary for publicity.
“Send in the first,” Harthon bellowed, his voice easily reaching the corners of the quiet hall.
The two tall wooden doors at the end of the hall swung open with an ominous creak, and a haggard-looking man with chains linking his hands to his feet was escorted in by two guards. With every step, the chains scratched the floor in a caustic scrape that bit at my ears. A sliver of trepidation crawled down my spine.
He was a prisoner, a criminal. We would be starting violently, then.
They stopped before us, and I caught the scent of urine and sweat.
“Bow,” a guard told the man.
The prisoner only scowled, making no attempts to appeal to us with respect.
The guard kicked him in the knee and he fell, his knees landing on the stone with a sickening crack. His head swung down on impact.
It was a bow. Of sorts.
“What are you accused of?” Harthon asked bluntly.
The man didn’t respond. Harthon looked to the same guard who’d kicked him.
“Assaulting several villagers and stealing from their homes,” he reported.
Harthon addressed the man again. “Do you have a defense for yourself?”
At this, he picked up his head. “It’s survival of the fittest. Not my fault they can’t fight for shit,” he snarled before spitting on the ground.
Clearly, the man didn’t have a single ounce of sense in him.
Anxiety sank in. I wasn’t worried for the man. Whatever Harthon deemed an appropriate sentence, the criminal clearly deserved it. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to witness it. But I was the “magvis” who stood beside Harthon, and so Ihadto witness it.
“The next thirty years in our prison, or the loss of both hands. Decide now, or I will decide for you,” Harthon stated, not an ounce of emotion in his voice.
Please choose the prison.
The man simply laughed. “Just fucking kill me. It’s easier for us all.”
Not a soul breathed in the room.
“It’ll be the hands, then. Do it now,” Harthon ordered in that same apathetic tone.
The prisoner’s façade immediately slipped as two masked soldiers stalked over, one carrying a dark wooden box, the other an ax. “I’ll take the prison,” the man rushed out.
Harthon’s lips curled into a casually cruel smile. “Too late.”
His eyes widened, and he tried to launch to his feet, only for the two guards beside him to wrestle him back to the ground. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t—I’ll take the prison! You gave me a choice!”
The box was set down before him, and I realized that it wasn’t made of a dark wood at all. It was dark because it was stained with blood, a few pockets of natural wood showing through around its base, and it was marked with the divots of a blade.
One of the guards wrenched the prisoner’s right hand onto the box, his struggle futile. “No! No! Theprison!” the man gasped.
