He sits and the torchlight catches the angles of his face. There’s no softness here, no hint of the man who closed his eyes in relief last night when I eased his pain. This version of Lord Zevran is all edges, and I realize with a strange twist in my chest that this is what power looks like on him. The absolute certainty in the way he holds himself, the way the entire room orients toward him without him having to demand it.
He’s been ruling since he was barely more than a boy … I wonder how much of this authority came naturally, and how much he had to forge himself.
“Bring the deserter forward.” His voice rings out.
Two guards escort a soldier into the centre of the floor. He stumbles, catches himself, and lifts his chin. He’s young – maybe twenty, if that. His uniform hangs loose on a frame that’s lost weight recently, dust ground into the seams. His hands are bound in front of him, wrists rubbed raw beneath the rope. But it’s his eyes that make my heart sink –red-rimmed, wet, the kind of eyes that haven’t closed properly in days.
Commander Nael steps forward, his uniform pristine in contrast to the boy’s. “Your Grace. Private Alek deserted his post during a scheduled patrol along the Cydonia Ridge. He was apprehended three days later in his home village. The penalty for desertion is death.”
Murmurs ripple through the gallery. The woman beside me, draped in bronze silk and jewels, whispers that the boy’s a fool. Behind us, a minor lord says it’s a waste – he was a decent archer.
His Grace hasn’t moved. His gaze pins the soldier where he stands. “You abandoned your unit.”
“I went home.” The boy’s voice cracks, but he doesn’t look away. “My mother’s dying. There’s no one else to take care of her.”
The murmurs grow louder. A few nobles scoff. One laughs outright, the sound harsh and mocking.
“You left your comrades to sit at a deathbed?” Lord Zevran’s tone doesn’t rise, but it cuts through the noise cleanly.
“I was going to come back.” The words tumble out fast, desperate. “I swore an oath to Mars. I meant it. But if she dies alone—” His voice breaks. He swallows hard, tries again. “If she dies alone, I don’t know what I swore for.”
The honesty of it fills the room, too raw and emotional for a place built on ceremony and distance.
Lord Vance rises from his seat in the lower tier, his ceremonial robes sweeping the floor. He’s older, grey-haired and narrow-shouldered, with the bearing of someone who’s never questioned his own authority. “Your Grace, the law is clear. Desertion cannot be tolerated. Show leniency now, and discipline collapses.”
A few voices murmur agreement. The boy’s shoulders hunch, but he doesn’t beg. He just stands there, waiting for his fate.
Lord Zevran’s gaze stays fixed on him. The silence stretches long enough that I forget to breathe.
“And what kind of discipline,” His Grace finally says, his voice quiet and deliberate, “creates soldiers who believe Mars values their deaths more than their lives?”
The room goes still.
Lord Vance opens his mouth. Closes it. Then sits back down with a stiffness that suggests he’s swallowing his next words with difficulty.
His Grace leans forward slightly. “Private Alek. You will return to active duty. For the next year, your wages will be sent directly to your mother. The palace will provide her a medic, free of charge, for as long as she needs. But if you desert again, the sentence will be carried out. Here. In this hall.”
The boy’s knees buckle. He drops to the floor, gasping something that might be gratitude or a prayer or both. The guards haul him up and drag him toward the side exit, and he’s still crying when the door slams shut.
The nobles erupt into whispers. Some nod approval, though their faces remain carefully neutral. Most don’t bother to hide their disapproval. Lord Vance stares straight ahead, brows furrowed. Lord Zevran doesn’t react. He sits perfectly still, his face unreadable, his hands steady on the throne. But I can see the faint tremor in his left hand before he presses it flat against the armrest.
I know what that means. The illness is flaring.
The session continues with two more cases – a land dispute, and a stolen shipment of grain. Lord Zevran rules on them with the same unshakable authority, but I can see the increased stillness in his body.
By the time the hall empties, the torches have burned low. The guards file out last, pulling the heavy doors shut behind them.
I should leave too. Slip out before he notices I’m still here…
I don’t.
“Miss Cyra.”
His voice is quieter now, stripped of the weight it carried before. I turn back. He hasn’t moved from the throne, but the rigid lines of his posture have softened, and for the first time since he entered the hall, he looks tired. More than tired, he looks like he’s in pain.
“Stay,” he requests. His voice lacks the courtroom steel, carrying more exhaustion than anything else.
I descend the gallery steps slowly. By the time I reach the base of the dais, I have to tilt my head back to look at him.
