Commander Orion and Lady Hera exchange one look. Then, without hesitation, they take the cups.
They drink.
The poison works fast. Lady Hera’s face twists in agony first, her spine arching as convulsions wrack her body. Blood trickles from her nose. Commander Orion tries to reach for her, but his own body is seizing, muscles locking up until I think his bones might snap.
It takes three minutes for them to die.
Three minutes of choking and bleeding and pain while the court watches in horrified silence.
Young Lord Castor doesn’t make a sound. He stands there, face blank, watching his parents die. But his hands shake. His whole body shakes.
When it’s finally over, when there’s nothing left but two bodies crumpled on the marble floor, my father stands.
He walks past the corpses without a glance and stops in front of young Lord Castor.
“Rule better than they did,” he says. “Or join them.”
Young Lord Castor’s face doesn’t change. But his eyes go dead.
The mirror releases us.
I turn to look at Lord Castor now, here in the maze with me. His face has gone pale, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle protruding, war hammer trembling in his grip.
“Lord Castor,” I whisper. “I didn’t know?—”
“Don’t.” His voice is harsh, raw.
But it’s true – Ididn’tknow. All my life I was told the sanitized version – how the Sun King installed all of the current House Leaders at young ages due to this reason or that. How Solric preferred having these teenagers and children ruling the kingdoms, as they were easily manipulated and fell in line faster. Not until Zevran’s confession did I know my father had a hand in the demise of the previous rulers. And if he killed Zevran’s parents … and Lord Castor’s … then…
Before I can finish my thought, another mirror activates.
Lord Evander’s breath catches.
The new image shows a library on Saturn. Vast and beautiful, with shelves stretching six stories high. A man and woman work at a large table, surrounded by documents. They have Lord Evander’s elegant bone structure, his brown eyes, his aristocratic nose.
The door bursts open. Soldiers in my father’s colours flood in with weapons drawn.
“Lord Arcturus, Lady Minerva. You are charged with illegal documentation of the Sun King’s military campaigns. The penalty is death.”
“We document history,” Lord Arcturus says calmly. “We are Saturn’s archivists. It is our duty to record truth.”
“Your truth is treason.” A guard spits.
Lord Arcturus stays silent for a moment as he glances towards his wife, who gives a subtle, heartbreaking nod. “Then we welcome death, knowing history preserved will forever defy history rewritten.”
They don’t get a trial. The soldiers move with brutal efficiency. Swords through the chest, quick and clean. Lord Arcturus falls first, still holding his book.
Above, hidden in a gallery alcove, a teenage Lord Evander watches. He’s pressed against the wall with one hand covering his mouth, tears streaming silently down his face.
The mirror fades.
Lord Evander stands perfectly still beside me. His face is a mask of control, but his hands are trembling.
“They were documenting his war crimes,” he says quietly. “Recording casualty numbers. Civilian deaths. They believed truth should be preserved, regardless of who it indicted.”
Before I can respond, a third mirror activates.
Lady Nerida’s expression doesn’t change, but she steps forward as if pulled by invisible strings.
