The crowd roars. They demand torture. They call for his execution to be drawn out for days.
"He is a terrorist who armed our enemies!" the third elder shouts, voice cracking like a whip across the arena. "A monster who delights in elven suffering!"
The sound that follows is feral.
I know the truth they will never speak aloud. The Fae Prince was right. Hrolf was trying to liberate his enslaved kin fromelven mines and workshops. To the dwarves, he's not a terrorist. He's their savior.
But truth has no place in this theater of vengeance.
The fourth elder, smaller than the others, steps to the edge of the dais. "Yet our queen would have you show mercy to this butcher."
Every eye in the colosseum turns toward us.
The eldest Aeonian turns and finds our box with his eyes. "Queen Rhianelle has proposed Aethon Mor."
A trial of single combat with no interference where the gods themselves decide the outcome.
"She asks mercy for the Butcher of Dunrovin," the Aeonian says simply. "She wants to grant the Butcher a chance he did not give our dead."
Thousands of voices shout at once, none of them pleased.
Rhianelle rises. Her movements are graceful despite the weight pressing down on her shoulders. She steps forward to the edge of our viewing box so the entire arena can see her clearly.
"People of Aelfheim," she begins, her voice carried effortlessly by the enchanted acoustics woven into the colosseum's stone. "I stand before you not to defend Hrolf's actions, but to prevent a catastrophe that will cost us far more than justice."
A ripple of confusion passes through the crowd. In the Aldarelfs' box below ours, several council members shift uncomfortably in their seats.
"Hròlfr Dravorin struck a near-fatal blow against my own mother," she continues. "His weapons have taken elven lives. I do not dismiss that pain. I do not forget it."
The crowd murmurs, uncertain where their queen is leading them.
"But if we execute him here today, we do not gain justice. We guarantee our destruction," she says, voice unwavering amidthe chaos. "Hrolf has reached a near-divine status among the dwarven people. They call him the Forgefather, the Liberator, the Last Hope of their enslaved clans. Kill him, and every dwarf in the known realms will take up arms against us."
"Traitor!" The word explodes from the lead Aeonian. "You would spare our enemies while they sharpen their blades for our throats!"
My hands clench into fists. I'm fighting every instinct to leap down into that arena and tear the elder's throat out. But Rhianelle remains steady, her chin lifted in defiance.
The crowd begins to chant. Their voices merge into a single, terrifying demand. "Kill the dwarf! Kill the dwarf!"
"Traitor queen!"
"Elf-blood before stone!"
The sound builds into something monstrous.
I realize with growing dread that this trial was never about Hrolf at all. This public spectacle is a trap designed to destroy my wife. The elders have orchestrated every detail to corner her. They force her into a position where any choice she makes will mark her as either weak or treasonous.
The fourth elder steps closer to the platform's edge. "Perhaps our people deserve to know more about the queen who would show such mercy to our enemies."
Their words slither through the arena like a serpent seeking prey. I feel Rhianelle tense beside me. Her fingers grip the marble balustrade until her knuckles turn white.
"Traitor," the lead elder repeats, savoring each syllable. "Yes, that is what stands before you. A queen who values dwarven lives above elven blood. But perhaps treachery runs deeper than we knew."
The crowd's chanting dies to a murmur of anticipation. Even the wind seems to still.
"Tell us, Your Majesty," the second elder calls out, their voice dripping with false reverence. "How many centuries of wisdom guide your merciful decision?"
A trap. I can see it closing around her like the jaws of some great beast.
