“Tell them they are summoned. Now.”
It did not take long for Rohannes to find them. They were where they said they’d be: enjoying a warm meal and cold mead in the barracks. They were brought before the king, Rohannes behind them to face the same shame.
Val-Theris entered the throne room slowly, his boots reverberating against the polished marble, his wings spread wide as a silent intimidation. They seemed to fill the room with light, but it was not radiant or divine—it was cold and pale.
“My soldiers are the heart of Seraveth, the hand of the great city of Solmiris. When I cannot be everywhere, you are to serve as my eyes, my conscience, and above all, my honor.” Val-Theris came to a stop in front of the three. His eyes paused on Rohannes, the disappointment evident in them. “Tell me—when you spilled soup on a hungry woman’s feet, was it my hand you acted with? When you laughed at her, was it my voice you echoed?”
The older of the two guards swallowed hard. “Your Majesty, it was a lapse in judgement.”
Val-Theris’s expression didn’t soften. “That was no apology, but then again, it is not I that deserves it.” He turned toRohannes, who stood behind them, frozen heavy with shame. “These men acted beneath my banner, but it was your eyes that observed the act. Their punishment should be yours to decide. As for you, I expected better from the Angelicus Prime. My disappointment is immeasurable.”
Rohannes nodded, observing the arrogance of his men, the faint disbelief that they were being judged at all. Then, he took a deep breath.
“Your Majesty, I propose myself and these men be stripped of our sigils for one week’s time, and should spend that time in the refugee quarter as their equals to learn what we have broken.”
Val-Theris said nothing as Rohannes proposed his judgement, he simply nodded in agreement. “I trust you can make the arrangements yourself,” he said to the Angelicus Prime.
He bowed his head, and instructed the guards to follow him to the barracks where they would turn in their armor, weapons, and sigils of authority.
When the doors closed behind them, the silence was thick in the air. Val-Theris sunk into the steps, wings drooping, the tension in his shoulders revealing his exhaustion.
The next morningwas gray and heavy with mist. The fires warming and lighting the Lunarethian quarter smoldered low, and the air smelled of ash, damp linen, and wet stone.
Rohannes and his men, dressed in simple trousers and pants, walked into the quarter quietly. Their clean, high-quality clothes stood out amongst the rags the refugees wore, for their clothinghad worn through during their travels to Solmiris, and they had no funds to replace them.
Rohannes led them through the quarter until they found who they were looking for, huddled under a tarp, mending a hole in a quilt with another refugee. Jesenia saw them approach from the corner of her eye, recognizing that they were not Lunarethian, but not immediately realizing it was Rohannes or the men who had acted cruelly the day before.
“Lady Jesenia,” he said respectfully.
She stood and came closer, finally recognizing them. She folded her shawl around her shoulders uncomfortably. “Yes?”
Rohannes gestured to his men, who scowled, but approached. One of them spoke. “We have come to apologize for our actions yesterday.”
“We have disgraced our city and our king,” the other added.
Rohannes then cleared his throat. “We have come to assist your people for the next week. We have been stripped of our titles and authority until this week’s end, so while we cannot provide more food or supplies, we can help your sick, watch the children, tend the fires. Whatever you need from us, we shall see that it is done.”
There was no triumph nor bitterness in Jesenia’s eyes. There was simply the calm composure of a woman who had long ago decided that hate was too toxic a poison to carry in her heart. She blinked up at Rohannes. “Are you here to watch over them?”
“No, my lady. I am here as part of my punishment as well.”
“Yourpunishment?” she asked.
“For watching them, and doing nothing to stop it.”
Jesenia paused for a moment—realization striking her as she understood he must have been the one to leave her the bread. “I see.”
She inclined her head for the men to follow. She led them deeper into the camp. She did not berate them or remind themof their cruelty, she simply approached a thin, feverish child resting on his mother’s lap. She took the child into her own lap and rocked him as the mother’s eyes shut for rest, knowing her son was safe.
Jesenia’s eyes turned to the guards and Rohannes, then pointed toward an elderly man coughing into a rag. “Work,” she instructed.
Rohannes was frozen for a moment, exhaling slowly. He watched Jesenia offer the men who had humiliated her a soft smile of encouragement as they tried to keep themselves busy. No scorn. Just…patience and goodwill.
“Pacifists,” he muttered to himself. “Val-Or help me, maybe they’ve been right all along…”
A younger Lunarethian child approached Rohannes then, holding out a small piece of torn parchment shyly. He hesitated, but crouched so their eyes met as he took the paper.
Thank you.
