King Zeriel leaned forward on his throne and pinned Ragnar with his gaze. His eyes were a warm brown, the same shade Ragnar saw every morning when he looked into a mirror.

A herald stepped forward, his voice ringing with rehearsed poise.

"Prince Ragnar of House Acheron, bastard son of His Majesty, King Zeriel, has been called before this court today to answer charges of high treason against the crown," he announced, projecting his voice to the far corners of the room. "As you all may know, several rebel factions have arisen in Westeria following our victory over the late king. They harbor the futile desire of one day expunging our forces from their land."

The herald turned to face Ragnar, parchment clenched in his hands. "The charges against you are as follows: conspiring with foreign powers, trading military secrets with the enemy, and actively funding the opposition in Westeria against your king. How do you answer?"

Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Every eye in the room pressed against Ragnar like a physical weight.

He let the moment breathe. Then he spoke, his voice steady and carrying easily to the farthest corners of the throne room.

"Not guilty," he said, staring directly at his father.

King Zeriel inclined his head once. "Very well. Bring in the two witnesses."

The heavy doors groaned open again, admitting two figures into the hall. The first was a wiry man with a gaunt face and restless, nervous eyes, dressed in threadbare clothes that hung loosely from his frame. He shuffled forward, shoes scraping against the floor with every step, casting furtive glances at the assembled nobility as though expecting one of them to strike him down where he stood.

A woman followed close behind him, her posture rigid and her lips pressed into a thin, determined line. She wore a simple woolen gown, stained at the hems from long travel, and clutched a small satchel to her chest like a shield.

The herald cleared his throat, his voice slicing cleanly through the renewed whispers.

"The court calls forth the witnesses: Edric of the Westerian trade roads, and Mira, scribe and courier from the border villages."

The guards positioned the pair a few paces from Ragnar, close enough that he could smell the faint reek of sweat and horse on them. Edric fidgeted, twisting his hands together until his knuckles whitened, while Mira stood unnaturally still, her gaze fixed on the dais where the king and queen presided.

King Zeriel nodded curtly. "Proceed. Edric, you may speak first. State your testimony clearly, and remember, you stand before the crown. Any lies spoken in this court will be met with swift consequences."

Edric swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a log in stormy waters. He bowed awkwardly, nearly stumbling over his own feet in the process.

The merchant bent so deeply that Ragnar half-expected him to topple forward. "E-Edric Vale, Your Majesty," he stammered. "A trader of spices and textiles. I conduct my business primarily along the northern trade routes."

He paused, licking his lips, and Ragnar watched him closely. The man’s eyes flicked toward the queen for the briefest instant, a tell as obvious as a poorly forged blade.

"Go on," the queen prompted, her voice smooth as silk, though edged with impatience.

Edric nodded vigorously. "Two months ago, I was traveling my usual route when I stopped at a tavern. It was nearly empty, save for a handful of patrons. I sat beside a group of soldiers, whom I later discovered answered directly to Prince Ragnar.

"I heard them discussing the rebellion in Westeria," he said, voice rising with urgency, "and they spoke at length about their efforts to offer aid to the militia. I swear on my mother’s grave, I am speaking the truth. They said that he promised them his support in exchange for their loyalty, as he takes Westeria."

A gasp rippled through the courtiers like wind through dry leaves. Ragnar felt the weight of their stares intensify, a suffocating pressure that pressed in from all sides, yet he kept his expression neutral, a mask honed on battlefields where the slightest weakness invited death.

This Edric was no merchant. Every word of his testimony reeked like a rehearsed farce, the lies too carefully arranged, the details too conveniently damning to be coincidence.

The herald turned next to Mira. "And you, scribe? What do you have to add?"

Mira stepped forward, her posture composed, though Ragnar caught the faint tremor in her hands as she opened her satchel. "Your Majesty," she began, inclining her head, "I serve as a courier for the border scribes, copying missives and delivering them swiftly. Four weeks past, I was tasked with carrying a sealed letter from a contact in the Westerian hills. It was addressed to a noble in Westeria, but... curiosity got the better of me. I peeked inside, and what I read horrified me."

She withdrew a folded parchment from the satchel and held it aloft as though it were a venomous serpent poised to strike. The wax seal had been broken, but the imprint remained unmistakable—a stylized raven, Ragnar’s own sigil—gleaming beneath the chandelier’s light. Murmurs stirred again at the sight.

"This letter," Mira continued, her voice steadier now, "written in a hand I recognize as the prince’s, details plans to undermine the crown’s hold on Westeria. It speaks of diverted supplies, leaked strategies, and promises of alliance with foreign powers beyond the seas. It urges the rebels to strike at supply lines, claiming the king grows weak and will be unable to withstand an upheaval of this scale."

The queen leaned forward slightly, pale blue eyes gleaming with feigned surprise and keen interest. "Hand the evidence to the herald, Mira. Let the court see this treachery laid bare."

Mira obeyed, passing the parchment to the herald. He unfolded it with deliberate slowness, allowing the tension to stretch, then began to read aloud in a sonorous, echoing tone.

"To the true sons of Westeria, your struggle is not in vain. I, Ragnar Acheron, pledge my resources to your cause. Enclosed are details of the eastern garrisons. Patrols thin at dawn, vulnerabilities in the river forts. Strike soon, for the tyrant’s grip falters."

The words rang through the chamber, heavy and damning, as every eye turned back to Ragnar.