Raian, flanked by the Peaceguard, moved through the jungle path leading toward the capital of Vel’farra. No words were exchanged. Only the synchronized thunder of armored boots and the steady wind of Veralis’ sixth month accompanied them.

  From time to time, Raian felt the escort commander’s gaze—sharp, assessing—resting on him. Sir Caelen Regallin.

  When the scenery shifted from dense foliage to rising stone and carved arches, the air itself felt different. Structured. Civilized. Watching.

  Citizens paused in their routines as the formation entered the capital streets. Eyes followed. Whispers slipped between market stalls and shadowed balconies.

  “Is that him—?”

  “The Maw Pits—”

  “Sein’ei…”

  Judgment lingered in their stares.

  Raian did not lower his gaze. He walked upright. Shoulders squared. Chin level.

  He would not enter as prey. He would enter as himself.

  They crossed the grand courtyard where the banners of the Six Houses rose in disciplined rows, snapping against the wind of Veralis.

  Black silk bearing a gold moon pierced by a claw — Umbrafel.

  Orange flame marked by a scar — Clawscar.

  Half-black, half-white beneath a silver collar and broken sword — Regallin.

  Ash-grey woven with roots forming an open book — Kindroot.

  Rose silk marked by a masked feline over a crescent moon — Noctelure.

  And—At the far right—

  Beige cloth, faded by seasons. A sunset dissolving into mist.

  Sein’ei.

  Still hanging. Still present. Still torn.

  Raian’s eyes lingered on the torn banner for the briefest heartbeat before he moved on.

  He was ushered inside.

  Stone corridors swallowed the sound of their steps as they advanced, torchlight stretching their shadows along cold walls, until they halted before the massive doors of the Council Chamber.

  Caelen stepped forward.

  “Caelen of House Regallin,” he called, voice firm and resonant.

  “Requesting permission to enter.”

  Silence answered.

  A breath.

  Then—“Permission granted.”

  The doors began to part. Slowly.

  Ancient wood groaned against iron hinges, the sound rolling through the corridor like something awakening.

  Before stepping aside, Caelen turned slightly toward Raian. It was the first time he had addressed him since the march began.

  “May the light of justice guide you.”

  He inclined his head.

  “Lord Raian.”

  The title settled between them—measured, deliberate.

  Raian’s eyes flickered once. Acknowledgment.

  Then he stepped forward. And entered the Council Chamber.

  The circular chamber was vast and solemn, torchlight climbing the stone walls and silk banners cascading from the high arches—each bearing the ancient colors of the ruling Houses.

  Raian walked toward the central podium.

  His steps echoed once. Twice. Then settled into the heavy stillness of the hall.

  He stopped at its center. And lifted his gaze.

  The chamber was not as he had left it. This time… it felt different.

  Not colder. Not darker. Heavier.

  Seated upon the great thrones above were no longer mere clan representatives—their voices and intermediaries.

  No.

  The true rulers had come. The leaders of the Five Clans of Vel’farra.

  Umbrafel. Clawscar. Regallin. Kindroot. Noctelure.

  Each sat in silence, their Seconds positioned beside their thrones like living extensions of their will.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Each gaze rested upon him—not curious. Weighing.

  Raian felt their eyes pass over him like drawn steel.

  Measuring bone. Testing resolve.

  He stood still. He did not bow. He did not flinch.

  A slow breath left his chest. Then he raised his chin and met their stares.

  One by one.

  And though he said nothing—His eyes spoke clearly enough.

  I am not afraid of you.

  Then—

  Dum! Dum! Dum! The gavel struck.

  The sound cracked through the chamber like a commandment carved in stone.

  Silence reshaped itself around it.

  The voice that followed came exactly as expected.

  Elegant. Cold. Precise.

  “Raian, son of Enzan. Heir of the Sein’ei Clan.”

  The words were delivered by Countess Velmira Regallin.

  She was near Ariani’s age—yet where Raian’s mother carried warmth, Velmira carried law. Her posture was regal, immaculate in formal black-and-white aristocratic attire trimmed in silver thread. Not a crease out of place. Not a fur misaligned.

  She leaned slightly forward, both hands resting upon the polished stone table before her. Controlled. Measured.

  Her eyes—clear, pale, merciless—did not waver from Raian.

  “This Council convenes under formal inquiry,” she continued, her tone unhurried.

  “You stand accused of unlawful violence within the Maw Pits, resulting in the deaths of two tomcats under the territorial authority of House Clawscar.”

  A faint pause. Not for drama. For weight.

  The chamber did not breathe.

  Then—A sharp voice cut across the stillness.

  Rokkan.

  He stood rigid behind his clanmaster, arms folded across his chest, fangs barely concealed, fury radiating from every line of his body.

  Brakka the Flamejaw lounged upon the Clawscar throne with infuriating indifference—massive frame sunk deep into carved stone, one leg lazily draped over the armrest, sunglasses perched low despite the indoor torchlight.

  But Rokkan—Rokkan burned.

  “That’s right!” he barked, a claw stabbing toward Raian. “That cub butchered the Maw Pits overseers! He interfered with Clawscar business—our territory, our trade!”

  A murmur rippled through the chamber—subtle, restrained.

  Not from the leaders themselves.

  But from the Regallin adjudicators seated along the lower arc, and the Kindroot scribes, whose quills had begun moving swiftly across parchment, recording every word of the proceeding.

  Ink scratched softly against paper.

  Kindroot exchanged quiet glances.

  Noctelure’s veiled gaze sharpened.

  Umbrafel did not move—but watched.

  Tension rippled outward like wind through tall grass before a coming storm.

  Yet Countess Velmira did not look at Rokkan.

  She did not acknowledge the outburst. She simply lifted one gloved paw.

  Silence returned. Immediate. Absolute.

  Her eyes remained fixed on Raian.

  “Do you deny these accusations?”

  Raian drew a slow breath before answering.

  “On what proof,” he said evenly, voice carrying across the chamber, “do you claim that I was involved in unlawful violence within the Maw Pits?” His gaze did not waver from Velmira.

  Velmira turned her head slightly—just enough to acknowledge the shift.

  “Rokkan,” she said, precise as a blade’s edge, “do you possess evidence that the accused was involved in the incident at the Maw Pits?”

  A smirk tugged at Rokkan’s mouth. He slowly ran his claws through his whiskers.

  “I do.”

  The chamber leaned into silence. All eyes turned toward him.

  “I have a witness.”

  The word struck the air like distant thunder against stone.

  For a heartbeat—perhaps two—no one moved. Even Brakka paused mid-motion, one massive paw hovering over the crinkling bag of chips he had been about to open. The faint crunch of the bag went still.

  He turned his head slightly toward Rokkan. “You do?” Brakka asked, genuinely surprised.

  Rokkan did not look at him. He only smiled—thin, satisfied—and lowered his gaze in mock humility.

  You never notice anything, do you? he thought bitterly.

  Keep eating. Keep lounging.

  You won’t even realize when your throne becomes mine.

  Rokkan lifted his gaze toward Velmira. “May I summon them?” His tail swayed once—slow, controlled—though the flicker of satisfaction behind his eyes betrayed him.

  Velmira did not hesitate.

  “Caelen. Let them enter.”

  Caelen inclined his head and moved toward the chamber doors.

  They opened. Two orange tomcats were escorted inside.

  The first walked stiffly, one arm bound in heavy bandages and secured in a rigid cast. His steps were careful, jaw tight, eyes avoiding Raian’s.

  The second—The chamber shifted.

  He was almost entirely wrapped in layered bandages from neck to tail. Cloth bound his torso, his shoulders, even part of his jaw. Thick wrappings covered his eyes completely. Only his mouth remained visible.

  He was guided carefully by Caelen, one steady paw at his shoulder. A faint murmur passed through the lower ranks of the chamber. Kindroot scribes wrote faster. Regallin adjudicators leaned forward.

  Rokkan’s smile deepened. “These,” he announced, voice smooth now—no longer barking, no longer raging— “are survivors of the Maw Pits incident.”

  Raian’s gaze settled on the two tomcats as they were brought forward. Recognition struck.

  His pupils narrowed—then widened—then steadied.

  The first witness. The guard who had been resting outside the vault chamber.

  The one whose wrist he had crushed beneath his heel. The one whose face he had driven into the floor. He had left them breathing.

  Rokkan caught the flicker.

  Surprised? he thought, satisfaction curling in his chest.

  You should have finished the fools. Amateur.

  Across the chamber, from beneath the quiet shadow of her cloak, Maeril of the Soft Step allowed the faintest curve to touch her lips. It vanished almost immediately.

  Beside her, Veyr’s golden eyes slid briefly toward Rokkan.

  Oh? he mused inwardly. The orange brute does have teeth after all.

  The lantern flames trembled.

  The chamber waited.

  Velmira’s voice cut cleanly through the air. “State your name,” she commanded the first witness.

  The injured tom swallowed. And the Council leaned forward.