“I talked Brutus into coming, naturally,” Theobald said as he sat across from Lucian on the boat home.

  “Why?!” Lucian whisper-yelled.

  Theobald smiled. “Because the Martial Prince is well respected across the Confederation, and he has a particular knack for theatrics that I think would work well in the trial setting.”

  Lucian fell back into his seat, a little defeated. That man was much too intense to deal with on a regular basis.

  “Couldn’t this backfire?” Lucian asked worriedly.

  “No,” Theobald said.

  Lucian raised a brow. “Why are you so confident?”

  “Because your reputation couldn’t get worse,” Theobald said evenly.

  Aurelia looked up from her booklet at him with a faint smile of amusement, then quickly got back to work. Lucian sighed as they headed back toward Verne. Brutus, meanwhile, stood on the pole that extended outward from the ship with his hair in the wind, posing like some kind of pirate. Lucian sighed for the second time.

  ***

  “The emperor is definitely dead,” Denzel told Lucian alone.

  Lucian stood in the cottage that Aurelia had been staying, shocked but not necessarily surprised.

  “I guess she’s not as dumb as I thought…” Lucian mused, walking around to help him process that information. “This is… bad. What about your mother? Is she safe?”

  “Yes, thank the heavens,” Denzel said with an exhausted sigh. He had dark circles under his eyes, clearly fatigued. “Algard has a huge time advantage, and I need to start making preparations for what comes. I need to start swaying the nobles without playing my hand. The thing is…” he cradled his forehead. “I have… I’ve a favor to ask.”

  “Ask,” Lucian said.

  Denzel fixed his red eyes on Lucian. “You’ve told me your strategy for the trial. I’ve seen Lydia plenty. Right now, the principal backing that I have is your father. If you drag his name through the mud right now, right when the succession dispute is about to begin… things could become untenable for me.”

  Revelation dawned on Lucian. “You want me to hold off,” he said. “To delay the trial.”

  “If Duke Cyril becomes a pariah even among a few nobility in the Empire, Algard could have confidence enough to declare me a criminal and target me for execution,” Denzel said. “In other words, if things work out how you hope in the trial… there might be a civil war.”

  Lucian pulled up a chair and sat. “But…”

  Denzel stood before Lucian with crossed arms. “I know. It’s a lot to ask. But even with Duke Cyril backing me as his heir, things have a precarious balance. Until I can shift things in my favor enough that he won’t be a threat, I need no disruptions. A month… maybe two. By then, there’ll be a cautious peace in the Empire.”

  Lucian felt like he was being punched in the gut. He’d been so eager to tackle things here. He owed Denzel a lot, certainly. The man had been nothing but accommodating ever since they bonded over their murder plot. But this? This could kill any of Lucian’s chances of clearing his name.

  “There’s another way,” Lucian said, his heart pounding with nervousness as the idea came to his head. He looked at Denzel. “Let me handle this.”

  “Lucian…” Denzel narrowed his eyes, leaning back.

  “I got rid of Metterand, didn’t I?” Lucian asked. “I’ll have Heavenwatch call for a mediation. The two of you will go to the monastery. We’ll try and work things out with Algard. If he’s unwilling to settle… I’ll… I’ll take care of it. One way or another.”

  Denzel looked at Lucian seriously. “And they’ll do it if you ask? You’re sure of this?”

  Lucian nodded. “Yes. I spared Aurelia. That means the world to those people.”

  “Spared Aurelia?”

  “It’s not important,” Lucian said. “But just know they’re loyal.”

  Denzel sized Lucian up as if scanning for lies. “And what if he’s unwilling to attend at all?”

  Lucian shrugged. “We’ll word it in such a way that implies they’ll take your side if Algard doesn’t agree to come to the table.”

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  “I don’t know…” Denzel rose to his feet and walked around the room.

  “Well, you tell me. Is the support of Heavenwatch Monastery sufficient to replace Duke Cyril?” Lucian asked pointedly.

  Denzel paused. “It’s well and good to vouch for you in front of the Student Ambassadors, but too much is at stake right now. I need more than your word they’re your allies.”

  “Then visit Heavenwatch,” Lucian encouraged. “Speak to the abbess yourself. Her name is Dorothea—a lovely woman, if a bit too forgiving. I can promise you they’ll back up what I say.”

  Denzel looked lost in the thought, but he eventually gave a solemn nod. “I will. If she agrees… I’ll put my faith in you, again. I sincerely hope you don’t make me regret it.”

  Lucian was overpromising. He honestly didn’t know what was going to happen with his trial, let alone whether or not a country would go to war with itself. It was time to find out if he had bitten off more than he could chew.

  Should get myself checked for ulcers, Lucian thought. Stress alone…

  “By the way, this place shouldn’t be under any suspicion anymore,” Denzel said. “I’ve had my mother’s whereabouts publicly displayed. She’s in a place that’s safe. Algard shouldn’t be snooping around this cottage anymore. That said, I did find an alternate location where you can harbor the monastics. It’s a touch… disgusting, but it’s within Verne.”

  “Disgusting?” Lucian repeated.

  “It’s an abandoned fertilizer plant on the outskirts,” Denzel explained. “The smell is… persistent.”

  Lucian laughed at the mental picture of Aurelia’s face upon learning the news. She seemed to have a hard time dealing with gross things and foul smells. But…

  “No, forget about it,” Lucian said. “I like this place. If it’s safe, it’s safe.”

  ***

  Duke Cyril stared down into the courtroom, watching casually as everyone took their place. Today was to begin the most important section of the evidentiary hearings. The other charges levied against Lucian all had a level of doubt that Cyril himself had cultivated. He’d been thorough in cleaning up after his son… but this one, the Confederation would be spearheading. He was looking forward to it.

  The judge began to pound his gavel, slowly quieting the majority of the court. There were many people in the spectators’ gallery. Cyril spread the word that this was going to be a pivotal portion of the trial, and interest was consequentially at its apex.

  “Alright… good morning,” the judge said, looking between everyone. “We’re here for the eighth day of the evidentiary hearing of the case against Lucian Villamar, jointly pursued by the Confederation of the Veen, the Empire of Riverra, the Republic of New Riverra, and the Kingdom of Vantz. We now move on to the final item… namely, the murder of Sancar Alkoyen.”

  The lawyer on the side of the Confederation stood up. “Judge, if I may?” she asked.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “We’d like to bring one person forth to provide testimony about new information that’s come to light, and then provide a statement of opinion,” the lawyer said. She gestured back. “In particular, we’d like to bring the Martial Prince Brutus Alkoyen forth.”

  Cyril felt a wave of relief wash over him. The Martial Prince was stepping forward personally… this would be a bloody affair. It always was, whenever that man got involved.

  “Very well,” the judge consented. “He’s prepared, I presume?”

  “Yes, judge,” the woman nodded.

  “Let’s see him now,” the judge dictated.

  Brutus Alkoyen walked out, wearing a stately outfit well-suited for the proceedings with his long hair tied in a neat ponytail. He boldly walked to stand at the witness’s podium. He cleared his throat.

  “I’d like to start off with a remembrance. My brother Sancar…” Brutus closed his eyes. “…was a gift to the world. He was kind when people didn’t deserve kindness. He was a friend to the friendless.” Brutus opened his eyes and looked around the room. “Sancar chose mercy every day, knowing full well how costly it was. He believed—fool that he was, glorious fool—that people could be better if someone showed them how.” A faint, pained smile crossed his face. “And perhaps the cruelest truth of all is this: the world did not deserve him.”

  Cyril tapped his finger against his armrest impatiently. He forgot how much this man talked. He just wanted to hear him tear into Lucian.

  “His killer… was unimaginably cruel,” Brutus continued. “This was not an accident. Not fate. Not the world being unfair in some abstract sense. This was a choice, made with open eyes and a steady hand.” His gaze hardened, sweeping the room. “And I will not pretend otherwise to spare delicate ears or comfortable consciences. If Sancar’s life was a gift, then his murder was a theft—committed knowingly, savored slowly, and paid for with nothing resembling remorse. But…”

  Cyril stopped tapping.

  “…we can now say for certain that his killer was NOT Lucian Villamar,” Brutus shouted powerfully enough to stir the room.

  Cyril gripped the armrest in alarm as muttering spread throughout the gallery.

  “It shames me to say that I suspected Lucian Villamar of this deed,” Brutus continued. “I’ve made no secret of that fact. But the last few days have revealed that Lucian is innocent of this crime. Indeed, it shames me to say that one of our own is responsible for it!”

  Cyril sat up straight and leaned in closer, gripping the armrest hard enough his diseased flesh bled.

  “Lucian’s sister, then only a twelve-year-old girl tragically afflicted with feeble-mindedness, was being married to a man we now know was possessed by a demon—Clemens Metterand. Yes, you heard correctly. Married, not betrothed,” Brutus said with intense gusto. “Lucian, in his desperation, reached out to my brother for help in stopping this. Sancar, gift that he was, decided to help Lucian at his lowest moment.”

  Brutus slammed his fist upon the podium. “My brother didn’t die at Lucian’s hands. My brother died at the hands of someone trying to prevent him from protecting his sister from their monstrous father! I swear upon my title of Martial Prince that Lucian is not a perpetrator of excesses, but a victim of them! Excesses caused, I have no doubt, by Duke Cyril Villamar.”

  In that moment, Cyril felt the blood drain from his face. The weight of a thousand gazes fell upon him.