Amelia talked as she ate.

  She barely paused between mouthfuls, words tumbling out in a steady stream as she worked through the procedures. What to say. What not to say. When to stand. When to stay silent. Without Doyle hovering nearby to slow her down, she moved fast, like she was racing something only she could see.

  I listened, nodding where it felt right.

  The sword rested at my side, disguised and quiet, but I could feel it all the same. A faint, steady presence. Not warmth exactly. More like cool water running just beneath the skin, keeping my thoughts clear, keeping me upright.

  I hadn’t slept much. The night’s memory had hardly been adequate sleep, but when I’d woken, my body had held together. The bruises still ached. The scratches still pulled when I moved. But I sat straight in my chair, spreading butter across toast as if nothing had happened.

  That alone felt wrong.

  Amelia launched into the finer points of judgement, her voice slipping into something practiced. Too practiced. The kind of detail you didn’t pick up by accident.

  It made me wonder where she’d learned it all.

  I knew she had family. Powerful ones, from what I’d heard. The kind people spoke about carefully. Still, she spent most of her time far from noble houses, moving through streets instead of halls.

  As she talked, I waited for a gap, then decided to take it.

  “You know,” I said lightly, keeping my eyes on my plate, “you know a lot about this.”

  She hesitated.

  I glanced up in time to see her pause mid-bite.

  “Someone must’ve taught you,” I added, careful to keep my tone casual.

  She froze.

  Not for long. Just enough.

  Then she nodded once.

  “I was made to learn it.”

  The words were flat. Not proud. Not bitter either. Just factual.

  I nodded, pretending to focus on my toast. “Well… thanks for walking me through it.”

  She didn’t answer right away.

  I hesitated, then pushed a little further. “If you don’t mind me asking,” I said slowly, “who made you?”

  Her jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly.

  The answer didn’t come.

  She looked at me properly then.

  Not a glance. A measure. Like she was weighing how much truth I could handle. After a moment she let out a slow breath and looked away.

  “I was expected to learn certain… customs,” she said. “Because of where I came from. What I was meant to be.”

  Her fingers worried at the edge of the table as she spoke.

  “The people tied to me,” she went on. “Not my family. They decided a girl meant for marriage should know how to behave.”

  I stared at her. “What is this,” I said. “The Middle Ages?”

  She shrugged, small and tired. “Rules work differently here. I don’t get to pretend otherwise.”

  She paused, then added, quieter, “They chose the tutor. A man meant to teach me obedience.”

  Her mouth tightened. “He taught me something else instead.”

  “Legal defence,” I said.

  She nodded. “And how to think…”

  “They didn’t like that,” I added.

  “No.” Her voice stayed level. “After they found out… I never saw him again.”

  The words landed heavier than she intended.

  I froze, unsure what to say.

  “Not long after,” she continued, “I ran. They didn’t chase me. Not properly.”

  A faint smile flickered and vanished. “They keep their hounds close though. Just enough to make sure I don’t die.”

  “How generous of them.”

  That earned a short laugh. “As long as I’m breathing, I’m useful. A document. Safe until I’m old enough to sign myself away.”

  My stomach tightened. “And when is that?”

  “Sixteen.”

  I winced. “That’s soon.”

  She nodded.

  “So that’s why you train like this,” I said. “You’re trying to outrun it.”

  “If I make it into the college,” she said, “they lose their hold on me.”

  “Then why don’t they stop you?”

  She laughed, sharp and humourless.

  “They have. Every step.”

  She leaned back, eyes distant. “That’s why they’re pushing this hearing so hard. Why they sent something fit for a gallows to a petty charge.”

  She shook her head. “The nobles have bigger toys loose right now. Trolls for hunting. Beasts for sport. They don’t care about a forgotten mine.”

  Her gaze flicked to me. “They care about leverage.”

  I thought of the treasure. Of Jerald’s look when he’d seen the remnants. Of the way my blade had changed. I’d destroyed what was left before anyone else could find it. Or so I’d thought.

  I forced a smile. “Well,” I said, “maybe they’ll surprise us.”

  She laughed again. No warmth this time.

  “They won’t,” she said. “Whatever judgement they bring, it’s already been written.”

  “Uh… you guys are up early,” Rob muttered as he shuffled in.

  He rubbed at his eyes and dropped into a chair, blinking like the world had personally offended him. Amelia didn’t miss a beat. She slid straight back into explanation, laying out the schedule and procedures again, her words quick and precise.

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  Rob nodded along. A little too readily.

  I had the distinct impression he wasn’t absorbing the information so much as the sound of her voice. There was a softness there, unguarded in his half-asleep state, that he usually hid better. Morning had a way of stripping people bare.

  Doyle joined us not long after. The moment he did, the room shifted. Talk tightened. Movements became purposeful. Whatever comfort the kitchen offered evaporated.

  We didn’t linger.

  Jerald led us through the waking streets toward the centre of town. Stalls were only just being opened, shutters lifting with dull thuds as the day crept in. A large tent stood ahead, its canvas stark against the stone around it.

  It hadn’t been raised for us. It was meant to coordinate the purge of the troll incursion. This morning, it had been claimed for something quieter.

  Judgement.

  Inside, the tent was bare. A long table ran down the centre, its surface nicked and worn smooth in places. Chairs lined either side, mismatched and stiff, set too close together. No banners. No colour. Just canvas walls that stirred faintly with the wind and a single opening that let in pale light and drifting dust.

  We took our seats.

  And waited.

  “No Brent?” I asked.

  Jerald shook his head. “I sent him with the others. The troll situation’s worsening.”

  I must have looked disappointed, because he went on.

  “It’s better this way,” he said quietly. “He’d only make things worse. Loud mouths don’t fare well in places like this.”

  I let out a short laugh.

  The last trace of sound faded as Jerald stepped outside, leaving us alone with the canvas walls and our thoughts.

  Time stretched thin. Minutes dragged, then dragged some more. The air turned stale, heavy with the feeling of being watched even when no one stood nearby. Every ripple of canvas, every muffled sound from beyond the tent, tightened something in my chest.

  At last, footsteps approached.

  Jerald ducked back inside, clearing his throat softly.

  “They’re coming,” he said.

  Amelia looked up. “Anyone I know?”

  His expression hardened. “Justiciar Tithus.”

  She swore under her breath.

  My stomach tightened. “Who’s that?”

  Amelia didn’t look away from Jerald. “Someone who enjoys hearing himself talk.”

  Rob snorted, then coughed to cover it. “Sounds promising.”

  Jerald almost smiled. “He follows the rules,” he said. “Every last one.”

  That didn’t help.

  He turned and motioned for us to follow. We stood and stepped out into the morning light.

  It wasn’t just the Justiciar.

  Soldiers flanked the approach, armoured and precise, spreading out without a word spoken. And behind them, mounted on a gilded mare, rode a young figure wrapped in fine cloth.

  My gut dropped.

  Shit.

  Nick.

  I glanced at Jerald. He shook his head once, slow and deliberate. A warning. He reached out and pressed two fingers briefly against my chest, right where the medallion used to rest. Where the rune now lived, hidden in the blade.

  He won’t recognise you.

  I drew a breath. Then another. Forced my shoulders to loosen.

  Don’t react. Don’t look.

  The group reined in and dismounted. One man stepped forward, his robes a deep, heavy purple. He handed his reins to Jerald without so much as a glance, treating him like hired help, then turned his attention to the town with thinly veiled disdain.

  His eyes finally settled on us.

  “And you three,” he said coolly, “are the accused?”

  Amelia elbowed us sharply.

  We bowed together, deep and precise, the motion practiced enough to feel wrong.

  “Yes, Lord Tithus,” Amelia said, her voice steady as the rest of us echoed the words. “We stand accused in your presence.”

  The phrase left a bitter taste behind, like ash at the back of my tongue.

  Tithus gave no sign that he’d heard anything of consequence. His expression didn’t shift as he slipped a hand into his sleeve and withdrew a scroll. He took his time unfurling it, smoothing the parchment between his fingers until it lay perfectly flat, the seal catching the light.

  “Shall we?” he said, turning slightly and gesturing back toward the tent.

  Nick swung down from his horse. As he did, his gaze slid toward Amelia, his mouth twisting into something sharp and knowing. Jerald’s hand snapped out, pinching Rob hard in the ribs before he could say anything stupid. Rob hissed under his breath, swallowed it, and followed us inside.

  “Why is he here?” I murmured.

  “No idea,” Amelia whispered back.

  Jerald’s voice came low. “Whatever it is, it won’t be good.”

  Inside the tent, we were directed to our seats opposite the long table. The Justiciar settled himself at its centre, laying the scroll before him and smoothing it flat with slow, deliberate strokes, as though the words had been set long before we arrived.

  “You three,” he said, his voice carrying without effort, “stand accused of unlawful trespass and the destruction of a national asset belonging to the noble House of Bedivere.”

  Amelia’s gaze flicked sideways.

  Nick caught it.

  He smiled.

  “My lord,” she said evenly, “since when does the House of Bedivere own the quarry?”

  The Justiciar didn’t look at her. “That is not for you to question.”

  Nick’s smile widened.

  Amelia’s jaw tightened.

  “The assessed value of the damaged property,” the Justiciar continued, unmoved, “is twelve thousand gold.”

  “What?” Rob blurted. “That’s—”

  “Silence.”

  The word cracked through the tent, sharp enough to make Rob flinch back.

  The judge’s voice snapped like ice. “You are not here to speak. You are here to receive judgement.”

  Rob stiffened, his hands curling into fists. The injustice of it made my stomach twist.

  And yet, something colder settled beneath that anger.

  The weapons. The items. Trash to a noble, maybe, but each etched with runes. Each carrying value. Not to us. To them.

  “As the mine has been rendered irrecoverable,” the Justiciar went on, “you will instead bear the cost of its loss.”

  He looked up. “You are now in debt to the House of Bedivere.”

  Jerald’s gaze slid briefly to Nick, sharp and suspicious, but he said nothing.

  Amelia bowed. Rob and I followed a heartbeat later.

  There was no room to argue.

  “To ease this burden,” the Justiciar said smoothly, “the ever-generous Bedivere family has offered an alternative if the debt cannot be repaid.”

  Nick straightened, satisfaction written plainly across his face. When he looked at us, it was only Amelia he watched.

  “For Robert,” the Justiciar continued, glancing at another line on the scroll, “our records show you have acquired several blessings.”

  Rob’s head snapped up. “Yes.”

  “Silence.”

  The word landed heavier this time.

  “Your blessings will be bound to the House of Bedivere,” the Justiciar said. “Their output and yield claimed until your debt is repaid in full.”

  Rob went pale.

  I felt my pulse hammer in my ears.

  This wasn’t a fine.

  It was ownership.

  “Amelia,” the Justiciar said, almost gently. “Your portion of the debt will be annulled if you agree to the proposal put forward by Lord Favhargil.”

  Her shoulders twitched.

  She held herself still, fought the reaction, but it crept in anyway. A tremor through her hands. Her breath catching just enough to notice. Her eyes darkened, colour bleeding into them as she stared straight ahead.

  Rob turned toward her, his mouth forming the word before he made a sound.

  No.

  Nick laughed.

  It was soft. Pleased.

  “And the third,” the Justiciar continued, shifting his attention at last. His gaze settled on me, lingering a moment longer than it needed to. His brow creased as his eyes flicked to my sword, then back again.

  “This one,” he said, dismissively. “With only minor blessings.”

  I felt my stomach sink.

  “He will enter service to the House of Bedivere until his debt is repaid,” the Justiciar went on. “Compensation will be provided. One silver per day.”

  The tent felt smaller.

  My mind ran the numbers without my permission. Days bled into weeks. Weeks into years. Years into something that barely felt like a life at all.

  Decades.

  “And when,” Jerald asked evenly, “are they expected to settle this debt instead of submitting to these… arrangements?”

  The Justiciar didn’t look at him. “By nightfall.”

  Jerald’s jaw tightened. “That’s not possible.”

  “It is not negotiable.”

  Jerald scratched at his chin, unhurried, as though weighing a faulty equation rather than a verdict.

  “This timing,” he said at last, voice calm, “is… irregular.”

  His gaze shifted to us, then back to the table. “As aspirants, they fall under protection. Debts of this scale cannot be imposed before the trials. Nor can they consent to such arrangements.”

  Nick let out a sharp laugh.

  “Aspirants?” he sneered. “Since when is a wh—”

  Jerald stepped forward.

  No raised voice. No hand to a blade. Just one measured step that closed the space between them.

  The air changed.

  Nick’s mouth snapped shut mid-word. His confidence faltered, just enough to notice. Jerald stood there, solid and unmoving, a barrier no one had to name.

  The silence that followed was heavy. Charged. The kind that made even the soldiers straighten where they stood.

  Jerald’s gaze stayed fixed on Nick, calm and unreadable.

  “That,” he said quietly, “was unwise.”

  For the first time since entering the tent, Nick looked uncertain.

  The Justiciar adjusted the scroll in his hands, scanning it with narrowed eyes. “According to my records,” he said, “their occupations are not listed.”

  He glanced up. “They are not registered as aspirants.”

  Jerald stepped forward and produced his own papers. He laid them on the table one by one, precise and unhurried. Each bore seals. Each marked with dates and conditions already set.

  Nick sneered, but he didn’t interrupt.

  The Justiciar studied the documents, his mouth tightening. “This,” he said at last, “is… inconvenient.”

  He folded the scroll again. “I will have to inquire as to why my information was not current.”

  He looked back at us. “Very well.”

  My stomach tightened. “What does that mean?”

  The Justiciar didn’t answer right away. He studied the scroll, eyes moving as if the outcome might change if he read it again.

  “The debt remains,” he said at last. “As do the terms attached to its recovery.”

  A pause.

  “However,” he went on, voice dull with formality, “should you be accepted as full aspirants under a sanctioned institution within the city…”

  He exhaled, thin and tired.

  “…the obligation will pass.”

  I frowned.

  “The institution will assume the debt,” he finished. “You will repay them. Not the House of Bedivere.”

  Something shifted in the air.

  Not relief. Not yet.