The main chamber of the High Court of Magic looked more like a cathedral than a court of law.

  Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, ribbed with lavish gold trimmings. Stained-glass windows featuring crossed golden keys lined the walls, filtering the morning light into beautiful patterns that danced across the marble floor. Where Clara would have expected a judge’s bench, there was an elevated altar-like platform, flanked by two unlit braziers. The throne behind the altar was empty.

  Rows of wooden pews filled the gallery, already packed with spectators dressed in all sorts of garments. There were elaborate hats, fine silk shawls, colorful, ostentatious jewelry—as if this were the social event of the season for Elysia’s elite. They whispered behind folding fans as Clara and Iris walked down the central aisle.

  “—the von Rhenia girl, can you believe it—”

  “—I heard she’s completely unrepentant—”

  “—the poor Baron Rosewood, his only daughter—”

  Clara glanced at Iris, but if the chatter was disturbing her, she didn’t show it. Only a serene, regal smile graced her face, and she looked straight ahead, unwavering. Clara thought that sort of determination in the face of terrifying pressure was truly admirable, especially coming from someone who, in her world, would be just a teenager in high school. Yet she could easily see how that attitude could be read as arrogance by those who lacked nuance.

  The layout at the heart of the room was surprisingly similar to an adversarial court system. Two podiums on either side faced the altar, yet the right podium was elevated, and behind it stood a man in a crimson robe. His gray hair was thinning, and his cheeks wrinkled as he smiled. But when he glanced at Clara, that smile flashed into a frown, and he scurried from the podium into a backroom.

  Hm. Interesting.

  A court officer guided Clara and Iris to the left podium, and from there she could see the von Rhenia family—and the head maid—sitting in the front row of the upper gallery behind them. Curiously, Captain Ricardo was nowhere to be seen.

  There were spectators on the opposite side of the upper gallery, too, and Clara thought it was remarkable how aristocrats in a fantasy world behaved just like you’d expect of a lawyer at a corporate event. They stood proud, conversing among themselves with clear contempt hidden behind their smiles. Even from so far away, Clara could almost hear their chatter, and how they tried to one-up each other like the obnoxious parents of Ivy League students.

  Yet among them were two figures she recognized almost instantly from the original story. A middle-aged man in modest clothing, whose kind blue eyes were tilted in worry. And a young woman with honey-blonde hair and a face that practically radiated innocence.

  Baron Rosewood and his daughter, Helena Rosewood. The victim.

  Helena was pale—not just from her porcelain skin, but a deep, unhealthy glow. Probably a result of her brush with death, whatever the truth behind it was. She looked cautiously at Iris, and, as if she were genuinely scared of her, her eyes quickly darted elsewhere. Yet when she looked at Clara, her gaze lingered. Their eyes met, but Clara couldn’t read Helena’s angelic expression at all.

  A moment later, the crimson-robed man returned from the backroom and took his place on the raised podium. He was twiddling his thumbs; compared to how graceful he'd looked before, whatever happened in the backroom seemed to have rattled him.

  Then, Clara heard murmurs from the upper gallery, near where the Rosewoods were, followed by the sound of dozens of people quickly standing upright. A young auburn-haired man made his way next to Helena—another figure Clara recognized from the original story.

  Helena’s eyes widened as the young man grasped her right hand and placed a kiss on it. Everyone around them gasped.

  Of course they did.

  Crown Prince Lochlann ó Conail Mhór had, very publicly, kissed the hand of a woman his fiancée stood accused of trying to murder. After the kiss, the prince sat down next to the Rosewoods as if that was the most natural thing in the world. His eyes scanned the courtroom, stopping when they reached Iris. And then his brows furrowed deeply, and his mouth twisted in disgust.

  Clara had rarely seen such pure anger before. She would have rolled her eyes at how cliché this was—the righteous anger of a crown prince, protecting the heroine from the evil villainess. Except… Clara glanced at Iris with worry—there was nothing amusing about having your betrothed scorn you like that. Yet even under the rage of the Crown Prince and the mocking gaze of the spectators who had seen what just took place, Iris’s serenity didn’t falter. But under the podium, hidden from outsiders’ view, Clara could see Iris’s hands shaking.

  Clara inched closer, almost imperceptibly, and took Iris’s hand in her own. Iris grasped it firmly—so tightly Clara almost yelped in pain. Then Iris took a deep breath and slowly released her grip.

  The moments that followed felt like an eternity. The Crown Prince never let go of his stare, and the spectators' murmurs only grew more brazen. But eventually, the room was silenced when the braziers flanking the main altar suddenly burned with tall, pure-white flames.

  Then a woman appeared from a back door and carefully climbed towards the altar. She wore white-and-gold robes, and atop her short white hair sat a conical hat which Clara well recognized—the symbol of a pope, even in her own world. Two crossed golden keys had been sewn onto it.

  The Pope took her seat on the throne, and the courtroom fell so still Clara thought she might be looking at a painting.

  She examined the Pope’s face. Despite her white hair, she didn’t look older than forty; there wasn’t a wrinkle or blemish to be seen. Her eyes were a deep amber, and her expression was impassive. Clara had expected someone ancient and wizened, like a cross between Benedict XVI and Professor McGonagall. Instead, the Pope looked like she could grace the cover of a Forbes article titled ‘40 Women Under 40 to Watch’.

  And then she opened her mouth.

  “We are gathered here today in the name of the Goddess and under the light of Heaven,” she announced. Her voice was low and emotionless, yet her words reverberated around the room as if they’d been shouted. It was almost as if the Pope was speaking directly into Clara’s ears. More magic, probably. “Today, we shall ascertain the truth of the matter between Helena Rosewood and Iris von Rhenia. The charge is a serious sin: attempted murder by poisoning. The accused are Lady Iris von Rhenia and her maid, Clara Casewell.”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Clara’s stomach dropped. She knew what was coming, but hearing it said like this, inside this building and in front of this audience, made it seem terrifying. Well, it was already terrifying—and now it was somehow worse.

  This woman, who she knew almost nothing about, was the one who would decide her and Iris’s fates. Clara could only pray that she was actually interested in something more than a sham trial, as slim as that hope seemed. Hello Miss Goddess, I’ve never talked to you before, but please make sure to keep the Pope honest, thank you very much.

  “Inquisitor Aldric, are you ready to begin?” asked the Pope.

  “Yes, Your Holiness.” The crimson-robed man stepped forward into the center of the courtroom, under the colorful rays of the stained glass. He held a small chest reverently. “The accused, Iris von Rhenia, shall step forward to receive the Blessing of Truth.”

  This was it. The truth spell. It was convenient that they called Iris first—it’d let Clara try to understand how it worked before being subjected to it, especially considering her… unique situation. Iris walked to the inquisitor with her chin held high. He opened the chest, and inside was a golden chalice filled with what looked like wine.

  Then he raised the chalice as high as he could, closed his eyes, and chanted.

  “In vino veritas.”

  Clara recognized the Latin phrase: In wine, there is truth. Was the magic of this world based on Latin? It would be nice if that were the case, as she’d had to study some of it at university. For the first time, the possibility of herself casting magic crossed Clara’s mind, and she couldn’t help but feel a glimpse of excitement, despite her current predicament. As if I needed another reason to survive this.

  The chalice glowed briefly, then Inquisitor Aldric lowered it and held it towards Iris.

  “Drink,” he commanded. “And speak only truth, for the Goddess sees all.”

  Iris took the chalice with steady hands and drank. For a while, nothing happened. Then a soft golden light emanated from her chest, pulsing gently like a heartbeat. Clara felt a change in the air, a thin pressure brushing against her skin every time the light pulsed.

  “The Blessing has taken hold,” said the Pope. “Lady Iris von Rhenia, you are now bound to speak only the truth until the interrogation concludes. Inquisitor, you may begin the interrogation.”

  They even call it an interrogation. Where was the fairness? Where was the justice? As a lawyer, Clara knew that truth is subjective. Is a half-truth a lie? Is a factually correct tale, told with purposeful omission of key details, the truth? Of course not. But could the Pope be convinced of that?

  Inquisitor Aldric faced the gallery, his pale eyes gleaming with an almost hungry light. “Let us examine the facts of this most grievous accusation.” Then he turned back to Iris. “Accused, detail your relationship with the victim, Helena Rosewood, since her enrollment at Claves Academy last autumn.”

  “The Lady Rosewood enrolled at Claves seven months ago. I understand she was transferred from a provincial school in the north, which is why she joined my second-year class directly.” Iris spoke measuredly, and it didn’t seem the truth spell had any effect on her personality. “Due to our incompatible social standing, I had no relation to her during her first few months at Claves.”

  Murmurs from the crowd. Iris was correct—there was an ocean of difference between the daughter of a small-time baron and the daughter of an important duke—but that phrasing was doing her no favors.

  “So when did you start engaging with her?” asked Inquisitor Aldric.

  “That would be about three months ago. After an accident during a riding class, Lady Helena was injured, and my fiancé, Prince Lochlann, gracefully volunteered to carry her to the nurse’s office. It was then that she started clinging to him—quite improperly, I might add.”

  So far, Iris’s responses matched what little Clara had read of the original story. The first arc was all about Iris’s and Stella’s comings and goings at Claves Academy, and their increasingly unpleasant encounters with Helena as she started getting closer to the Crown Prince.

  “Improperly?!” shouted Prince Lochlann from the upper gallery. He had stood up, and somehow looked even more irate than before, and ready to go on a tirade.

  This is why the Crown Prince archetype is the worst, thought Clara.

  “There was nothing improper about Lady—”

  “Silentium.” The Pope’s voice reverberated, and though Lochlann continued moving his mouth, no words came out.

  What I wouldn’t give to have had that power in my previous life, mused Clara. Imagine being able to do that to Warren. It was truly enviable. That aside, the fact that the Pope had no hesitation to silence even the Crown Prince was a clear sign of where the balance of power lay between the royal family and the church. Lochlann crossed his arms and sat down.

  “Ahem,” Inquisitor Aldric cleared his throat. “Given what you’ve just said, is it correct to say you dislike Lady Helena?”

  “It is not,” Iris answered matter-of-factly. “Lady Helena does not have sufficient social standing to warrant my dislike. But it is the role of a higher noble to remind others of their place, especially when they engage in improper conduct.”

  The inquisitor smiled at her answer. Iris, please stop, Clara almost begged as the outrage on the audience’s faces grew. Helena, for her part, had shrunk behind the Crown Prince, in a very convincing—and convenient—display of fear. Yet in the upper gallery, Duke von Rhenia simply nodded sharply.

  “Is that why you decided to poison her?”

  No. That’s a ridiculous question.

  “Objection!”

  Clara’s shout was visceral, pouring out of her throat before she had time to think about it. The phrasing of that question was just so misleading—it was worded specifically to make it seem like Iris wanted to kill Helena. Clara had to stop Iris from answering, no matter what.

  The Pope turned to Clara, and for the first time, their eyes met. The woman was just as impassive as before, but looking into the amber, Clara felt an almost magnetic pull towards the woman, like some innate desire to please her.

  Shit. Am I about to get silenced? If the Pope cast the same magic on her that she’d cast on the Crown Prince, it was all over. Clara would be useless. The Pope opened her mouth, and Clara held her breath.

  “‘Objection’, you say? Could the second accused pray clarify the meaning of her statement?”

  Phew. She hadn’t been silenced; in fact, she’d been given an opportunity to talk. She was just joking before, but maybe she did owe some thanks to their Goddess.

  “Your Holiness, the inquisitor’s question is misleading,” she explained. “It presupposes that the listener will interpret ‘poison’ as ‘fatally poison’—the crime to which Lady Iris stands accused of—when the nature of the substance involved has not been clarified. Asking that question forces Lady Iris to accept a misleading premise in her answer. It would be akin to asking someone ‘why did you decide to commit murder’ when they had merely pushed someone during an argument.”

  The courtroom erupted in a storm of gasps and angry muttering. Inquisitor Aldric’s face had gone as red as his robe. “This is highly irregular. A mere servant, interrupting sacred proceedings—”

  But Clara couldn’t let up here. She had to keep pushing, using a language they’d understand. “These proceedings seek truth, do they not? Then surely the questions asked should not contain implications within them. Otherwise, are we seeking the truth, or manufacturing a predetermined conclusion?”

  “We do not need to seek the truth,” countered the Inquisitor. “The truth is simply revealed to us by the Goddess.”

  “But even revelations must be accurately interpreted,” said Clara.

  The Pope raised a hand, and the courtroom fell silent once more.

  It all hangs on this. If the Pope rejected her argument here, it might as well be over. But if the Pope were at least open to her perspective, then there was a chance to turn this case around.

  Clara held her breath.