The grand hall glittered with golden chandeliers and whispered pride—but the moment Duke Dracirr McMahon stepped forward, a hush fell like a blade through silk.
Jack sat uneasily at the royal table, surrounded by nobles and generals whose smiles had begun to fade.
Dracirr raised a goblet, then let it clink softly back onto the table.
"I wonder," he began, voice calm, "how many of you remember the name Elara Celestria?"
A ripple of confusion passed through the guests.
"Elara…?"
"I don't think I've heard of her."
"Was she nobility?"
At that, Arthur Lancaster—the seasoned commander known for his stoic silence—straightened in his seat. His brows knit together, and his hand clenched tightly.
Dracirr took a slow step forward, his tone darkening.
"Elara Celestria. 37th General of the Eldorian Army. The Former Blade Princess of Eldoria. A peasant—yes—but a hero, one this kingdom forgot."
A murmur spread again, this time heavier, unsure.
"She died in the Valley," Dracirr continued, eyes scanning the room, "but not in the way your stories suggest. Not in battle. Not for glory."
Then he turned—to Jack.
"She was killed… by him."
The entire hall seemed to freeze.
Jack blinked. "What…?"
"You heard me," Dracirr said coldly. "Jack Craneson. A stranger from nowhere, who came into our lands speaking no tongue, with no past, and within days… Elara was dead."
"That's a lie," Jack snapped, rising. "You know what happen—"
"Silence!" Dracirr roared. "Let me speak the truth your precious guest won't."
He turned to the crowd, voice thunderous.
"Elara Celestria died not for some noble cause. She died by his hand. He killed her in cold blood in the Valley—and took her blade for himself. That's why he carries her rapier now. That's why he hid in the rebellion. To cover it up."
A stunned silence.
Then gasps.
"No…"
"He murdered a former general?"
"But… he wears her sword—"
Jack stood, eyes wide. "That's not what happened! you're there—"
Dracirr sneered. "Now he speaks, when months ago he couldn't even defend himself. Convenient, isn't it?"
Jack shook his head, trying to breathe, trying to force the words out.
"I didn't kill her," he said. "You fucking bastard… you killed her. She died because of you!"
"She fucking died protecting me!" Jack snapped. "And you think I wanted that? You think I stood there and let her die?"
Dracirr's expression darkened, his voice low and sharp. "Watch your tongue, outsider." He stepped forward, cold fury in his eyes. "You speak of her death like you're the victim. You think shouting and swearing makes you right?" He sneered. "You didn't stop her. You let her die. And now you take her sword like a fucking badge of honor."
Jack's breath hitched.
"I just protect it," he whispered.
"Did you?" Dracirr mocked. "Or did you take it—after she bled out in the dirt for you?"
"N-no..-"
Then, with dramatic flair, Dracirr raised his hand.
A soldier stepped forward—silent and cloaked in shadows.
He held something in his arms, wrapped in worn red cloth.
The soldier unwrapped it.
A gleam of silver and deep crimson.
Elara's sword.
Gasps erupted.
"That's…"
"The Blade Princess's weapon…"
Jack's world tilted.
His vision blurred as he stepped forward.
"No… That's impossible, I gave it to beatrice-"
He looked between the soldier and Dracirr.
"That sword.. was in beatrice. I gave it to her—how do you have it?!"
Dracirr lifted it with reverence and cruelty all at once.
"Because I retrieved it."
Jack's knees weakened.
"You don't even have the right to touch that," he said, voice shaking. "You hated her. She—she would never want you near it."
Dracirr turned to the King and Queen, holding the blade out for all to see.
"This, my lords… is the weapon of a fallen hero. And this man—" he pointed again at Jack, "—stained it with her blood."
"w-what no! I didn't -"
The room was now deathly still.
Eyes bore into Jack like knives.
Even the Queen's hand trembled.
And at the corner of the royal table, Arthur Lancaster finally rose.
He looked at the blade, then at Jack.
But he said nothing.
That silence hurt more than all the stares.
Jack's throat was tight. His thoughts spiraling.
He saw Elara again—smiling, offering him food, laughing under the stars.
Then he saw her again, falling—her blood on his hands.
And he whispered—
"…maybe I did kill her."
Arthur Lancaster flinched—just slightly.
The room held its breath.
Jack's voice, small and broken, echoed in the marble silence like a confession to a crime he hadn't committed.
"See?" Dracirr's voice rang out like a gavel striking judgment.
"He admits it. Guilt has caught up to him."
"No…" Jack muttered, trying to take it back, but his voice was lost under the weight of the room's horror.
Every noble stared. Murmurs surged like waves crashing into him.
"He may be one of the heroes, but he is unlikely a hero"
"He deceived us all…"
"He killed a girl for a blade?"
"He even use his power as a hero to kill a woman, disgusting!"
At the high table, the Queen turned her face away.
Even Austin—one of the Five Heroes—stepped forward. "I knew it! You fucking bastard…" he said, eyes clouded with betrayal.
"I didn't—" Jack tried, but it came out barely audible.
Andre scoffed, arms folded.
"I don't know what to believe bro… I think this one is on you"
Sophia stared at Jack in disbelief.
"Why didn't you tell us this before, we're from the same world aren't we?"
Her voice cracked—not with anger, but with deep uncertainty.
"I—because—" Jack's voice trembled.
His eyes filled with tears, burning, unfallen.
"because what?" Dracirr demanded, voice heavy with venom.
"…She jumped in front of me." Jack finally said. "They was going to kill me, and she—she didn't even hesitate to-"
But the words felt like they came too late.
Dracirr took a step closer, his cloak sweeping behind him like storm clouds.
"And yet you survived. And she didn't. Quite the convenient silence."
He turned to the crowd.
"This man is not a hero. He is a parasite. He latched onto our Blade Princess, let her die, and now parades around with her weapon as if her sacrifice justifies his presence here."
He faced the King and Queen once more.
"This is a man who manipulates hearts. Who uses kindness as a shield. He let a girl die to protect himself… and now he poisons your court with sympathy."
The Queen's hand dropped from her mouth.
The King finally rose.
"Enough."
His voice was quiet. Heavy. He looked at Jack, his face unreadable.
"Jack Craneson. For the murder of General Elara Celestria, you are hereby placed under royal arrest until the truth of these events can be discerned."
Beatrice suddenly shows up and step forward. "Your Majesty, there must be more—"
"Beatrice" jack whispers
"Beatrice." It was Arthur, his father who spoke now, finally. His voice wasn't harsh. Just… tired.
"Let him speak no more tonight. His silence speaks enough."
Beatrice's lips parted, but no words came out. She turned to Jack—her friend, her comrade—and for the first time, she couldn't read him.
Arabella stood frozen near the pillars, hands clenched at her sides. Her eyes shimmered, but she did not move.
Jack felt the pressure closing in.
Two knights stepped forward.
One grabbed his arm.
He didn't fight.
His knees buckled slightly, but he didn't fall.
Dracirr turned his back with a victorious smirk, already sipping from his goblet again as if it were over.
But Arthur Lancaster didn't sit.
He watched Jack—watched the pain, the guilt, the trauma welling behind his eyes.
As the knights led Jack out, sword removed from his side, Arthur whispered just loud enough:
"The truth will bleed through silence eventually."
-------
The dungeon beneath the castle was colder than Jack expected.
Not the kind of cold that bit the skin—but the kind that clung to the bones, that pressed on the chest like the weight of a thousand stares.
The cell door slammed shut behind him.
Heavy iron. No keyhole on his side.
He stood there in silence, staring at the stone floor. His hands trembled—not from fear of death, but from the faces burned into his mind.
Sophia's broken voice.
Austin's rage.
Jack sat slowly, back against the wall, knees pulled in. The cot creaked beside him but he ignored it. He didn't want rest. He wanted Elara to walk through the bars and punch him in the shoulder and call him an idiot.
But ghosts don't visit traitors.
"I can't even defend myself..." he whispers
His head fell forward, and for the first time in months, he let the tears fall.
He wept. For Elara. For himself.
For every word he hadn't said.
For every truth lost in silence.
Elsewhere in the castle...
Arabella stood in a hallway of mirrors, her hand still trembling.
She stared at her reflection, her lips parted as if waiting for a voice that would never come.
Jack had never looked more lost than he did tonight.
And yet—could he truly have done it?
"Arabella," came Beatrice's voice behind her. Calm, clipped, but soft around the edges.
Arabella turned slowly.
Beatrice didn't look angry. Just tired. Her fists clenched around her cloak.
She had followed the knights halfway down to the dungeon before being stopped.
"I know what you're thinking," Beatrice said.
Arabella swallowed hard. "Do you think he really did it?"
Beatrice didn't answer immediately.
She looked past Arabella—out the arched window, to the moon hanging above the city.
"No," she finally said. "I know about that story, Jack told me about it."
Arabella stepped closer, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I knew it! Jack can't do something like that. He's not a bad person"
Beatrice's eyes narrowed slightly.
"That dumbass isn't a killer," she said. "But I'm afraid this court no longer cares about truth. Only appearances."
They stood in silence for a moment longer, until Arabella whispered:
"We have to find proof. Or he's going to hang for this."
Beatrice nodded once.
"Then let's start with the one man who isn't fooled by Dracirr's show."
"Your father?"
"No," Beatrice said.
She turned to walk down the corridor.
-------
Back in the cell…
Jack lay curled on the stone, eyes wide open.
He didn't know how long he'd been there.
But when footsteps echoed down the corridor, he sat up.
A figure approached.
Not a guard.
Arthur Lancaster, Beatrice's Father
He stopped just outside the bars, arms folded behind his back.
Jack blinked, unsure if he was dreaming.
Arthur spoke quietly.
"You know what hurts more than losing a daughter?"
Jack said nothing.
Arthur's gaze was heavy.
"Watching someone else carry the weight of her death... and not knowing if it's grief or guilt."
Jack opened his mouth, but words failed.
Arthur stared a moment longer.
Then turned to go.
But just before the shadows swallowed him, he left behind four words:
"Don't let it end here."
-----
The grand banquet that had once been the crown jewel of the King's Spring Reign now sat in uncomfortable silence.
No music. No chatter. No laughter.
Just cold plates and colder stares.
Wine glasses were half-drained, untouched. Conversations had shriveled into murmurs.
The nobles whispered behind silken fans and golden goblets.
"That boy… the foreigner? Truly?"
"I thought he was one of the Chosen."
"He doesn't even have a title. How did we let him near the Royal Family?"
Lord's Commander Saren Valemont shifted in his seat, eyes narrowed. A war hero himself, his loyalty to the throne had never been in question—but now, he looked to Dracirr with mild suspicion.
"Convenient timing," he muttered.
General Mercia Halden, seated beside him, nodded slowly. "It felt... rehearsed."
But not everyone was skeptical.
Lady Viadra of the Western Guild clinked her glass and scoffed, "I warned the High Mage not to trust common blood with relics of legends."
Others simply nodded. Some looked afraid. Some looked thrilled.
Dracirr, seated once more, drank slowly, letting the chaos swirl around him. He didn't need to say more—the damage was done.
At the far end of the room…
Austin paced behind the pillar, fists clenched.
"I knew he was off" he spat.
Andre leaned against a stone column, arms crossed but face uncertain.
"Yeah… but... dude, that Elara. She wasn't dumb. She wouldn't die for someone like that without a reason."
Sophia stood silently near the balcony, eyes locked on the horizon. Her voice was distant.
"He was shaking. You saw that, right? That wasn't guilt. That was… something else."
Austin snorted. "He admitted it."
Sophia turned sharply. "He broke. There's a difference."
Andre glanced between them, torn.
"I mean... we don't know what really happened in the Valley. Hell, no one knows what happened back then except Jack and that guy Dracirr."
And then, near the quiet edge of the hall, Natalya stood.
Alone, at first. Just listening. Watching.
Her eyes hadn't left the spot where Jack had stood—where his voice had cracked under the pressure of a thousand judging eyes.
She clenched her gloves in her hand and finally spoke aloud, louder than most expected from her:
"He didn't do it."
Heads turned.
Natalya stepped forward, her violet gown trailing like a shadow.
"Jack Craneson wouldn't kill anyone unless he had no choice. And if Elara died for him, it wasn't because he asked her to. It's because she believed in him."
"You sure about that?" Andre asked, genuinely curious.
Natalya didn't waver.
"I've seen him stare at his hands like they were covered in blood earlier since that man Dracirr appears. I've seen guilt—but not once have I seen pride in what happened."
Austin scoffed. "You always liked the quiet ones."
"I like the true ones," Natalya said. "And nothing about Dracirr's story felt right."
She turned to Sophia, who gave a small, conflicted nod.
Then to Andre, who looked away, unsure.
And finally to the high table, where the King and Queen still sat—quiet, withdrawn, shaken.
Natalya raised her voice again.
"If the court is willing to sentence a man based on trauma alone… then we're not a kingdom. We're a theater."
Her words hung in the air.
Dracirr's eyes flicked her way, amused—but not threatened. Yet.
Back at the table of the Commanders, Arthur Lancaster sat back down and smirks.
He sipped his wine slowly, ignoring the tension. But his eyes never left Dracirr.
And beneath the table, his fingers tapped against the hilt of his blade.
Natalya remained seated, her wine untouched, her eyes fixed on Dracirr.
Everyone else had been swept up by his words, by the dramatics, by the perfectly timed accusation and the emotional outburst.
But not her.
Not with her background.
Her parents had been detectives back in Moscow. Two of the sharpest minds she'd ever known. Natalya had grown up not just reading people—but dissecting them. Tone. Movement. Inconsistencies.
And this man?
His story had a hole big enough to walk a horse through.
Her eyes fell to the sword he had dramatically tossed onto the banquet floor minutes ago.
Elara's sword.
No.
Jack's sword.
Her memory was too good to make a mistake like that. She'd seen it with her own eyes—Beatrice, carrying it at her side when they entered the Palace. She had been the one guarding it fiercely, like it meant the world to her. "If Jack was truly the reason for Elara's death, he wouldn't dare give the sword to someone, especially a well known person. It would be like digging his own grave" she murmurs..
Dracirr was lying.
And nobody noticed.
Natalya's lips twitched.
People in this world are dumber than I thought.
She rose to her feet.
Her chair scraped the floor softly—but in the heavy silence of the hall, it sounded like thunder.
All turned again.
Even Dracirr's gaze sharpened.
"I have one question," Natalya said, walking forward, casual and slow, almost bored. "Where did you get that sword?"
Dracirr tilted his head, not sensing the trap yet. "From a village near the border. The people there gave it to me—saying it was all that was left after Elara Celestria died."
Natalya gave a small, crooked smile.
Then she looked toward the nobles, the generals, even the King.
"I see," she said, almost lazily. "Interesting."
Dracirr squinted. "Is there a problem, Hero Natalya?"
She turned back to him.
"Yes," she said plainly. "Because that exact sword—that rapier—was not in any village. It was with Beatrice Lancaster, daughter of Lord Arthur Lancaster. She carried it with her. Protected it. She never let it out of her sight."
Dracirr's confident expression flickered.
Just once.
The room stilled again.
Natalya's voice was cool, sharp. "So unless you're calling a Lord Commander's daughter a thief—or a liar—your story is full of holes."
She began circling him now, like a lioness.
"You claimed the sword came from a nameless village, conveniently destroyed, conveniently left with no witnesses. But that same sword was brought to Evendale by Beatrice herself. I saw it. The black engravings. The starburst pommel. A unique artifact, too specific to be mistaken."
She stopped right in front of him.
"You made that up."
Dracirr looked furious now, but carefully masked it behind a civil smile.
"And what are you implying?"
Natalya didn't flinch.
"I'm implying that you're lying. Not only about where you got the sword—but maybe about a lot more."
The nobles began murmuring again, this time more unsettled.
The High Mage leaned toward the King and whispered something.
The Queen, pale, watched Dracirr closely now.
Natalya kept going.
"You wanted to stir emotion. And you did. But emotion isn't truth."
She turned toward the high table.
"Jack may be hiding something. He may even be guilty of something. But this man?"—she pointed at Dracirr—"he's not telling the full truth either. And I won't sit and let this trial be built on theatrics and forged stories."
She paused.
"Because if Elara Celestria did die to save Jack… then the real crime would be dishonoring her name with a lie."
For the first time, Dracirr didn't respond.
He just stood there.
Cornered.
The King exchanged glances with his wife.
Beatrice, off to the side, stared at Natalya with wide eyes. Her hand unconsciously moved to her belt—where that same sword rest.
Even Andre leaned over to Austin and muttered, "Bro… she's got a point."
"shut up bro!" Austin exclaimed
Sophia's expression softened, regret stirring behind her eyes.
Enrico looking at them like a lost child
Natalya turned one last time to the hall.
"I suggest we stop letting grief and anger guide this conversation," she said. "And start investigating what really happened. Like heroes."
Then she returned to her seat, arms crossed, done talking.
But the storm she left behind was just beginning to spin.
The hall was thick with tension, the nobles whispering anxiously after Dracirr's accusation. Suddenly, a clear, commanding voice broke through the murmur.
"As the highest soldier of this kingdom—your hero," Natalya declared, stepping forward with a steady gaze, "I command you—all of you—to bring Jack Craneson here at once."
The soldiers immediately snapped to attention, their armor clinking as they moved with swift precision.
After a few minutes, Jack arrived.
Natalya's eyes locked onto him. "And know this: I will serve as your attorney in this matter."
A hush fell. In this land where lawyers were rare and justice often a matter of power, Natalya's role as both warrior and defender was extraordinary.
She took a step closer to Jack. "You will have my protection. We will see this trial through with honor and truth."
The king nodded solemnly, recognizing the weight of her words. The court prepared to move, but with Natalya now standing firmly at Jack's side, the tide of the trial had just shifted.
Natalya moved beside Jack, her expression sharp yet calm. "Jack, you must stay strong. This accusation is meant to break you, but we will uncover the truth."
Jack nodded, though his heart pounded with fear and confusion. "But how? They all believe Dracirr…"
"Not all," Natalya said firmly. "There are those who see through lies. We will call witnesses, gather facts. I will speak for you—no one will silence us."
The hall quieted as the king raised his hand. "Let the trial begin. Natalya, you will present the defense."
Dracirr sneered, but Natalya's presence seemed to steal some of his confidence.
"First," Natalya said, "we demand proof of this accusation. The sword Dracirr claims to hold—let it be examined. Let those who knew Elara speak."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. A few generals, their faces grim, stepped forward, eyes narrowing on Dracirr.
Then another voice spoke out—cool, steady, and unmistakable.
"That sword," said Beatrice, stepping forward, "is a forgery."
All heads turned.
Beatrice strode confidently into the center of the hall, carrying a long, wrapped object in her hands.
She continued, "Elara's true sword—her rapier—is here." Beatrice shows them the sword. "Jack gave it to me for safekeeping after she died. He was there when she fell. He didn't steal anything—he preserved it."
The entire chamber froze.
The king raised a hand. "Bring here blade. Now."
Minutes later, two guards gets the rapier from beatrice, now unwrapped and gleaming beneath the torchlight. Elegant, untouched, bearing the unmistakable crest of the Silvermoon bloodline.
Commander Roderic stepped forward, examining the rapier. "This… this is the real blade. I would know it anywhere. I trained with Elara myself."
He turned to Dracirr's sword and scowled. "This one is altered. Corrupted. A poor imitation meant to deceive."
Beatrice looked at Dracirr coldly. "You never had the real sword in the first place."
Gasps filled the room.
Captain Elenora stepped forward next. "We found evidence in Dracirr's quarters—enchanted forging tools, altered letters, documents linking him to black-market mages. He crafted this lie from beginning to end."
Dracirr's face turned pale. "No! This is all—!"
As the court's whispers spread like wildfire, and Jack stood silently in chains—rage, grief, and helplessness swirling inside him—Natalya stepped forward. Her boots echoed against the marble floor, and her sharp eyes didn't leave Dracirr.
"Enough," she said coldly, her voice slicing through the noise like steel. "You want to accuse someone of murder? Then show us the truth."
Dracirr raised a brow. "The truth lies at his feet."
"No," Natalya said, now looking at the sword he had presented. "The real truth lies in the sword itself."
That made the nobles pause.
Jack blinked, confused. "What are you talking about?"
Natalya glanced at him, her tone quieter. "The real Elara Celestria would never let her blade fall into the hands of a man like him."
She turned back to the court. "I've studied relics. Enchanted weapons bear traces—mana, memory, intention. Elara's sword was forged not just with steel, but with purpose. If that sword is real, then it carries her will."
Jack's heart pounded. "And if it's fake…"
"Then this entire accusation falls apart," she said. "Because the sword was with you when she died. And Elara Celestria didn't die for a traitor. She died for someone she believed in."
The room fell into a tense silence. Some nobles looked shaken; others glanced nervously at Dracirr, whose smug expression had twisted slightly.
Natalya stepped forward again. "Let us examine the sword. Let the court's mages test it. If it's the real one, it will recognize Jack. If not…" She looked at Dracirr coldly. "Then we'll know who's really lying."
For the first time since the accusation, Jack saw the faintest flicker of doubt in the room. Maybe—just maybe—the tide could turn.
The hall remained deathly still as Dracirr's grip tightened on the sword. His usual theatrical confidence wavered for a breath. "This is beneath the dignity of the court," he muttered.
"Then why hesitate?" Natalya challenged, folding her arms. "If it's real, you have nothing to fear."
The Queen raised her hand. "Enough. I will not allow these proceedings to be built on shadows and doubt. Bring forth a mage—one versed in relics and soulbound enchantments."
Moments later, a tall, elderly mage in indigo robes was ushered in. His beard shimmered faintly with silver, and the court parted as he approached. He bowed to the queen before setting his pale eyes on the sword.
"This blade," he murmured, taking it gently from Dracirr's reluctant hands. "A beautiful piece… ancient elven steel. But beauty alone is not proof."
He held it in both hands and closed his eyes. Soft, glowing threads of mana rose from his fingertips and began to wrap around the sword like vines. The court leaned in, watching.
Then—a pulse.
A low hum filled the air.
The sword trembled.
Everyone flinched as a faint blue
The court mages moved quickly.
Under the queen's hesitant nod, two elder enchanters stepped forward and took the sword from Dracirr's hands. They placed it on the center pedestal, encircling it with glowing sigils. The room dimmed as a sphere of pale light pulsed outward, revealing the sword's aura—or lack of one.
Nothing.
No mana trace. No enchantment. No history.
The older mage frowned. "This blade has never been bound to anyone. It is a forgery. A fine one, but a lie all the same."
Gasps rippled across the hall. Jack stared, chest tightening. His thoughts were a storm—relief, rage, heartbreak.
Natalya stepped beside him. "I told you. The real sword was left with Jack. The woman Dracirr claims to mourn died with honor. And that sword was a lie meant to twist her death into a weapon."
All eyes turned to Dracirr. His mask cracked. His smirk faded into silence.
"Silence," the king thundered. "You lied before the royal court, twisted the name of a fallen hero, and nearly destroyed an innocent man. For that, Dracirr McMahon, you are stripped of your title and sentenced to imprisonment in the Eastern Spire. May the crown never again see treachery so bold."
Dracirr was dragged away, screaming in disgrace.
Jack exhaled sharply, shoulders shaking. Natalya touched his arm.
"You did well," she said quietly. "It's over now."
The room echoed with the king's final words. "Dracirr McMahon, for your false testimony and deceit in the presence of the crown, you are hereby sentenced to imprisonment within the Iron Vaults of Evendale. Let it be known—lying before the throne is a sin this kingdom does not pardon."
Dracirr was seized by royal guards, his struggles pointless as the heavy chains clinked into place. His eyes darted wildly, still searching for a way out, but there was none. Jack watched silently as Dracirr was dragged away, his voice reduced to bitter muttering.
The tension in the grand hall slowly lifted. Several of the nobles and generals began turning to Jack, some wearing sheepish expressions, others trying to offer polite nods—as if that could erase what had just happened.
But Jack didn't look at them. He stepped off the platform and walked straight toward Natalya.
"You didn't have to do all that," Jack said, voice quiet but heavy with sincerity. "You risked everything for someone you barely know."
Natalya tilted her head, arms crossed, a faint smile on her face. "I didn't do it for you, Jack. I did it for what's right. But… I'm glad you're not behind bars."
Jack gave a tired chuckle. "If you hadn't stepped up, I would be." He paused. "Thank you. Really. You're the only one who actually saw me."
She gave a slight nod, then reached to adjust his cloak. "Try not to get into trouble again."
But then Jack's face turned solemn. He stepped forward, raised his voice so that the hall could hear.
"I have something to say."
Everyone turned. The nobles fell quiet. The king leaned forward.
"I resign," Jack said plainly.
Silence struck the room like a blade.
"What?" Beatrice stepped forward. "Jack, wait—"
"I'm done," Jack said, eyes not even meeting the other heroes. "I don't want to be one of your so-called heroes anymore."
The king slowly stood. "If this is about the misunderstanding… the prison, the accusations—know that it was not my intention to abandon justice."
Jack finally looked at him, his voice flat. "That was justice to you?"
The room felt colder.
"I see it now. To most of you, I was never truly one of you—just an outsider, a name on a prophecy, easy to praise when things were simple and even easier to blame when they weren't. You didn't believe in me. You barely even tried to understand me. You smiled in my face, but the moment doubt crept in, the moment things got hard, you turned on me. You all didn't protect me. You'll didn't even ask. You all just watched as I was dragged away like a criminal. I wasn't a hero to you. I was a placeholder. A problem waiting for a reason to be thrown away."
Beatrice took a step forward, reaching for him, but Jack raised a hand. "Don't. I'm not doing this out of spite. I'm just… done pretending."
He turned back to Natalya. "I'll find my own way from here."
Then Jack walked out of the grand hall, his boots echoing sharply against the stone floor, leaving behind stunned silence and a broken title.