The cold night dragged on like a living nightmare.
Inside the dimly lit palace courtyard, Harper stood trembling, her breath visible in the biting air. She clutched the polished royal gift box to her chest, with her fingers locked so tightly around it that her finger joints stood out like stone. Her shoulders shook with every uneven breath, and her wide eyes were fixed on the ground, too terrified to meet the gaze of anyone around her. Her heart pounded so hard as she was overwhelmed with fear.
The guards had encircled her, their spears crossed before her like a cage of metal. Around them, nobles gathered in clusters, their silks and furs whispering in the chill breeze as they exchanged sharp glances and hushed suspicions. Their curiosity was laced with judgment, their eyes full of contempt and self-righteous thrill.
At the center of it all, Vivian stepped forward. She moved like a queen even though she wasn't one, her silver gown trailing behind her, and her posture unbending. Her voice rang out, loud and unrelenting, slicing through the heavy tension that hung in the air.
"This disgrace must not go unanswered," she declared. Her eyes didn't blink. "Theft-from the royal house-during a festival held in honor of our king!"
The words hung in the air like smoke from a fire no one dared to extinguish.
Harper dropped to her knees, her legs were no longer able to hold her upright. The box slipped from her arms and landed softly on the stone beside her, the royal crest catching the torchlight. Her lips trembled, and her voice broke into a desperate plea.
"I-I didn't mean to...!" she choked, clutching the hem of her cloak as if it might anchor her to the earth. "Lucius... Lucius said..."
Gasps fluttered through the watching crowd like startled birds. The name alone stirred movement.
Lucius stepped out from the noble ranks, the son of a powerful duke, the King's adviser. One of Tristan's closest companions. His face had gone pale as wax, and he looked to Vivian as though searching for instruction in her expression.
"I knew nothing of it," he said quickly, lifting both hands in mock innocence. "She must have misunderstood."
"No!" Harper cried out, with her voice raw with disbelief. "You said... You told me to meet you here..."
"Enough!" Vivian snapped.
Her command echoed against the cold stone walls, silencing the murmurs instantly.
Then, from his high seat at the far end of the courtyard, the King Emrys raised a single, trembling hand. The crowd quieted further. Though age weighed heavy on his bones, his voice still carried force.
"An invitation to our home is not an invitation to steal," he said, slow and deliberate. "It was your hand that carried the gift away. No one else's."
Harper's face crumpled as the last hope drained from her. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but words failed her.
Vivian's glare was like a blade against her skin, merciless and unmoving.
"Take her to the cells," the King ordered.
Two guards moved in without hesitation, seizing Harper by the arms. She struggled at first, but the fight quickly left her. Her sobs echoed down the corridor of stone as she was dragged away, her sharp and broken cries clung to the air, then slowly vanished into silence.
At Celeste's home, the air was thick with dread. The family huddled together, not from cold, but from the invisible weight of fear pressing down on them. None had slept. Their eyes were hollow, and their faces drawn tight with exhaustion and panic. Her mother sat at the edge of the worn-out sofa, clutching her prayer beads with such force that the wooden spheres left deep, angry marks in her palms. Her lips moved in silent desperation, repeating the same prayer over and over, as though repetition could somehow undo the nightmare.
Her father had been pacing for hours, with his boots creaking on the cracked floorboards. Each step matched the rhythm of his muttered prayers, hands trembled behind his back as though grasping for something he'd already lost. He glanced at the window with every shadow that passed, as if expecting the worst, and knowing it would come.
Celeste was curled up in the far corner of the room, her arms were wrapped around her knees, trembling not from the cold but from a terror so deep it made her limbs feel heavy and her chest tight. Her breathing came in shallow gasps. She imagined seeing Harper in her mind, Harper being dragged away, crying, calling out for help that never came.
The knock came just before dawn.
It wasn't a knock, it was a hammering blow.
Celeste jumped. Her mother cried out and her father stepped forward, but the door didn't wait for him. It was kicked open with a force that rattled the entire house. Guards in dark cloaks stormed inside, with their faces cold and unreadable.
"In the name of King Emrys," one barked, his voice was like gravel, "you are under arrest for crimes against the royal house."
Her mother's beads hit the floor as she heard those words.
No pleas were heard, no explanations allowed and no mercy given.
The guards moved with mechanical precision, pulling the family apart as they screamed each other's names. Celeste's cries were swallowed by the clamor, whilst her mother's protests drowned in chaos. They were dragged through the streets like animals, bound in rope and shame.
Mud splashed their legs, cold and clinging. Rotten fruit pelted their sides, and the villagers watched in silence whispering cruel things from behind shutters. A few brave, or cruel enough stood outside, pointing, and laughing. One man threw a cabbage and cheered when it hit Celeste's father squarely in the chest.
At the palace courtyard, the spectacle had already begun. A platform stood at its center, draped in royal colors, surrounded by nobles in fur-lined cloaks and commoners pressed shoulder-to-shoulder.
Celeste's family was shoved forward and forced to kneel. Their clothes were ripped, stained with dirt and humiliation. Their heads hung low, but even their silence couldn't shield them from the sting of watching eyes.
Harper knelt beside them, her wrists were shackled,with her hair limp and tangled around her face. Her eyes were empty, and her sobs long dried up.
From the royal balcony, Tristan stood stiffly. His fists were clenched so tightly at his sides, crescent marks formed in his palms. He didn't blink. Didn't breathe. His golden eyes were fire and helplessness, locked on Celeste, his friend, his...
A court herald unrolled a scroll and read aloud, voice booming:
"By order of the crown, this family is hereby stripped of all rights and honors. Their lands, if any, are seized. Their rank erased. From this day forth, they are to be known as no more than shadows in the kingdom they once called home."
Gasps. A few claps. Murmurs of approval and pity echoed.
Humiliation had taken shape, carved into every corner of their bodies, and etched deep into memory. It would live on in whispers, in stares and in the way people stepped aside from them in the streets.
This was no longer punishment.
It was harsher.
The royal court went silent, the tension thick enough to choke on. Every eye was fixed on the prisoners. Every breath held. Tristan, who was standing just a few paces away from the center, felt like the silence was pressing down on his chest. His fists were clenched at his sides, and nails bit into his palms. Rage burned under his skin, so hot it nearly became visible. He had fought this, he had begged for mercy. He had gone to his mother in private, had made his case, tried to remind her what dignity and grace looked like. But Vivian had turned her back on him, cold and unmoved. She hadn't just ignored him, she had orchestrated this.
Now he was forced to stand here and witness the destruction of a family he had once shared meals with. Laughed with and tried protecting.
From the edge of his vision, he caught sight of Lucius. The boy stood rigid among the younger nobles, his shoulders were stiff and chin tucked. He refused to meet Tristan's gaze.
Tristan's jaw clenched so hard it ached.
Coward.
Liar.
He had heard Harper's voice, the raw fear in her words, and the broken way she had spoken Lucius's name. There was no mistaking it. She hadn't invented that betrayal, Lucius had led her into it.
And yet he stood there like it wasn't his fault, like he wasn't watching the consequences unfold before his very eyes.
Across the courtyard, Orion stood silently with his arms folded tightly over his chest. His face was stone, and his lips pressed in a tight line. But even from that distance, Tristan could see it, there was something in his eyes. A flicker. Not compassion, not support, but maybe... regret. Orion didn't speak for the family. He didn't defend them, neither did he object. But he hadn't cheered either. His silence, though deafening, carried its own burden.
Orion didn't want to be part of this.
And yet he stood still, as if his feet were locked in place, chained by the weight of his own inaction.
Then came the crack of the whip, slicing the morning air like thunder. It struck the stone floor just inches from the prisoners. Not flesh, not yet. But a message clear enough: one step out of line, and the punishment would go further.
A sick, twisted cheer rippled through the crowd. Not joyous, but satisfied. The kind of noise born from cruelty dressed up as righteousness.
Tristan turned his face away, blinking hard. His vision swam, not from tears, but from the heat of pure fury. His chest heaved. This wasn't justice. This wasn't discipline. This was punishment served on a silver platter of humiliation, Vivian's doing, through and through.
As the courtyard began to clear and the shackled family was dragged off into disgrace, a cold mist crept in. The sun was rising, but there was no warmth in it. From high above, hidden in the shadows of the royal balcony, Vivian stood watching, with her expression unreadable, and her hands folded neatly like she were at a dinner recital instead of a public shaming.
Down below, Celeste raised her head one last time. Her face was streaked with dirt and tears, but her eyes, when they found Tristan's, were still full of fight and tears. His breath caught.
And just like that, the anger inside him snapped.
He strode across the courtyard with purpose, straight toward Lucius. No guards, no ceremony, just rage.
"You think you're safe?" Tristan hissed, grabbing Lucius by the collar, his voice was low and dangerous. "You think hiding behind your father's title makes you untouchable?"
Lucius flinched, his eyes widen, and mouth opened to object, but before a word could escape, Tristan shoved him out of the crowd and into a shadowed corridor.
"You know I know you're not innocent in this," Tristan growled, releasing his grip, his fists still trembling with fury. "You'll regret this. I swear it."