The heavy oak doors of the Grand Hall creaked open, the sound echoing through the hushed chamber, a wave of cold air sweeping in like a herald of misfortune. Two soldiers dragged in a young man clad in grey, shoving him to the ground, forcing him to kneel before the court. The young man's face remained shrouded in shadow, but the weight of his circumstances seemed to press down upon him, shoulders slumped under the scrutiny of the assembled court, including King Torin.
Silence reigned as the soldiers halted, their boots thudding against the polished stone floor. King Torin, seated upon his ornate throne, surveyed the captive with a gaze sharp as a honed blade. "Who is this?" he demanded, his voice booming through the hall.
The Captain of the Guard, a man whose face was etched with the lines of duty and hard-won experience, stepped forward. "Your Grace," he began, his voice clipped and formal, "this man is a spy. He was apprehended at the city gates, attempting to infiltrate the palace."
A murmur of whispers rippled through the court. Lord Marcellus, his eyes narrowed, scrutinized the captive. "And what proof do you have of this?" he questioned, his voice laced with suspicion. "Speak, Captain. What is your evidence?"
The Captain met Lord Marcellus's gaze. "He carries messages, Your Grace, written in a language unknown to our scribes. He claims to be a merchant, but his story is riddled with inconsistencies."
Lord William, still fixated on the captive, turned to the court. "Let the captive be brought forward."
As the soldiers forced the young man's head up, his breathtaking emerald green eyes met the judge's gaze, unwavering and filled with a confidence that defied his circumstances. The silence in the courtroom, thick with anticipation, seemed to crackle with the energy he emanated.
His long hair, a cascade of dark waves, framed a chiseled face as if sculpted by the gods themselves. Every feature was perfectly aligned; high cheekbones accentuated his strong jawline, a straight nose adding to his regal appearance. His skin glowed with a sun-kissed hue, complementing his striking features.
But it was his eyes that truly captivated King Torin, who met his gaze with a mix of intrigue and unease. They were a deep, enchanting shade of emerald green, sparkling with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the very souls of those who dared to look upon him.
"Who are you?" King Torin growled.
"Lucian," the captive lied, his voice rich and melodic.
Lord Marcellus leaned forward, recognition flickering in his eyes. He had known Aiden as a shadow flitting through the halls of the Queen's palace—a whisper of rebellion against King Torin, a skilled assassin, a loyal servant to Queen Lyra.
Aiden's voice hoarse from fear and exhaustion, raised his head. "I am a merchant," he began, his words halting and uncertain. "I traveled from the Crimson Isles, seeking trade with your kingdom."
"Lies!" Lord William roared, his voice filled with righteous anger. "He carries messages—messages that speak of treachery and rebellion. He is a spy, sent by an enemy, if not Queen Lyra, to undermine our King and his kingdom. It is evident in his eyes!"
King Torin grunted, his face impassive as he surveyed the court. "Lock him up," he commanded, the finality of his decree echoing through the hall.
As Aiden was dragged away, his silence was a deafening roar in the echoing grandeur of the Grand Hall. His emerald eyes, once burning with defiance, now held a flicker of despair as he was pulled through the throngs of courtiers, his gaze fixed on King Torin,who remained unmoved while the court buzzed with whispers.
Malen heart pounding in his chest as he watched Aiden being led away to the prison from a distance. Malen, a close friend of Duke, felt a cold dread settle upon him, realizing the gravity of the situation. Aiden's presence was not merely an attempt to silence a dissenter but a calculated move to eliminate a threat to the Queen's power.
Malen's thoughts raced as he rushed through the bustling streets.