The High Court Hall – Sol-Regis Palace. 09:00 AM.
The massive, ten-meter-high mahogany doors groaned open, letting out a long, heavy skreeee that echoed through the vaulted ceiling of the great hall.
Hundreds of nobles filling the spectator galleries turned in unison. From above, the stands looked like an overcrowded, garish garden; a sea of neon-colored gowns, tiered ruffles, heavily powdered white wigs, and silk fans fluttering with practiced arrogance. they had come for one thing: to watch the "backwater peasants from the North" grovel and beg for mercy through a veil of tears.
However, the figures who strode in silenced the collective whispering instantly.
House Sudrath.
They arrived in a palette that defied every local trend: all black. Yet, it wasn't the black of mourning. It was a sharp, formal black that radiated modern authority.
Duke Lucian led the way, clad in a black military-cut suit with gold buttons marching in perfect lines across his chest—devoid of the excessive fur trim the other nobles obsessed over. Beside him, Duchess Aurelia walked with intimidating grace in a form-fitting black gown and a small fascinator hat that partially veiled one eye. Rianor, Roland, and Rhea followed with a synchronized, steady gait, their footsteps producing a solid, rhythmic thrum against the marble floor.
"My word... look at them," whispered a young noblewoman in the front row, her eyes fixed on the sharp lines of Roland's suit. "They look... incredibly sharp."
The party stopped at the center of the hall, standing tall before the magnificent throne. There, King Aethelgard IV sat with a weary expression, his eyes half-closed as if the affairs of the state were merely a lullaby. Yet, at his right, Grand Chancellor Morvath stood clutching his staff of office, a thin, condescending smirk playing on his lips.
"The accused, Duke Lucian Sudrath," the High Judge's voice boomed, authoritative yet cold. "You stand charged with First-Degree War Crimes: the unchivalrous slaughter of three thousand House Valerius troops, and the illicit use of Black Magic. How do you plead?"
Lucian didn't respond immediately. He cast a subtle side-glance to his right. "My son will speak for the family."
Sir Roland took a single step forward. He offered the King a perfect forty-five-degree bow, then acknowledged the Judge before flashing a charming smile toward the gallery that made several young ladies flush.
"Your Majesty," Roland's voice was crystal clear, projected effortlessly throughout the hall. "My name is Roland Sudrath. I am not here to defend our actions. I am merely here to clear up... a slight misunderstanding."
"A misunderstanding?!" interjected the Prosecutor, Lord Malakar, a known sycophant of Morvath. "Three thousand lives vanished in an instant! Their bodies were torn to shreds! Witnesses claim the very earth exploded in an impossible manner! If that isn't Black Magic, then what is?!"
Roland looked at Malakar with a casual air, as if listening to a servant's trivial complaint. "Lord Malakar, have you ever seen a firework?"
"A... firework?" Malakar furrowed his brow, confused.
"Black powder from the East. A commodity sold openly in the Capital's markets for New Year's celebrations," Roland paced slowly, sliding one hand into his trouser pocket—a gesture the audience found both daring and chic. "We in the North are miners. We use that powder to crack mountain stone. Is it a crime to use that same powder to crack an invasion force attempting to burn down our home?"
"That... that is still unchivalrous!" Malakar countered, his voice rising. "A knight should fight blade to blade!"
Roland let out a short, mocking laugh. "Unchivalrous, you say? How fascinating."
Roland turned to the audience, seizing the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen, let us look at the numbers. House Valerius arrived with three thousand five hundred men, including heavy cavalry and three massive siege engines."
He gestured toward his family. "We... were only ninety. And we were led by a father who simply wanted to protect his wife and children—children not yet of age to even hold a sword."
A sudden hush fell over the hall. The narrative of a "Small Family vs. The Cruel Giant" began to take root in their minds.
"If three thousand five hundred fully armed men were humiliated and defeated by ninety farmers and miners..." Roland locked eyes with Duke Varkas, who sat in the gallery, his face a violent shade of crimson. "...then the question isn't 'Did the Sudraths cheat?', but rather 'Just how incompetent is House Valerius at warfare?'"
GASP!
The hall filled with the sound of collective intake of breath. Roland had just verbally slapped Duke Varkas in front of the King.
Varkas stood up, his rage exploding. "YOU BRAT!"
"Sit down, Varkas," the King's voice was soft, yet it carried an absolute authority that brooked no argument. Varkas was forced back into his seat, fuming.
"Continue," the King commanded, his eyes now wide open, staring at Roland with a spark of genuine interest.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Roland nodded. "Regarding the charge of 'Slaughter,' Royal Law Chapter Five, Article One clearly states: Every Noble has the right to defend their sovereign territory from unauthorized invasion by any means deemed necessary."
Rianor stepped forward slightly, handing a thick stack of documents to Roland.
"This," Roland held the documents high, "is the illegitimate and unilateral declaration of war from Valerius. And this..." He held up another scrap of paper—the remains of the debt receipt. "...is the official proof of our full payment. They attacked after their demands were met. That wasn't a collection; it was large-scale brigandage."
Roland walked closer to Morvath's table, staring directly into the Grand Chancellor's eyes.
"So, Your Majesty... if I kill a robber who breaks into my home to harm my family... am I a criminal? Or am I a hero protecting my family's honor?"
A total silence gripped the hall. Roland's argument left no room for rebuttal. He had successfully reframed the brutality of war as "Self-Defense" and "Family Sentiment"—a narrative that resonated deeply.
Morvath tapped his fingers against the wooden table. He knew he had lost this round. If he forced a sentence on the Sudraths now, the King would look as though he were siding with a failed brigand.
"Enough," King Aethelgard IV said, rising slowly. He looked at Duke Lucian. "Duke Lucian... your sons possess very sharp tongues. Much sharper than that greatsword of yours, it seems."
"He inherits his mother's wit, Your Majesty," Lucian replied with an elegant, humble tone.
"The charge of Black Magic is dismissed for lack of valid evidence," the King decreed. "The charge of Slaughter... is ruled as pure Self-Defense."
THUD! The gavel fell.
Muffled cheers erupted from various corners of the hall, particularly from Varkas's political rivals.
"HOWEVER," the King raised a hand, silencing the commotion. "You have still caused a significant disturbance in the North. As a fine... Duke Lucian, you shall surrender twenty percent of your iron ore output next year to the Royal Treasury."
Rianor allowed a thin smirk to cross his face. Only iron? Not Mithril? We're safe.
The hearing was adjourned. It was a landslide victory for House Sudrath.
Palace Corridor – Post-Trial.
As they walked out under the admiring gazes of many, Grand Chancellor Morvath intercepted them. Behind him stood two black-clad guards with an aura remarkably similar to the assassins from that night.
"A marvelous performance, boy," Morvath said to Roland. His voice sounded like the hiss of a snake in the dry season.
"Thank you, Grandfather," Roland replied casually, intentionally using the familiar term to needle him. "My father taught me the value of honest speech."
Morvath turned his squinted eyes toward Rianor. "Don't think for a moment that this is over. This was merely the warm-up. You might escape the laws of man in this court... but in the Capital, 'accidents' can happen at any time."
Morvath leaned in closer to Rianor, whispering low. "I know what you truly found in that cave. And I will have it."
Rianor didn't flinch or retreat an inch. He straightened his black collar with calm precision. "By all means, try, Lord Chancellor. But do be careful... the floors in our house have been rather slippery lately."
Morvath let out a frustrated huff and swept away, his robes billowing.
Once Morvath was out of earshot, Roland's knees buckled, and he leaned against a massive marble pillar. "God... my legs have been shaking this whole time," he whispered. "I thought we were going to get executed on the spot."
"Your performance was worthy of an Oscar, Roland," Rhea praised, patting her brother's shoulder. "Now, get ready for the real second act."
"Second act?" Roland asked, confused.
Aurelia pointed toward the palace ballroom at the end of the corridor, which was busy being decorated. "Tonight. The Prince's Birthday Ball."
"In this court, we won legally," Aurelia said, her eyes burning with social ambition. "Tonight, we win socially. We find allies, we find investors, and..."
She glanced at Rhea with a knowing smile. "...Rhea must make Prince Cedric regret his very existence for ever breaking that engagement."
Rhea let out a predatory grin, spinning her Mithril dagger beneath the folds of her black gown. "Don't worry, Mother. I'll be his most beautiful dream—and his greatest nightmare—all in one night."