The trial lasted three hours.
It felt like a lifetime.
Lya stood in the iron cage at the center of the great hall, her wrists bound in chains, her dress, the same sage green from the birthday, now wrinkled and stained from days in a holding cell. Before her, arranged in rising tiers like spectators at a theater, sat the nobility of the kingdom. Behind them, commoners crowded the open doors, straining to hear every word.
Above it all, on a raised dais, sat the judges: three elderly magistrates in black robes, their faces expressionless. To their right, in a seat of honor, sat Crown Prince Elias. His grey eyes fixed on Lya with an intensity that never wavered.
The Duke and Duchess sat in the front row. Her mother's face was pale, drawn, her eyes fixed on some point above Lya's head. Her father, Lya caught his gaze once, twice. The first time, he looked away. The second time, something flickered across his features. Doubt? Uncertainty? It vanished before she could name it.
"The court calls Lady Mirabel Ashford."
Mirabel swept forward, composed and confident, her testimony clearly rehearsed. But this time, her words carried weight.
"Two months ago, I witnessed Lady Lya strike one of her personal maids so hard the girl fell down a flight of stairs. The maid was hospitalized for weeks. When questioned, Lady Lya claimed the girl had stolen from her. No evidence of theft was ever found. The maid was too terrified to press charges."
Lya's mouth fell open. That had never happened. She had never struck anyone in her life.
"That's a lie," she said flatly.
Mirabel ignored her. "The girl's name is Mira. She no longer works at the Varnath estate. She can be found in the lower city, if the court wishes to summon her."
The magistrates exchanged glances. A name. A location. Specifics that could be verified, or at least, could be claimed as verifiable.
"I also witnessed an incident last spring," Mirabel continued. "Lady Lya cornered a kitchen boy who had accidentally served her cold soup. She threatened to have his hands cut off. The boy was found crying in the pantry afterward. He was twelve years old."
Lya gripped the bars of the cage. "I have never spoken to a kitchen boy in my life. I don't even know where the kitchens are."
Mirabel smiled slightly. "Of course you don't, my lady."
The implication hung in the air: of course you'd deny it.
"The court calls Lady Celia Rutherfurd."
Celia stepped forward, her expression solemn, her eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of someone about to deliver a killing blow.
"Last winter, I saw Lady Lya push her sister into a frozen pond."
The crowd gasped. Lya's heart stopped.
"It was freezing cold. Amy couldn't swim. If servants hadn't heard her screams, she would have drowned." Celia's voice trembled perfectly a performance worthy of the stage. "When I confronted Lady Lya, she laughed. She said, and I quote: 'I was just seeing if she floats.'"
"That never happened!" Lya's voice cracked. "I have never! Amy and I were never alone near a pond, she's always surrounded by people."
"Amy begged me not to tell anyone," Celia continued, her voice softening. "She said it would only make things worse between them. She said Lya didn't mean it. She always made excuses for her. Always." A tear slid down Celia's cheek. "She was too kind. Too forgiving. And this is how Lya repaid her."
The crowd murmured. Lya saw heads nodding, faces hardening with disgust.
"The court calls Viscountess Therese Marlowe."
An older woman, perhaps fifty, with sharp eyes and sharper cheekbones. Lya barely knew her, had spoken to her perhaps three times in her life.
"Lady Lya has a fascination with poisons," the viscountess said calmly. "I attended a dinner at the Varnath estate two years ago where she asked the server detailed questions about which herbs were used in each dish. Which were toxic in large quantities. Which left no trace. I thought it odd at the time, but children are curious. I thought nothing of it until now."
Lya stared at her. Two years ago? She remembered that dinner. She had asked about herbs because she was reading a book on medicinal plants and wanted to identify them in real life. The server had been happy to explain.
"I also recall," the viscountess added, "that Lady Lya was caught in the royal gardens last year, in an area restricted to the Crown Prince's private use. When questioned, she claimed she was 'looking for flowers.'"
That one was almost true. She had been looking for flowers, a specific bloom the groundskeeper's daughter had mentioned, one that only grew near the prince's quarters. She hadn't known the area was restricted. A guard had escorted her out with a warning.
Almost true. Twisted. Poisoned.
Like everything else.
"The court calls Captain Aldric of the City Watch."
A grizzled man in uniform stepped forward. Lya had never seen him before in her life.
"Three years ago, I responded to a disturbance at the Varnath estate. A servant had reported hearing violent arguments from Lady Lya's chambers. When I arrived, Lady Lya was in a rage, throwing objects at the walls. She threatened to kill anyone who entered. I had to calm her myself."
Lya's vision blurred at the edges. None of this was real. None of it. She had never thrown anything. Never threatened anyone. She spent her nights reading, crying, staring at walls, not breaking things, not raging.
But the captain spoke with such confidence. Such casual certainty. As if he truly believed what he was saying.
He might, Lya realized. Someone paid him. Someone told him to say this. He might even believe it now, after hearing it enough times.
"The court calls Elara of Northbrook."
The maid walked forward, her arms still wrapped in white bandages from the burns. She kept her eyes on the floor, her face pale. She looked smaller than Lya remembered. Younger. More frightened.
But not frightened enough to tell the truth.
"Please describe what happened at the tea party," the magistrate instructed.
Elara's voice was soft, barely audible. "I was bringing the tea service to the table. Lady Lya was there alone. She—she stepped into my path deliberately. When the tea spilled, she grabbed my arm. Hard." Elara's voice trembled. "She told me if I told anyone what happened, she'd make sure I lost my position. Worse. She said she knew people who could make me disappear. Then she ordered me to leave and never speak of it."
Lya stared at her. The world tilted.
I was standing in the path. I apologized. I sent you to get your burns treated. I was kind to you.
Elara never looked at her.
"Did you see her touch the tea service after you left?" the magistrate asked.
"I... I looked back. She was arranging the cups. Pouring something from a small pouch into one of them." Elara's voice cracked. "I didn't understand what I was seeing. Not until later. I'm so sorry. I should have said something sooner."
Lies. All lies. Lya gripped the bars, her knuckles white.
"She's lying!" The words tore from her throat. "I helped her! She was burned, I sent her to get salve! I never threatened her, I never touched any pouch, I never!"
"Silence!" The magistrate's gavel cracked down.
But the damage was done. Her outburst looked like guilt. Like desperation. Like exactly what a guilty person would say.
Beyond the open doors, the commoners had their own theories. Their voices carried, distorted by distance and gleeful malice.
"I heard she poisoned her own mother once, but the mother survived and now she's too scared to testify."
"Someone told me she keeps a shrine to the Crown Prince in her room. With candles and everything. And dolls."
"My cousin's friend worked at the estate, he says she used to practice spells on rats. Then the rats started dying. Then she moved on to bigger things."
"Obviously she was obsessed with him. Why else would a sister hate so much? Women go crazy when they can't have what they want."
The lies grew with each retelling. Lya wanted to scream at them, to make them see how absurd it was, that she, who couldn't defend herself at a birthday party, was somehow a poison master and a dark sorceress and a violent lunatic all at once.
But screaming would only prove them right.
Finally, the Crown Prince rose to speak.
He did not look at the judges. He looked at the crowd. At the commoners. At the nobility. He spoke to them directly, his voice ringing with righteous fury.
"This is not merely an attack on Lady Amy Varnath, though she lies even now fighting for her life. This is an attack on the crown itself. Lady Amy is my betrothed. She is the future queen of this kingdom. To poison her is to poison the royal family. To poison the realm."
He turned to Lya then, and his eyes were pure ice.
"The accused has shown no remorse. No honesty. She has lied, evaded, and now attacks the character of a servant who had the courage to come forward. We have heard testimony of violence. Of cruelty. Of an obsession with poisons that predates this attack by years. This is not merely a jealous sister. This is a dangerous woman who has been hiding in plain sight."
The head magistrate nodded slowly. "Your Highness, the court appreciates your input. The sentence is ours to determine."
"But the crown's position is clear," Elias said coldly. "I speak for my father the King in this matter. He agrees: the maximum sentence is the only just sentence. The Black Towers. Life imprisonment. No chance of pardon. No chance of release. Let her rot where she can harm no one else."
The magistrates conferred in whispers. Lya searched the crowd for her father, found him.
Their eyes met.
For just a moment, he looked... uncertain. Troubled. His brow furrowed, his lips parting as if he might speak. As if he might say: Wait. This is my daughter. I have watched her for sixteen years. I have never seen violence. I have never seen cruelty. Something is wrong here.
Then the Duchess, her mother, touched his arm. Leaned close. Whispered something.
The Duke's face closed. He looked away.
The gavel fell.
"Lady Lya Varnath, this court finds you guilty of attempted murder by poisoning, conspiracy against the crown, and crimes against the person of Lady Amy Varnath. You are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment in the Black Towers, there to remain until your death, with no chance of pardon or reprieve."
The crowd erupted. Cheers. Boos. A few scattered voices shouting "Villainess!" and "Poisoner!" and "Burn her!"
Lya heard none of it.
She was staring at her father. At the back of his head, because he would not look at her. At his shoulders, rigid and still. At the hand of her mother, still resting on his arm.
He had doubted. For one breath, he had doubted. And then he had chosen silence.
The guards grabbed her chains, dragging her from the cage. As they pulled her past the front row, past the nobility who spat and hissed, past the Crown Prince whose cold eyes followed her with satisfaction, she caught a glimpse of something else.
Elara, the maid, standing in a corner, her bandaged arms wrapped around herself. She was crying.
Real tears. Genuine sobs.
Lya didn't understand. Why would a liar cry? Why would a false witness look so devastated?
The question followed her out of the hall, through the courtyard, into the iron carriage that would take her to the Black Towers. It followed her as the city gates closed behind her, as the towers rose on the horizon, dark, jagged, impossibly tall.
She thought about the birthday. The tea party. The maid with kind eyes who had looked so grateful for a moment of compassion.
She thought about the tears.
And she thought about her father's face, that single flicker of doubt, extinguished before it could become anything more.
Somewhere in the darkness of the carriage, surrounded by chains, Lya made a silent promise.
She would survive this. She would find out the truth. And one day, everyone who had wronged her. The liars, the cowards, the ones who chose silence, would have to look her in the eye and answer for it.
The Black Towers loomed closer.
Her new life began.