The throne room of Westia Castle had been transformed into a grand court of justice.

The chamber was massive, easily capable of holding a thousand people with room to spare. Every available space was filled with nobility from across the kingdom, their finest garments creating a sea of color that contrasted sharply with the white stone walls.

Raze sat with his companions in positions of honor near the front, elevated seating that provided a clear view of the proceedings while marking them as individuals of significance. From this vantage he could survey the assembled crowd, noting faces he recognized from the broadcast and many he didn't.

His eyes found Lord Magnus Cain of Thornwick among the gathered nobility, the man's expression carrying satisfaction mixed with vindication. The lord had lost much when Viktor Ashborne's operations in his territory were exposed, but tonight's trial would prove his region had been victim rather than accomplice.

The seating arrangement reflected Westia's social hierarchy with precise clarity. Highest nobility occupied the front rows, their positions closest to where judgment would be rendered. Lesser nobles filled the middle sections, their rank determining exact placement with mathematical precision. Foreign dignitaries and important merchants occupied designated areas, witnesses to justice that would demonstrate the kingdom's strength.

And at the very back, chained and guarded by two dozen royal knights in full armor, knelt the accused.

Lord Lewis Venn was barely recognizable, his formerly corpulent frame seeming diminished without the confidence corruption had provided. His expensive clothing had been replaced with simple gray robes marking him as a prisoner awaiting judgment. Heavy chains bound his wrists and ankles, the metal inscribed with runes designed to suppress cultivation.

Beside him knelt Pope Reginald, the former spiritual leader stripped of his ceremonial vestments. He wore the same gray robes as Venn, the same suppression chains, his former authority reduced to nothing by the weight of evidence against him. His face was pale, withdrawal from the drugs still affecting him despite the healers' efforts.

Baelor Crawford knelt among them as well, though his expression was markedly different from the others. Where Venn and Reginald showed fear and desperation, the secretary's face carried something approaching peace. He'd been complicit in crimes under duress, his testimony having earned consideration but not absolution.

Scattered among the primary accused were dozens of others—Syndicate distributors, corrupt officials, enforcers who'd believed themselves untouchable. All of them bound in chains, all awaiting judgment for crimes broadcast to the entire kingdom.

The assembled nobility murmured among themselves, conversations dying as a figure emerged from the side entrance. He was an older man, perhaps sixty, with a voice that carried natural authority honed through decades of formal announcements.

"All rise for the Royal Family of Westia!" he declared, his words echoing through the chamber with magical enhancement that ensured everyone heard clearly.

The crowd stood as one, a thousand people moving in synchronized respect.

The royal family entered through the main doors behind the throne platform, their procession measured and dignified. Queen Eleanor came first, her elegant gown complementing rather than competing with her husband's presence. Princess Fedora followed, her cinnamon brown hair arranged in a style that was both formal and flattering, her blue eyes tracking across the assembled crowd with interest.

Then came King Harold Westia himself.

His steps were deliberate, each footfall resonating through the chamber with weight that transcended simple sound. The crown on his head caught the magical lighting, sending refracted brilliance across the walls in patterns that seemed almost alive.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The sound carried authority that made even Master rank cultivators instinctively straighten, made hardened warriors feel compelled to show respect. This wasn't just political power manifesting, this was the accumulated weight of generations of rule made physical through cultivation techniques refined across centuries.

Raze noticed something he'd missed during their first meeting—there were three thrones rather than two.

The central throne was largest and most ornate, clearly the king's seat. To its right sat a slightly smaller throne for the queen, elegant but subordinate in design. And to the left was a third throne, currently empty but positioned to suggest equal importance to the queen's seat.

The crown prince's throne, waiting for whoever would eventually claim it.

King Harold reached the platform and turned to face the assembled crowd, his presence dominating the space despite making no overt gesture of authority. Queen Eleanor took her seat gracefully, Fedora settling into a chair positioned slightly behind and between her parents.

Only after his family was properly arranged did the king sit, his movements controlled and precise as he claimed his throne. The crown caught light again, seeming to pulse with power as he settled into position.

"You may be seated," the announcer declared.

The crowd sat with a collective rustle of fabric, conversations completely silenced now as attention focused on the throne platform.

The announcer stepped forward, his enhanced voice carrying to every corner of the chamber.

"We are convened this day to render judgment upon those who have betrayed the trust of Westia's people. The crimes detailed in last night's broadcast have been investigated, the evidence verified, and the accused apprehended through coordinated action across the entire kingdom."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing.

"One hundred and forty-seven individuals have been taken into custody. Among them are government officials who accepted bribes, Temple clergy who protected criminal enterprise, merchants who distributed illegal substances, and enforcers who maintained operations through violence and intimidation."

The number was staggering, evidence of corruption that had spread far beyond what even the comprehensive broadcast had fully detailed.

"The primary accused are as follows," the announcer continued, his tone becoming more severe. "Lord Lewis Venn, Lord Regent of the Western Territories, charged with conspiracy, trafficking, corruption, and complicity in countless deaths resulting from his criminal enterprise."

Venn's head dropped lower, chains rattling as his body shook.

"Pope Reginald, former head of the Temple of Light, charged with accepting bribes, protecting criminal operations, and betraying the sacred trust placed in him by both the Goddess and her faithful."

Reginald made a sound that might have been a sob, his withdrawal-ravaged body barely able to support itself even while kneeling.

"Dozens of Syndicate associates, distributors, and enforcers, each charged with crimes ranging from trafficking to murder," the announcer stated. "The full list of accused and their specific crimes has been documented and made available for public review."

He turned toward the throne, bowing deeply before stepping aside.

King Harold rose from his throne, his movement drawing every eye in the chamber. He walked to the edge of the platform, looking down at the chained prisoners with an expression that mixed disgust and something approaching pity.

When he spoke, his voice carried without magical enhancement, raw authority making amplification unnecessary.

"I have ruled Westia for twenty-three years," he began. "In that time I have faced wars, natural disasters, political crises, and countless challenges to the kingdom's stability. But never have I felt such profound disappointment as I do standing before you now."

His blue eyes tracked across the kneeling figures, cataloging each face.

"You were given positions of trust. Authority over territories, stewardship of spiritual guidance, responsibility for your fellow citizens' wellbeing. And you betrayed that trust systematically, consistently, without apparent remorse or recognition of the harm you were inflicting."

The king's voice grew harder, anger beginning to bleed through professional control.

"Lord Venn, you transformed from competent administrator into puppet of a criminal enterprise, your addiction making you complicit in operations that destroyed countless lives. You watched innocents suffer and did nothing, accepted bribes while people under your protection died from the very substances you helped distribute."

Venn was openly weeping now, his body shaking with sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep within.

"Pope Reginald, you wore the Goddess's blessing while serving personal greed. You accepted money stained with blood, protected operations that violated every principle your position claimed to uphold. The Temple's reputation will take decades to recover from the damage your corruption has inflicted."

Reginald tried to speak but no words emerged, his voice stolen by shame and withdrawal.

"And the rest of you," the king's gaze swept across the remaining accused, "you facilitated these crimes through action or inaction, chose personal profit over civic duty, participated in systems that fed on human suffering."

He returned to his throne but remained standing, his presence seeming to fill the entire chamber.

"The evidence against you is comprehensive and verified. Multiple witnesses have testified, documentation has been examined by independent sources, every accusation has been corroborated through investigation that left no room for reasonable doubt."

The king's hands gripped the armrests of his throne.

"You stand accused of crimes that warrant the harshest punishments our justice system permits. But before the sentence is rendered, you will have an opportunity to address these charges. To admit guilt, proclaim innocence, or offer whatever defense you believe might mitigate judgment."

He nodded to the announcer, who stepped forward again.

"The accused will now enter their pleas," the man declared. "Beginning with Lord Lewis Venn, how do you answer to the charges laid against you?"

Venn's chains rattled as he tried to push himself more upright, his voice small and broken when he finally managed to speak.

"Guilty," he whispered. "I am guilty of everything claimed and more besides. My addiction destroyed my judgment, my greed corrupted my duty, my cowardice allowed evil to flourish under my protection."

Tears streamed down his face, genuine remorse evident despite the pathetic figure he presented.

"I have no defense to offer, no mitigation to claim. I deserve whatever punishment this court deems appropriate. My only request is that my family not be held accountable for sins that were mine alone."

The admission sent murmurs through the assembled nobility, the complete surrender unexpected from someone of his former status.

"Pope Reginald," the announcer called. "How do you answer the charges?"

Reginald's response was barely audible, his voice rough from withdrawal and shame.

"Guilty. I betrayed the Goddess, betrayed the Temple, betrayed every principle I claimed to serve. No punishment could be severe enough for what I've done."

One by one the accused entered their pleas, and one by one they admitted guilt. Some with defiance, claiming they'd had no choice under Syndicate pressure. Others with resignation, accepting responsibility without attempting to shift blame.

But all of them are guilty. Not a single voice proclaimed innocence or demanded trial by evidence review.

When the final plea had been entered, King Harold spoke again.

"The accused have confessed comprehensively to crimes that have harmed this kingdom and its people. The evidence corroborates their admissions completely, leaving no doubt about either their guilt or the severity of their actions."

He stood once more, and his voice carried the weight of absolute authority.

"By the power vested in me as King of Westia, I hereby sentence those found guilty of capital crimes to immediate execution. Justice delayed is justice denied, and this kingdom has delayed long enough."

The pronouncement sent shock through portions of the crowd despite the expected outcome. Immediate execution was rare, reserved for crimes so egregious that further imprisonment seemed inadequate.

"For Lord Lewis Venn and Pope Reginald, whose crimes reached the highest levels and whose corruption enabled countless deaths, the sentence will be carried out within this chamber as testament to the consequences of betraying public trust."

Royal guards moved forward, unlocking specific chains while maintaining control. Venn and Reginald were hauled to their feet, their legs barely supporting them as they were dragged toward positions at the platform's base.

Anastasia watched from her seat, tears beginning to stream down her face despite everything her husband had done. Five years of documenting his crimes, five years of watching him destroy himself and others, and now it ended like this—with him chained and weeping before being executed like a common criminal.

But beneath the tears she felt something else, something like relief that it was finally over. That Thomas would grow up knowing his father faced justice rather than escaping consequences through wealth and position.

Baelor watched with expression approaching satisfaction, his haunted eyes tracking Venn's final moments with intensity that spoke to years of forced service finally ending. He'd been complicit under duress, his family murdered to ensure cooperation, and now the man responsible for that coercion was about to face ultimate punishment.

"I can die in peace now," he murmured, his voice carrying just enough to reach those seated near him. "Knowing he didn't escape, knowing justice found him despite his power and connections."

Two executioners stepped forward, massive men whose presence commanded respect despite performing society's darkest duty. They carried enchanted blades designed for clean kills, weapons that would end life without unnecessary suffering.

Venn and Reginald were positioned at the platform's edge, forced to kneel with heads bowed forward. Neither resisted, both seeming almost relieved that the ordeal was reaching its conclusion.

King Harold stood above them, his expression stern but carrying no satisfaction in what was about to occur. This was duty rather than pleasure, justice rather than revenge.

"May the Goddess grant you mercy I cannot provide," he said quietly. "And may your deaths serve as warning to any who consider following your path."

He nodded to the executioners.

The blades fell simultaneously.

Thud. Thud.

Two heads separated from bodies with precision that spoke to extensive experience, life ending so quickly neither man had time to process what was happening. Blood pooled across white stone, crimson spreading in patterns that would require significant cleaning.

The bodies were caught by guards before they could collapse completely, removed from the platform with efficiency that suggested this had been carefully choreographed. The heads were wrapped quickly, preventing the gruesome sight from lingering longer than necessary.

The remaining accused watched with varying expressions—some horrified, others resigned, all of them understanding they faced similar fates pending review of their individual circumstances.

King Harold returned to his throne, sitting heavily as if the execution had drained something from him. Killing was never easy, even when justice demanded it, even when the alternative was allowing evil to escape consequences.

"The remaining accused will be transferred to appropriate facilities pending individual sentencing," the announcer declared. "Those guilty of capital crimes will face execution in accordance with law. Those whose crimes warrant imprisonment will serve sentences determined by detailed review of their specific actions."

Guards began removing the chained prisoners, the process taking several minutes as over a hundred individuals were escorted from the chamber. The crowd watched in silence, witnessing justice that would reshape Westia's power structure for years to come.

When the last prisoner had been removed and the blood cleaned from the platform, the announcer stepped forward once more.

"The trial is concluded," he declared. "Let it be recorded that justice was served this day, that those who betrayed the kingdom's trust faced consequences appropriate to their crimes."

He paused, allowing the moment to settle before continuing with a tone that shifted from somber to celebratory.

"His Majesty has decreed that those who served the kingdom through exposing this corruption will be recognized appropriately. A rewarding ceremony will commence following brief intermission, during which those who risked everything for truth and justice will receive honors befitting their service."

The crowd began to stir, conversations resuming as the formal trial portion concluded. Servants moved through the chamber offering refreshments, the atmosphere shifting from judicial severity toward something approaching celebration despite the executions that had just occurred.

Raze sat in his honored seat, his mind working through everything he'd witnessed while his heart hammered with anticipation of what came next.

The ceremony where his decision would reshape his entire future, where Sophie's survival hung in the balance of a single request.

The trial was over, but his real test was just beginning.

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