Chapter 8 - The Verdict of the Sky
Lord Ashby’s composure completely shattered. He looked up at the gallery, his hands shaking as he stammered, “It’s—it’s a fabrication! Lies written by traitors to usurp my family’s estates!”
“The quartermaster’s seal is stamped on every single page, Lord Ashby,” the Inquisitor’s voice boomed across the enclosure, cold and absolute. “And your personal seal authenticates the financial transfers.”
The two remaining Citadel Guards slowly lowered their weapons, looking sideways at Ashby with undisguised disgust. They had sworn oaths to protect the realm, not to act as hired muscle for land-grabbing lords.
Cassian stepped forward, his sword still drawn but pointed safely at the ground. “The council will convene at once to review these findings. But until then, Lord Ashby, you are under arrest for high treason against the Dragon Corps.”
Ashby turned to run, but Vesper lowered his massive head, snapping his jaws together with a sound like a falling portcullis just inches from the lord's boots. Ashby froze, letting out a pathetic squeak of terror before collapsing backward into the mud, utterly paralyzed by fear.
The elite guards didn't hesitate this time. They stepped forward, grabbed Ashby by his golden collar, and hauled him up off the ground, dragging him out of the enclosure in disgrace.
The heavy iron doors slammed shut behind them, leaving only the sound of distant murmurs echoing through the stone corridors.
Silence settled over the north enclosure once more.
Sorcha let out a long, shuddering breath, her knees suddenly feeling entirely hollow. She sank down onto a straw bale, letting her head drop into her hands as the immense weight of the past week finally lifted from her shoulders.
A warm, heavy weight nudged against her shoulder.
She looked up. Vesper had folded his enormous frame down into the straw, resting his massive head right beside her knees. The amber eyes that had once looked upon the world with unmitigated wrath were now soft, steady, and filled with an undeniable, quiet warmth.
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Cassian walked over, sheathing his sword with a clean, metallic click. He looked down at Sorcha, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through the tired lines of his face.
“Well,” Cassian said softly, holding out a hand to help her up. “It seems we owe our favorite patient a formal apology.”
