Chapter 9 - The Trial of Tristan
Before peace could fully take root, justice had to be served.
The courtyard of Winterborn Keep was packed to capacity. Thousands of pack members, nobles, and warriors gathered beneath the cold winter sun to witness the final judgment of the fallen king.
Tristan stood at the center of the courtyard, stripped of his royal armor, wearing simple grey prisoner linens. His hands were bound in heavy iron cuffs, his once-proud posture slumped in absolute defeat. Standing beside him was Lady Rowena, sobbing quietly into her hands, abandoned by the very ambition that had driven her to destroy my life.
I walked out onto the elevated stone balcony, flanked by Gideon and Vance, my silver cloak billowing behind me in the wind.
The crowd fell instantly silent.
“Tristan of Winterborn,” my voice carried across the vast courtyard, cold and clear as crystal. “You stand accused of high treason, abuse of royal authority, and the attempted sabotage of a unified realm.”
Tristan raised his head slowly, his eyes meeting mine from across the courtyard. There was no arrogance left in him. Just a hollow, desperate ghost of the man I had once thought was my world.
“Adelaide…” he called out, his voice cracking. “I know I don't deserve mercy. I ruined everything. But please… spare my life. Exile me. Do whatever you want, just let me live.”
The courtyard murmured. Some of the older lords whispered that execution was too harsh, that exile was a traditional punishment for fallen alphas.
I looked down at him for a long, quiet moment.
I remembered the morning of our wedding. I remember standing in his doorway with the white-stag dagger in my hand, my heart full of love and hope, only to have it crushed by his cruel, dismissive words.
I remember the agony of the severed bond.
And then I looked at the life I had built since then. The strength I had discovered. The king standing beside me who loved me for my fire, not my obedience.
“You’re right, Tristan,” I said softly, but my voice carried to every corner of the courtyard. “You don't deserve mercy.”
Tristan flinched, closing his eyes as a tear slipped down his cheek.
“Execution is too easy,” I continued, my voice hardening. “It grants peace. And you don't get peace. You don't get the release of death.”
I stepped forward, raising my hand.
“Tristan of Winterborn, by the authority of the Unified Council and as Queen of Ethelgard, you are hereby stripped of all titles, pack status, and name. You and Rowena are banished beyond the Blackwood Ridge—forever forbidden from stepping foot in any northern territory. You will live as rogues, completely cut off from pack life, forced to survive in the wilderness you once looked down upon.”
Tristan gasped, staring at me in sheer horror. To a wolf, packless exile was a fate far worse than death. It meant a life of eternal loneliness, hunted by nature, stripped of all community and status.
“No… please, Adelaide, anything but that!” Tristan screamed as Ashfallen guards grabbed him by the arms, dragging him toward the outer gates.
Rowena shrieked as she was pulled away right behind him, their cries fading into the howling winter wind as they were cast out into the snowy wasteland beyond the mountains.
I watched them go without a single ounce of pity in my chest.
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Ghost walked up beside me, resting her heavy chin against my knee. I reached down, stroking her thick silver-gray fur, letting out a long, steady breath.
The ghosts of my past were finally gone.
