Chapter 6 - The Weight of Justice
The crowd held its collective breath.
Prince Lucien stumbled backward until the back of his knees hit the edge of the dais. His eyes were wide with primal, unadulterated terror. He raised his empty hands, trembling violently.
"No... wait," Lucien whimpered, his voice cracking into a pathetic, high-pitched squeak. "I am the prince! I am your blood! You can't do this!"
Ilyra stood quietly beside the iron stake, the flames of the unlit pyre smoldering out beneath her feet. The heavy iron manacles around her wrists suddenly glowed with a soft, warm white light. With a gentle metallic click, the locks sprang open, and the heavy iron cuffs clattered harmlessly onto the stone floor.
She stepped forward, her dark eyes fixed on the man who had stolen her life, her name, and her dignity.
"You told me once, Lucien," Ilyra said, her voice carrying clearly across the silent, packed plaza, "that a kingdom needs a prince for its hero."
Lucien shook his head rapidly, tears streaming down his powdered cheeks. "Ilyra... please. We can share it. You can have the credit! You can be co-ruler! Just call off the spell!"
"A true hero doesn't hide behind stolen pages," Ilyra continued, her voice steady and resolute. "And a true shield does not protect a tyrant from his people."
She raised her right hand, her palm open toward the hovering circle of golden weapons.
For a single heartbeat, the gold surged forward.
Lucien squeezed his eyes shut and let out a piercing shriek of absolute terror.
Clang!
The golden blades did not pierce his flesh. Instead, they struck the stone marble platform inches from his boots with such force that the heavy blocks fractured into a spiderweb of cracks, pinning the heavy velvet hem of his royal cape firmly to the ground.
Lucien collapsed onto his knees, sobbing uncontrollably, utterly broken and stripped of every ounce of his false majesty.
From the high balcony of the royal palace, the heavy oak doors swung open. King Vane, flanked by senior members of the Royal Council, stepped out into the crisp air. The elderly king looked down at his kneeling, disgraced son, and then across the square to where Ilyra Voss stood bathed in the pure, unyielding light of the true Aegis.
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The king slowly removed his crown and placed it upon a velvet cushion.
The era of stolen glory had come to an end.
