Chapter 7 - Ashes of the Past
The state funeral of King Darian lasted three days, a solemn period of mourning that draped the entire capital in heavy black velvet and weeping bells. During those three days, Clara remained sequestered in the inner royal chambers—the very rooms she had once cleaned as a nameless scullery maid.
The transition from scrubbing floors to wearing mourning silk was disorienting, but her mind was too sharp, too hardened by years of survival to be overwhelmed. She spent hours reviewing the confiscated documents found in Lord Garrick’s private study.
The ledgers revealed a horrifying web of corruption: bribes paid to corrupt priests, fabricated historical records regarding Princess Helena’s death, assassinations of loyal lords who questioned the official narrative, and a systematic campaign to starve the northern provinces into submission so they would never muster the strength to rebel.
On the fourth morning, trial proceedings began in the Hall of Aurel.
Lord Garrick sat chained to an iron chair in the center of the room, his left shoulder bandaged where the mace had shattered his collarbone. His arrogant sneer was gone, replaced by a bitter, hollow glare of pure hatred as Clara walked down the aisle, draped in a deep emerald gown embroidered with the golden sunburst of Aurel.
She didn't wear the crown yet. That sacred duty was reserved for the coronation. But as she took her seat upon the high throne, her presence commanded the entire room with an effortless, icy grace.
"Lord Garrick of House Aurel," General Marcus spoke, his voice ringing coldly through the chamber. "You stand accused of high treason, usurpation of the throne, the attempted murder of King Darian, and the orchestrating assassination of Princess Helena twenty-one years ago."
Garrick let out a harsh, rasping laugh, struggling against his iron chains. "Accused by whom? By a filthy kitchen rat who crawled out of the slums with a stolen bloodline tale? You have no proof that holds up under ancient law!"
Clara raised a single hand, signaling General Marcus to step back. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her knuckles, looking down at her uncle with eyes completely devoid of fear.
"You're right, uncle," Clara’s voice cut through the silent hall, calm, crystal-clear, and laced with a terrifying chill. "The physical witnesses from twenty-one years ago are mostly gone. But you forgot one thing."
Garrick’s confident facade flickered for a fraction of a second. "What?"
Clara gestured toward the side doors. Two guards marched in, dragging a heavy iron chest between them. They dropped it onto the stone floor with a deafening crash, lifting the lid to reveal thousands of sealed letters, financial records bearing Garrick’s personal wax seal, and confession scrolls signed by the very assassins he had hired two decades ago.
"You were always arrogant, Garrick," Clara said softly, standing up from the throne and walking slowly down the dais toward him. "You kept every receipt. You loved your power so much you needed proof of your own cruelty written down in ink."
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Garrick stared at the chest, his face draining of all color. His lips moved silently, but no words came out.
"The court finds you guilty on all charges of treason and murder," Clara declared, her voice echoing off the stone walls with absolute finality. "Sentence is to be carried out at dawn. Strip him of his name, his titles, and his lands. Send him to the northern salt mines for the rest of his natural life—to labor in the cold, exactly like the people he tortured for twenty years."
