The iron doors opened with a low, grinding moan that echoed like thunder.
Opal stepped forward.
And froze.
The chamber was nothing like she'd expected.
She had imagined a dungeon—stone and filth, chains on the walls, torches flickering like a scene from a nightmare.
Instead, she stood in a place of unnatural beauty.
The floor beneath her feet was black marble veined with crimson. The walls stretched impossibly high, carved with runes that glowed faintly, like molten gold beneath the surface. Massive columns twisted upward like dark trees, branching into a ceiling covered in constellations—some she recognized, most she didn't.
Everything shimmered faintly, as if light passed through it from a world just behind this one.
And at the far end of the chamber, raised on a dais of obsidian and silver, sat the Jury.
Thirteen seats. Twelve filled.
And Caesar in the center.
He wore robes of deep midnight blue, trimmed in silver. His hair was pulled back, his eyes cold and unreadable. He looked nothing like the boy she once met in the woods, nothing like the man who kissed her in secret. He looked like a king born in shadows.
She couldn't stop staring.
He didn't look away.
To Caesar's left and right sat others—each one different, each one terrifying. One had skin like polished stone and burning eyes. Another was half-shrouded in smoke, her voice whispering even though her lips never moved. There was a werewolf with snow-white fur, a vampire with no pupils, and something that might have once been human, but now bore only the echo of humanity in its hollow gaze.
Creatures filled the rows behind her. Spectators. Advisors. Guards.
Opal's gaze flitted over them. Hybrids. Witches. Shapeshifters. Beasts in human form.
All of them watching her.
Some with hunger.
Some with contempt.
Some with interest too dangerous to name.
She felt like prey.
Anara brushed her shoulder as if to remind her to keep walking.
Opal did.
Her boots echoed against the stone floor as she moved toward the center of the room. There was a circle of silver etched into the floor—smooth, cold, and humming with invisible energy.
A spell circle. A cage without bars.
She stepped inside.
The air changed again—denser, heavier, like she had just walked underwater. Her limbs felt heavier. Her heartbeat louder. The circle was magic-bound. She could feel it holding her still.
A voice rang out—deep, ancient.
"Opal Renee White."
She looked up. One of the Jury members, a woman with violet eyes and markings across her skin like ink poured into cracked glass, stood.
"You are accused of killing a high-level witch aligned with our alliance. Her death sent ripples across several territories. You were once bound to Caesar Draven by blood, body, and child."
Whispers rippled through the crowd.
Opal flinched.
The violet-eyed woman continued. "You are also accused of concealing your child's existence, interfering with bloodline inheritance rights, and potentially destabilizing supernatural order."
Opal clenched her fists.
The woman's eyes narrowed. "Do you understand the gravity of these accusations?"
"Yes," Opal said, her voice dry.
Another figure leaned forward—a vampire, regal and old, his skin pale as moonlight, lips dark as wine. His voice was elegant, cruel.
"Do you deny your actions?"
Opal's eyes flicked to Caesar again.
He hadn't spoken. He hadn't even moved.
Not once.
Just watched.
Still.
A statue with her heart in his fist.
"No," she said.
The chamber gasped.
The violet-eyed woman raised her hand to silence them.
"Then your trial begins now."