For a moment, there was only silence.
Then, the elder with the violet eyes spoke again.
"Caesar Draven. As both a member of this Jury and the mate of the accused, you are permitted to speak. If you choose to remain silent, your stance will be interpreted as neutral."
Another pause.
Then—
Caesar stood.
The room shifted.
Not physically. But perceptibly. Like the weight of his presence had settled into every shadow.
His movements were slow. Measured. Deliberate.
He stepped forward, descending the dais, stopping just at the edge of the glowing circle that caged her.
Opal didn't flinch, but she could feel her pulse in her fingertips.
She hadn't been this close to him in years.
He looked down at her.
And finally spoke.
"I don't feel rage," Caesar said, voice low and deep, echoing across the marble chamber. "I should. That would be easier."
A hush fell across the gallery.
"I don't feel pity. That would make me weak."
He walked slowly to the side, eyes still on her.
"What I feel is… a fracture."
Opal's breath caught in her throat.
"You didn't just kill Serena," he said, quieter now. "You killed trust. You killed something I had only just begun to rebuild—after years of violence and division. The witch clans didn't want to work with us. They didn't trust vampires let alone Hybrids. But they trusted her. And when you killed her, you told them they were right to fear us."
He turned to the Jury, expression unreadable.
"She was one of our best links to peace."
Then, to Opal again.
"And you didn't care."
Opal's jaw tightened, but she didn't speak.
Caesar stepped a little closer.
"I know why you did it," he said. "Jealousy. Hatred. Heartbreak. You wanted to hurt me. And you succeeded."
Her voice cracked when she finally whispered, "You left me."
"I did," he admitted. "Because I believed I was toxic to you. To James. I believed you'd be safer without me."
"You were wrong," she said, her eyes burning. "I needed you. He needed you!"
A flicker of something moved in Caesar's eyes.
"I know about James," he said. Quiet. Almost a confession. "I've always known."
Opal stared at him. "Then why didn't you come back?"
He didn't answer.
Not with words.
The silence that followed said enough.
It wasn't about love anymore.
It was about consequence.
Caesar turned back to the Jury.
"I do not request execution," he said clearly, shocking the room into a stunned silence. "But neither will I defend her actions. She acted alone. She broke the law. Let the sentence be decided fairly."
He looked to Opal one last time.
"And let it be a warning."
Then he returned to his seat, robe trailing behind him like a shadow.
Opal's knees nearly gave out.
Not because of his anger.
But because for a moment—just a moment—she'd seen pain in his eyes.
And it had looked just like hers.