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Chapter 45 - Justice Cladded in Brass

The council chamber beneath Highstone Keep smelled like burned iron and wet stone, but Verek could pick out something else beneath that. Old blood. Not fresh, but the kind that had seeped in deep years ago and never fully let go. It clung to the cracks between the flagstones, baked in like a secret the keep had learned to ignore, like a scar it refused to show. He stood hunched over the spread of war maps, elbows pressed hard on the table, shadows from the candlelight flickering across the dried blood crusted on his bracers.

"They've already got four shards," General Maelik said, his voice rough like gravel grinding against steel. There was something sharper beneath it, a bite of anger or fear that didn't quite settle. "If the rumors have even a whisper of truth, they're after bronze or green next."

Verek didn't say anything for a long moment. Instead, he let his fingers trace a ragged edge of Kaelith's banner, stitched between names of towns that didn't exist anymore. Phokorus. Brean's Reach. Hollowmeade. Places turned to smoke, to ash, to nothing but memory. His fingertip lingered on the faded ink.

"Every shard they find," he said at last, voice low and flat like a stone settling into the earth, "pulls the world closer to breaking. And the ones they don't... Malarath finds first."

Maelik's brow rose, skeptical. "So we just let 'em bleed trying to catch up?"

"No." Verek lifted his eyes slowly, the weight in his voice steady. "We make them earn it. If they can't, they die. If they can, then maybe they deserve what comes next."

Maelik's mouth twitched toward a scowl, his jaw working beneath the heavy beard. "You're putting your chips on a handful of scavengers."

"I'm putting faith where there's no room for doubt," Verek answered, voice low and firm. "When the gods stop speaking, we need people who don't crumble under the weight."

He reached into his coat, pulling out a worn scroll sealed with Kaelith's mark—faded now, like it had been waiting for what came next. Without a word, he handed it over.

"Send the envoy," he said quietly. "Tell Queen Aelwryn I'm ready to break the Accord."

Maelik's whole frame stiffened, his eyes sharp and wary. "You do that, and you're starting a civil war."

Verek's voice dropped to a growl. "Then it's time one finished."

The diplomat's tower looked less like a stronghold and more like a memory left to rot. It leaned awkwardly into the wind like a drunk holding onto a bar, its blackened stone walls scored with claw marks and smeared ink. Blackthorn soldiers stood along the path, unmoving, their helmets catching no light, faces unreadable behind them.

Verek walked alone. No guards. No standard. Just him, the rust-red cloak dragging grit behind like bad omens, dust settling in the folds and stitching. His boots kicked up dry leaves and cracked stone. He didn't care.

Queen Aelwryn lounged on the broken throne like a smirk that refused to fade. Bare feet pressed against the armrest, a crooked crown of twisted thorns tangled in hair too fine to be called clean. She looked like a lie made flesh, all sharp edges and cold grins.

"The mountain finally rumbles," she said, dragging each word out slow as if she wanted him to taste it.

Verek stepped into the torchlight so it cut across half his face, casting the other half in shadow. "You have spies in Kaelith's court. Turn them."

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing to slits. "Tarrin watches her, yes. Zavara's cracking. But the Spire still clings to its sermons. They believe honor bleeds louder than steel."

"Then it's time to tear that from them," Verek said, voice low and hard.

Aelwryn stood, moving like smoke folding itself into the room, silent and deliberate. Her gaze roamed over his scars like they were some riddle she hadn't solved yet. "And what does the last son of Highstone offer me? Dead men? Empty threats?"

Verek reached beneath his cloak and pulled out a crimson shard. It pulsed once, dim and steady, not proud or bright. Just a heartbeat without a body.

"This. And what carrying it has taught me."

Her breath hitched, like she'd swallowed fire. "You touched a god's corpse."

"No," Verek said quietly. "I carry the weight of one."

She stared longer than felt comfortable, then slowly extended her hand. "Then we burn her throne together."

Verek didn't flinch. He handed her the shard and turned away. "Just remember what comes after."

The Witherstep Flats lay sprawled out ahead like the gods had scraped their fingernails across the land and left it raw. Verek topped the last rise with the others trailing behind. Caylen moved like his bones ached from something he'd buried during the last trial, a shadow dragging at his heels. Ezreal said nothing, weighed down by three shards, their burden heavier in his face than in his pack. Dax was quiet too, jaw tight, his mouth like a clenched fist.

The basin below was littered with old gallows, weathered wood warped and bleached by sun and time, still standing stubbornly upright as if they were waiting on justice that never came.

"This place isn't dead," Verek muttered. "It's just patient."

Ezreal's voice snapped sharp like a whip. "Red Hollow is gone. The gold shard was supposed to be here."

Verek nodded toward the basin. "It is."

At the center sat a rusted cage atop a cracked stone plinth. Inside, the brass shard pulsed faintly, almost reluctantly. Like it didn't want to be noticed.

Figures began to take shape from the air and dust. Three of them. Not breathing. Not decaying. Just present. Skin stretched thin like worn parchment, eyes empty and still.

One looked at Ezreal. "You are the judge. You measure lives like coin."

Another turned to Dax. "You are the accused. You obeyed orders that left children without names."

The last fixed on Caylen. "You are the executioner. You decide what justice tastes like."

The cage groaned open, the sound echoing too far and too long.

"The trial begins."

The Flats seemed to fall away beneath their feet—not literally, but the world shifted, tilted, like the ground was no longer sure how to hold itself up.

Ezreal found himself back in Vrenhold, hearing the screams he had left behind. Dax faced the faces of villagers he'd locked behind gates that never opened. Caylen dropped to his knees beside a brother who never got old.

Verek watched all of it, steady, until the voice found him.

He saw the siege he'd commanded, the aftermath still burning. Walls broken on his order. Children crawling from rubble, their hands raw and bleeding. A city saved at the cost of three others.

"You speak of strength," the voice whispered. "But it was just pain that never learned to leave."

He clenched his fists, jaw tightening. Didn't say a word.

Because it was true.

The trial passed like a storm fading out—no roar, just the quiet that follows screaming.

Verek stood by Caylen's side.

"You have the shard," he said quietly.

Caylen blinked, cracked lips barely moving. "What?"

"You saw it all. You didn't flinch. That's what it takes."

Caylen hesitated, then reached out. The shard pulsed once and gave itself.

Ezreal stood bent but unbroken. Dax, knuckles torn and bleeding, stared back across the Flats like they owed him something.

"None of us are clean," Verek said. "But none of us are lost."

They walked away.

The basin behind them didn't shift or vanish. It just waited.

Another shard earned.

Another piece of themselves left behind.

Verek felt the storm inside his chest—not on the horizon, but under his ribs, growing heavier.

Still, he kept walking.

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