[POV: Ezekiel]
The throne hall had always felt too large.
Even before the cave.
Now it felt unreal—like a lie the empire kept telling itself.
Twelve towering windows lined the golden chamber, each one carved with a different depiction of the Quinsley lineage. The sun poured through stained glass: warriors, dragons, twin-headed angels, and kings with their hands raised in blessing. The light cast broken rainbows over the floor, making even spilled blood look holy.
At the center of it all stood the Throne of Chains.
A mass of braided gold and skyiron, so massive it had to be kept levitated by arcane force, so heavy it warped the air around it. Each link in the throne was a piece of a conquered weapon. And seated upon it, with one hand resting on a hilt no one was allowed to name, was Emperor Albrecht Quinsley IV.
Ezekiel's father.
The man who had never once spoken to him outside of court protocol.
The man who now looked at him not like a son.
But like a mistake.
---
"Bring him forward," the Emperor said, his voice smooth but sharp enough to draw blood if you listened too long.
Ezekiel's boots scraped softly on the marble as he walked.
The court murmured behind him. Lines of nobles, judges, generals, and priests sat in ascending rings around the central dais. Many wore expressions of shock. Others of quiet intrigue. Some looked at him as if he were already a corpse.
He passed beneath the eye of High Inquisitor Rhayde, who wore a blindfold of salt-thread and whispered prayers into a bowl of coal as Ezekiel passed. He passed Lady Venreille, who clutched her daughter's hand a little tighter. And Minister Drohn, who wrote notes without blinking, eyes never leaving Ezekiel's throat.
Amelia was not there.
Neither was his mother.
They wouldn't let them in.
---
He stopped at the foot of the dais.
A long silence.
Then the Emperor leaned forward.
"You live," he said.
Three words. Heavy as law.
Ezekiel opened his mouth to answer.
But nothing came out.
He blinked.
Tried again.
Still nothing.
Not a whisper.
Not a rasp.
It wasn't fear.
It wasn't trauma.
It was like his voice had been… taken.
A shiver ran down his spine.
---
"Speak," the Emperor said.
Ezekiel tried once more.
His throat moved. His lips shaped it.
Still.
Nothing.
---
A few nobles shifted in their seats.
The Empress, Meradelle, lowered her goblet and murmured something to Minister Drohn, who scribbled faster.
At last, Lord Ferrow, the aging Master of Law, stood from the lower bench.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice brittle as a snapped reed, "if I may speak in caution—it may be that the boy has been affected by… the cave."
"You believe him cursed?"
"I believe him changed, Majesty. And where change comes without explanation, fear follows."
Whispers rippled through the court like a wave breaking on glass.
"Enough," said the Emperor.
He rose from the Throne of Chains, and the entire hall dropped to one knee—all but Ezekiel.
Not out of pride.
He simply… didn't feel it.
Didn't feel the need to bow.
Didn't feel anything.
---
Albrecht stepped down from the dais.
He stopped two steps from Ezekiel, towering over him.
His armor was engraved with every name of the noble line. His eyes burned with golden light, touched by a flame spirit in his youth.
"You bring no answers," he said coldly.
"You bring no survivors."
"You bring no explanation."
"You are not my heir."
The final sentence was not a blow.
It was a public execution.
And Ezekiel, though still silent, heard what wasn't said:
> "You are something else now. And we fear it."
---
From the shadows beside the Empress, Velric was wheeled into the court on a lowchair.
Bandaged.
Eyes hollow.
Still alive.
And silent.
He looked at Ezekiel the way a child looks at the monster they'd thought only lived in stories.
The Empress touched her son's shoulder gently.
And said—quietly, beautifully, cruelly—
> "Your Majesty. There stands the only living witness."
> "Ask him why the statues spared him."
---
Ezekiel's hand twitched.
The letters beneath his skin stirred.
A whisper echoed inside him—not Azrael, not thought.
A Concept.
Stillness. Weight. Silence.
The courtroom dimmed by a hair.
A few noticed.
Most didn't.
But Inquisitor Rhayde's blindfold blackened at the edges, and he gasped—
"The air just lied."
---
And yet, Ezekiel did nothing.
Only stood.
Unmoving.
Unbowed.
And as the Emperor turned away in disgust and waved his hand—
"Lock him in the Eastern Tower. No contact. No voice. Let him rot in silence."
Ezekiel closed his eyes.
And Silence smiled.