The tribunal hall was a cavern of judgment.
Torchlight flickered against the tall marble columns, chasing shadows across banners stitched with the royal crest. The air smelled of wax, parchment, and too many whispers. Rows of nobles filled the galleries, their silks rustling like restless wings, while citizens pressed shoulder to shoulder, hungry for spectacle.
And then came the sound that silenced them all.
Clink… clink… clink.
Chains scraped against the marble floor, each clink echoing through the silence like an accusation. Suzan entered the chamber, a ring of Crown Guards around her in a protective circle, their polished armor gleaming, shields raised—not only to keep her from running but to keep the crowd's eyes at bay.
Suzan walked with her chin lifted, green eyes alight with fire. The shackles around her wrists had rubbed her skin raw, but she refused to let it show. She smirked, tossing her white-blonde hair like a banner.
"Don't all stare at once," she called, her voice carrying clear. "I know I'm adorable, but you'll embarrass yourselves."
A ripple of nervous laughter darted through the galleries before being smothered under stern looks.
Captain Arven walked behind her, his expression hard but not unkind. His men had begged not to chain her wrists so tightly, but the law was the law. He hated the sight of those red welts, hated the thought of how light she was in their grip—more bird than criminal.
When they reached the dais, Suzan was forced to stand at its center, beneath the high seat where the tribunal of judges presided.
Arven stepped forward. "By order of the Crown, we present the accused—Suzan—brought forth for questioning regarding the theft of the royal relic."
The chief judge, an older man with a beard white as frost, fixed Suzan with eyes sharp enough to carve stone. "Do you understand why you stand here, child?"
Suzan grinned. "Sure. I'm here because your mages can't tell the difference between me and a ghost."
Gasps echoed through the chamber.
"Silence," the judge snapped. "You will speak only when spoken to."
Suzan swept into an exaggerated bow, her chains clattering. "As you command, Your Grumpiness."
A stifled snort came from one of the younger guards. He quickly looked away when Arven's glare burned into him.
The questioning began.
Mage-craft shimmered in the air, casting fragments of distorted memory for all to see. Wisps of light painted moving scenes above the dais: Suzan and Lily entering the vault, eyes wide at the treasures within. The girls walking side by side, whispering. Then—an abrupt blur, the image shuddering—Suzan, alone, rushing toward the pedestal where the relic rested. The vision flickered with static, cloaked figures sliding in and out like broken reflections in water.
The audience murmured uneasily.
The chief judge's voice cut sharp. "You were seen near the relic. You were seen fleeing with it. What have you to say?"
Suzan yawned theatrically. "I'd say your mages need better glasses. If I wanted to steal it, I wouldn't have made such a mess of it."
The galleries hissed with disapproval, though a few poorly suppressed chuckles sparked here and there.
A magistrate leaned forward. "Your flippancy does not serve you, child."
Suzan only spread her hands. "Maybe humor's the only thing keeping me from crying. You ever think of that?"
For the first time, silence pressed heavy against her words.
One by one, townsfolk were brought in. The vase seller muttered about her constant chaos, the baker sighed about her endless questions, the fruit-stall owner complained of her sticky fingers always stealing samples.
But when pressed, none could say she had stolen the relic. Only that she had asked, asked, asked, until she suddenly stopped.
"She's a nuisance, aye," the baker admitted, twisting his hat in his hands. "But she's not a thief. Not like this."
Suzan grinned at him and blew a mocking kiss. "Finally, someone with taste."
Laughter trickled through the guards; one coughed into his gauntlet to hide it.
But the weight of suspicion still pressed down. Every testimony built the image of a girl too curious for her own good.
Finally, the chief judge raised a hand. "Bring forth Lily Hart."
The doors creaked open.
Lily stepped into the hall, pale as moonlight. Her hands twisted in her skirts, her dark hair tangled from sleepless nights. Her black eyes found Suzan instantly—chains glinting on her wrists, bravado wrapped around fear like brittle armor.
Suzan's grin brightened. "Lily! Tell them! Tell them I didn't do it!"
Her voice cracked with something dangerously close to pleading.
Lily's knees nearly gave way, but the guards steadied her. She was led to the witness stand, trembling under the weight of so many stares.
The chief judge intoned, "You entered the vault with the accused. State what you saw."
Lily's lips parted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Y-yes. We went in together. We were only looking. Just children. We didn't touch anything."
Suzan smiled proudly at her, nodding as though to say See? Easy.
But then came the question.
"Did Suzan steal the relic?"
The silence was suffocating.
Every eye in the hall bore down on Lily. She saw the image in her mind—the vault's shifting walls, Suzan stumbling, her nose bleeding, that strange voice she asked her about. And then the memory of searching, panicked, before finding Suzan again, pale and evasive.
Her lips trembled.
"I… I don't know."
The words shattered through the hall like glass.
Suzan froze. Her grin died on her face, breaking apart piece by piece. Her mouth opened, but no sound came.
"You… don't know?" she whispered.
Tears welled in Lily's eyes. She tried to fix it, stumbling over her words. "Suzan would never—she's reckless, yes, curious, yes, but she's not cruel! She wouldn't steal from the Crown!"
But it was too late.
The hesitation had already cut deeper than any blade.
Suzan's chest burned. Her throat tightened until every breath felt like a betrayal. Of all people—Lily? The one person she trusted to see through the mask, to know the truth of her heart?
"So you see me as a thief too," she whispered, voice hoarse.
Lily shook her head violently, sobbing. "No! I didn't mean—please, Suzan, I didn't mean—"
The judges leaned in, pressing further. "When you separated in the vault, where did Suzan go?"
Lily stammered, choking on words. "We… we didn't… we left together. She didn't leave my side."
Confusion swept through the chamber.
"But the vision," a magistrate argued, "shows her returning alone."
Another countered, "And yet the witness swears otherwise."
A ripple of uncertainty ran through the hall. Citizens whispered, nobles frowned, and even the guards exchanged uneasy glances.
Captain Arven's jaw tightened. He'd chased the girl himself, seen her impossible reflexes, but… she hadn't struck him as guilty. Not of this.
"Perhaps the memory is tampered," a younger judge muttered.
"Or perhaps," the elder judge snapped, "the girl lies."
Lily broke then. She clutched the railing, sobbing uncontrollably. "You're all blind! She didn't do it! Investigate the cloaked men too—you all saw them! She wasn't alone!"
The officials replied coldly, "That lead is under consideration. This trial concerns the accused."
The words hollowed Lily out. She crumpled, shaking, her cries echoing painfully in the chamber.
And Suzan—brash, loud Suzan—stood silent. Her head bowed, her eyes dim.
The guards moved to escort her out.
"Wait!" Lily cried, lunging forward before the guards caught her. "Please! Don't take her—she's not like that!"
Suzan finally looked at her. Just for a heartbeat.
No jokes. No grin. Only raw, unguarded hurt.
Then she turned away. Shoulders slumped. Chains dragging.
Arven clenched his fists. Damn it, girl. I wish you'd prove them wrong.
The hall filled with whispers: confusion, doubt, fear. Nobody knew the truth anymore.
And as Lily sobbed against the railing, broken beyond words, the chief judge's voice thundered:
"The trial is adjourned. The matter requires further deliberation. Until then—the accused remains in custody."
The gavel struck like a death knell.
And Suzan was led away.
After the tribunal the heavy doors of the tribunal slammed shut behind her, cutting off the roar of voices, the echo of Lily's trembling words, and the weight of the nobles' judgment.
Suzan didn't look back.
Her wrists were no longer chained with iron links but bound in tighter cuffs, snug enough to scrape her skin raw if she twisted too much. Two guards walked on either side of her, and Captain Arven led the way. They didn't drag her; they didn't need to. She walked in silence, eyes fixed on the stone floor, her usual grin nowhere to be found.
The crowd outside the court had dispersed, but a few onlookers lingered. They watched as the "child thief" was escorted back toward the cells, whispering speculation. Some muttered her name with disdain. Others with disbelief.
Suzan heard none of it. Her ears rang with a single voice—Lily's.
"I… I don't know."
The words throbbed in her chest louder than the marching boots around her.
When they reached the dim corridors of the prison, the guards paused as the iron door creaked open. She stepped inside her cell without a word, moving to the simple cot in the corner. The door clanged shut, the lock sliding into place with a cold finality.
Suzan sat down heavily, then drew her knees to her chest. Her hair spilled forward like a curtain, masking her face. Her cuffs clinked against each other as she hugged her legs, the steel pressing into scraped skin.
She wanted to cry. To scream. To demand answers from a world that seemed to have turned on her overnight. But no tears came—not here, not in front of them.
Instead, she buried her face against her knees and curled tighter.
Inside her head, the memory replayed again and again. Lily's eyes—wide, terrified, uncertain. Not the eyes of the girl who always laughed at her chaos, who always scolded her with affection. No, those eyes had held doubt.
And that doubt hurt worse than any chain, any cell, any tribunal's judgment.
So you see me as a thief too…
Her chest burned, but she kept her face dry. She would not give them her tears.
Outside her cell, the guards lingered. They weren't laughing like yesterday, when she'd teased them into conversation. Their voices were hushed.
"She's just a child," one muttered. "I can't believe it…"
"You saw the fragments. She was holding it."
"Fragments can lie. And she doesn't look like—like one of them."
The youngest of the guards—broad-shouldered but barely past twenty—stepped closer to the bars. He hesitated, then tried a clumsy smile. "You gave us a real run yesterday, you know. My legs still ache from chasing you around half the city."
Suzan didn't move.
He tried again, softer this time. "I thought I was fast, but you made me eat dust. Never seen reflexes like that."
Still nothing. Just the sound of her cuffs faintly clinking as she held herself.
The others shifted awkwardly. Finally, one leaned on his spear. "Don't go all quiet on us now, girl. Yesterday you nearly talked our ears off."
For a moment, silence stretched. Then Suzan lifted her head just enough to show a small, fragile smile.
"Sorry," she whispered, voice rough. "Didn't mean to rob you of your favorite entertainment. Consider it… rest day."
The guards blinked, then one chuckled despite himself. "Rest day, she says…"
Another shook his head, lips twitching. "Careful, she'll have us all laughing and forget she's a prisoner."
Suzan gave them a faint smirk, the shadow of her usual bravado. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
The tension broke. Laughter rippled, quiet but real. For a while, the stone corridor didn't feel quite so cold.
They talked to her, tossing harmless jokes through the bars. She replied with weak quips, playing along just enough to make them forget the silence of the prison.
But when their footsteps faded and she was left alone again, the smile slid from her face. The cell seemed bigger, emptier.
She drew her knees tighter to her chest and whispered into the dark, a voice no one could hear:
"…Lily."
Her lips trembled. But still, she didn't cry.
Not yet.
Because if the world wanted to play this cruel game, then she would endure it. Even broken, even alone, Suzan would endure.
And in the silence of her cell, the girl who once mocked the world curled in on herself—lonely, fragile, but unyielding.
She slid back onto the narrow cot, the thin mattress sighing beneath her. Her head was a hollow drum where too many sounds rattled — Lily's last words, the tribunal's gavel, the clink of chains. Her mind felt blank in the worst way, empty of plans and answers. Should she try to run? To fight? What would she even do if she got out—where would she hide from everything that had turned against her?
Outside, guards swapped shifts with the dull rhythm of the prison: boots on stone, keys jangling, low voices. The cell smelled of dust and old rope and the faint, comforting tang of smoke from the corridor brazier. She was tired down to her bones. The day's chase, the court, the way Lily had looked at her — it had worn her raw.
She closed her eyes and told herself, again and again, that sleep would come if she let it. She asked the nearest guard — not really expecting an answer — "Don't you have toys, or, I dunno, a puzzle? This place is so boring." The guard grunted a distracted laugh and walked on. The cot felt small and fraying, but it was a bed, at least.
She tried to busy herself; anything to stop the memory loop. She picked at a loose thread on the blanket, counted seams, folded and refolded an imaginary map of escape routes through the city. The hours dragged in small motions until, halfway through methodically retying the knot of her shoelace in her head, she stopped.
Her heart—not metaphorical now, but the real heavy place under her ribs—hit a silence so sharp it felt as if someone had set a hand to it and pressed. The sudden stillness was like a held breath in a crowd. She flinched, one hand clutching at her chest reflexively, fingers closing on the cuff at her wrist.
Then it came: a white-hot band of pain that lanced through her sternum and raced down into her arms. It was worse than the prickling, the strange wrench she'd felt in the library a few nights ago. This was as if someone were tightening a band around the center of her being and turning it with slow, cruel hands. Her breath hitched and then broke into ragged little pulls.
"What—" she murmured, but the word dissolved into a sound somewhere between a gasp and a groan. Her knees folded up beneath her as though the floor had become treacherous sand. She curled into herself, trying to make the hurt smaller, to fold it tight inside where no one could see. Her cuff scraped against the mattress, a tiny, angry rattle.
The pain hammered. It wasn't just sharp; it bullied and shredded little places inside her that she'd forgotten existed. She felt hot and then cold, sweat beading at her hairline, her teeth clenched around a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob. Her fingers dug into the sheet until the skin went numb, and the world narrowed to one single command: hold on. Endure it.
"W-what is the meaning of this?" she breathed, each syllable a ceremony of effort. Her voice was small, rough as sand. The question wasn't for the room or even for the gods — it was for the curse that had lived in her chest for years, the thing she'd managed to ignore and tuck away like a broken toy. Which stayed quiet for years. Now it was awake.
Her breathing became a jagged rhythm—short, then too long, then painfully shallow. She bent lower, folding her head into her arms, as if by shrinking she might shrink the pain with her.
The pain intensified, each breath a battle to drag air into lungs that wanted to crush. Her hands shook violently against the metal of the cuff as if trying to claw the agony free. Tears leaked hot and surprising down her cheeks—not the composed, deliberate tears she sometimes pretended to shed for sympathy, but the real, surprising ones that came when a body was forced to speak in a language the mind could no longer translate. For a girl who had never let the city see her fall apart, they were sudden and traitorous.
She pressed her forehead to her knees, fingers white around cold metal. Each rise and fall of her chest was ragged; the rhythm of life felt foreign, like a song played badly on an instrument. The room contracted to a narrowing tunnel of sensation: pain, breath, a small voice inside her head begging like a child.
"Please… stop…. it" Her hands clawed at the coarse blanket, nails digging into wool.
She tried to think of Jane's hands at the hairbrush, of Lily's scolding laugh, of the foolish little daisy she'd once been given — anything to anchor her to something that wasn't the pressure crushing her ribs. But the imagination only made the hurt sharper, the memory thinned and slid away when another wave washed over her. Each breath felt like someone tightening a band around her lungs.
"Make it stop," she whispered, a flat plea that scraped the silence.
Her body trembled so violently that her cuff clinked against the iron bedframe. The pain tightened into a knot at the center of her chest, and then, mercifully, everything tilted and blurred. She tried to call out again — the sound wrenched from her throat like some small animal — but even that faltered into a breath that failed.
She folded inward and, finally, at the mercy of exhaustion and agony together, she slipped into a black, unwilled sleep.
A while later — perhaps minutes, perhaps who-knew-how-long — a guard came by with a tray. He bent and slid the food through the narrow slit of the cell door without slowing his steps. He did not notice the shallow rise and fall that marked her breathing, mistaking the odd rhythm for weariness. In the low torchlight he saw the slack of her hair, the way one arm lay limp, and he smiled, thinking only that she was finally asleep after a trying day.
"Sleep like the dead, design like a stone," he muttered without thinking, closing the hatch. He left, footsteps receding into the routine hum of the prison.
Suzan lay curled on the cot, her chest still moving in uneven, painful waves. Her breath came in shallow hiccups, each one an effort that made her skin pale and the room seem too full of distance. The cuffs bit into her wrists where they had rubbed raw flesh; tiny beads of blood had already formed from the frantic clenching earlier.
Outside, the guards assumed sleep and exhaustion. No one knew, not yet, the depth of the thing that had woken inside her — the relentless curse clawing at the fragile walls she'd built around herself. No one heard the soft, ragged whisper that escaped from her even in unconsciousness, a single, private plea that drifted like a ghost:
"Please… make it stop."