Octavian stood at the edge of the corridor, watching as the guards dragged Lenore through the great marbled archway.
Her long hair hung loose and tangled, her hands bound in iron. She didn't look at him, or anything for that matter, her head hung low, but he watched—watched the girl who had moments ago held her head high, who had once been Viranna's shadow, reduced to a silent figure in chains. The blood on her dress had dried to dull rust, but it still marked her. Branded her.
He said nothing. But in his chest, there was a quiet thrum of satisfaction. A silent triumph.
The swiftness of it all stirred a flicker of amusement in him. A night meant for the occasional social exchanges, for pageantry and masks, had ended with shackles and screams. That kind of irony pleased him.
As she disappeared from view, he turned away to leave.
He knew he made the right choice to attend.
The Moonstone Courtyard shimmered red under the weight of the Blood Moon.
It had once been a sacred place, carved of pale stone that glowed faintly beneath the stars. Now, it was a stage. A place of judgment.
Nobles filled the tiered balconies above, cloaked in the same sliks, furs, and fabrics that were moments ago swishing and swaying at the Ebonmere household. Their gazes were hard and glittering. Every eye on the girl below, shackled and kneeling.
Queen Morganna sat straight-backed upon her marble throne, lips pursed into a line, her face unreadable.
Her husband, King Alaric, was beside her. He, too, was seated, his face stony and unmoving like his throne.
Severin's expression was similar to that of his mother's, unreadable. Corvin was tense with a silent restraint. Darius was cool and distant.
They were her judges now.
Lenore sat shackled, the iron biting into her wrists, the scent of blood, stone, and earth filling her lungs. She did not tremble like she had back at her manor when witnessing her aunt. Not here. Not now.
A guard stepped forward to read the charges aloud—murder, betrayal, the death of a noble.
The sentence she would soon face was obvious.
Imprisonment.
Lashings.
Inevitable death.
Her breath caught, but she didn't flinch. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
She hadn't done it.
Rowan stood in a corner reserved for lower-ranking members of the council, silent, ever the devoted member. But his gaze never met hers. Not anymore.
The evidence against her was staggering. Her hands bloodied, her lack of presence, and the overwhelming amount of it with the body. The dagger—a ceremonial gift—impaled in Viranna's back.
Severin was the one who spoke the sentence.
"I, Severin Vortem de Caldereth, strip you, Lenore Nyxara de Ebonmere, of your title, and sentence you to imprisonment," he boomed, his tone detached. "There, you will receive lashes carried out at the court's discretion."
As the sentence echoed across the courtyard, Lenore turned.
Not to the King and Queen. Not the princes. Not even the audience.
But to Rowan.
Her gaze searched his, desperate for truth, for the kindness it once had, for anything that said he believed her, that he hadn't turned from her.
But Rowan didn't flinch. Didn't speak.
Her stare on him hardened before she faced forward at the princes' expressions that were devoid of warmth. Now cast in the red moonlight and shadows.
"Bring out the whips."
She should've fought harder then, screamed her innocence to the stars above. To the ears that had turned away until her very voice cracked under the pressure of her defence. She should've followed after her aunt to her study, keeping company like she always had, doting on her, hearing her voice again, talking again, preventing her death. The night of the masquerade ball. The day she regretted most, the day her life toppled completely, shook with violent change. That day was only the beginning of her suffering, her torment, her climb from the bottom. The day that began it all. Her sealed fate.
She would remember this night, always.
Every face.
Every betrayal.
Every name.
Even if the blood moon faded, her unjust fury would not.