The great hall of Northumbria, was a cathedral of judgment—cold, vast, and echoing with the whispers of gathered nobility. The banners of the twin lions hung limp in the draft, their golden threads catching only faint light from the high windows.
Outside, dawn had barely clawed its way above the horizon, yet the air inside felt already thick with the heat of unspoken tension.
They came to see a hanging.
They would instead witness a reckoning.
Aiden stood at the heart of the chamber, hands bound lightly behind him, chains clinking softly with every idle movement. Yet nothing about him seemed subdued.
His posture was regal—back straight, chin raised, that infernal smile carved lazily across his lips. Even in torn, dark clothes, he radiated the poise of a man not awaiting judgment, but preparing to deliver it.
