The Palace's Judicial Hall had no dawn and no dusk. Its torches burned night and day, their smoke carried off by hidden vents carved centuries ago. Beneath its high vault, stone pillars lined the length of the chamber like frozen sentinels, their surfaces engraved with the laws of dynasties long gone. The floor was black marble veined in silver, polished to such a sheen that the officials could see their bowed heads reflected as if the law itself watched them kneel.
This day, the hall was swollen with presence. Officials of every department sat or stood in their places: auditors in dark ink-stained robes, law enforcement officers with steel glinting beneath their cloaks, sect envoys in plain attire that carried heavier weight than crowns, Imperial Scholars with scrolls balanced in pale hands, and in side chambers hidden behind latticed screens, the unseen ones–the secret investigators of the Empire, whose reports carried no names but whose words bent verdicts.
At the dais's heart stood the Emperor Dharam, his robes a tide of crimson trimmed in gold, his crown a circlet heavy with jade. To his right, as always, the Preceptor: plain-robed, unadorned, but somehow the quiet anchor of the hall.
When the heralds' cry ended, the hails rose like thunder. The officials bent, hands pressed to the floor. The hall echoed with the weight of voices, the ritual praise that proclaimed loyalty.
Dharam did not wait for it to swell into grandeur. His hand struck the lion-carved arm of his throne, and his voice cut through the greetings.
"Enough," he said. The sound was not loud, yet every echo died as if struck dead. "Cut your formalities. Get to the point. Whoever has come, speak. Do not waste the Empire's time with bows and words that weigh nothing."
The sudden impatience cracked through the ceremony like lightning. The officials straightened half a breath sooner than usual, their faces carefully blank. The air carried the tension of a taut bowstring.
A scholar stepped forward. His robe was simple, his cuffs blotched faintly with ink. He bowed, his voice low but unshaken.
"As you command, Your Excellency. I am Scholar Wen from Eastern Gate Province. I was raised upon its soil, and I return now as the carrier of its people's petition."
He unrolled a scroll, the hemp cord snapping softly. His words came steady, though sorrow underlined each one.
"After the disappearance of General Jo Berque, the Eastern Province has fallen into disorder. The balance of law was broken. Commoners cry out; riots scorch fields that once fed a hundred thousand. Bandits roam unchecked, their knives sharper than the officials' pens. The current Acting General and the Magistrate have failed in their duty. Taxes doubled, granaries emptied, families beaten into silence. Some daughters were dragged from homes in daylight. The people no longer believe justice lives in the East. They entrusted me with this petition so that their cries might reach Your Majesty."
He raised the scroll above his head. From the crowd, attendants stepped forward with trays bearing folded letters and stamped petitions: merchants' seals, guild captains' signatures, the crude thumbprints of farmers who could not write but who could suffer.
Dharam's face remained carved from stone. He leaned back slightly upon the throne, the gesture more weight than comfort. "I heard rumors of this from palace servants. It was dismissed as unrest, not disease." He paused, his gaze sharpening. "If it is as you say, it is not unrest. It is rot. What shall we do for remedy? Who has counsel?"
The court breathed in. No one answered at once.
Then the Preceptor spoke. His tone was as calm as a river moving downhill, needing no force to be heard. "Majesty, let truth be drawn from its root. Summon the people who accuse. Let a spokesperson among them speak freely in your sight. Place the Acting General and Magistrate before the hall. Let the questions come not from scribes, but from those who bled. What is hidden will be revealed."
The Emperor's head turned sharply, his crown flashing in the torchlight. His voice cracked with disbelief.
"What? Are you mad, Preceptor? To let a commoner question the throne's officers? Do you mock the Empire's order and hierarchy? If we allow this, what next? Farmers lecturing generals? Carters judging priests? Do you wish to unseat the mountain itself?"
His words struck like stones into the silence. Several ministers' faces drained of color; one priest bowed his head more deeply as though to distance him from sacrilege.
The Preceptor smiled faintly, unshaken. "Your Majesty fears the people will grow bold. But boldness grows when truth is hidden. Give them voice here, before your eyes, and their hearts will be silenced in trust. Deny them, and their silence will break walls instead of petitions. I have seen courts fall for less. Believe me when I say–there is no stronger shield for your throne than letting the people known it listens."
For a long while Dharam's face was unreadable. Then his shoulders eased, though not in peace. He exhaled, a sound like the edge of steel scraping its sheath.
"Very well. One chance. If it fails–Preceptor, you know the consequences."
The herald struck the floor. "By decree of the Emperor, commoners of the Eastern Province shall be summoned. Their spokesman shall be chosen, and judgment will be held at the open court tomorrow."
The next day, the hall had changed.
The dais remained, but at its center rose a raised platform of black wood–the execution stage. Upon it knelt two men, hands bound behind them, faces pale and drawn. One was the Acting General Haklan, his once-proud girth sagging into sweat and fear. The other, the Magistrate, thin as parchment, eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights. Behind them, two ropes swayed from the beam, silent witnesses waiting.
The crowd pressed close: ministers, soldiers, scholars, sect envoys, and, unlike any day before, a cluster of commoners from the Eastern Gate, their rough clothes setting them apart like soil in a garden of silk. At their front stood Pellatin, the chosen spokesman. His shoulders were stooped from labor, his palms thickened with callus, but his eyes were steady as a spear-point.
He stepped forward. "Your Majesty, I am Pellatin of Eastern Gate. I stand for those who cannot speak here. Permit me to ask."
"Begin," said Dharam.
Pellatin bowed, then turned to face the Acting General. His voice rang, not loud, but clear.
"General Haklan, do you admit your deeds? Are you guilty? Do you admit manipulating the taxes? Do you admit colluding with bandits?"
Haklan barked his denial at once. "Lies! I served with loyalty. These are words of rebels and thieves!"
"Then let the numbers speak," Pellatin replied. He raised his hand. Attendants came with three scrolls: one sealed by Jo Berque's hand, one in Haklan's own, and one stamped with the cold, featureless mark of the palace's secret investigators. The scrolls were placed upon the dais.
"Grain harvest," Pellatin read. "Last year: five hundred thousand sacks. General Jo's ledger: nine hundred thousand sacks–eighty percent increase. Haklan's ledger: seven hundred eighty thousand–fifty-six percent. The secret survey: nine hundred forty thousand–eighty-eight percent. Between survey and Haklan's ledger: one hundred sixty thousand sacks missing."
The hall inhaled sharply.
"Tax in spirit jade," Pellatin continued. "Last year: one hundred thousand. Jo's ledger: one hundred eighty thousand. Haklan's ledger: one hundred forty thousand. The survey: one hundred seventy thousand. Thirty thousand jades missing."
A low rustle of unease ran through the magistrates' row.
"Beast core tribute," Pellatin said, lifting the third scroll. "Last year: eighty basic cores. Jo's ledger: one hundred sixty basics and two first-tier General Beast Cores. Haklan's ledger: ninety basics, no General Core. The survey: one hundred seventy basics and one first-tier General Beast Core. One first-tier General Beast Core missing. Eighty basic cores concealed."
The weight of the words pressed down. The sect envoys stiffened. The generals clenched fists. Even the Preceptor's stillness seemed sharper, more deliberate.
Pellatin's voice cut again, sharper still. "To gain these untallied spoils, Haklan made secret contracts with bandits. He robbed our caravans, plundered our homes when grain was scarce, and when families lacked even a single meal–he dragged away our daughters in daylight, shamed them, and left them broken. The Magistrate, who should have stood as shield, arrested us when we cried out, branded us liars, and left men beaten, rotting in cells. Your Majesty, we beg justice."
The words struck Dharam like hammers. Through the accusations of grain and jade he had remained still, but at the mention of women dishonored, his face darkened. His hand gripped the cushioned arm of his throne so hard the lion-carving beneath splintered faintly.
"Enough!" His voice cracked across the hall like thunder. He did not ask Haklan for answer. He did not ask ministers for counsel. "By law of the Empire, crimes against women bear punishment beyond death. For each life dishonored, ribs shall be broken. Let him feel the weight he gave to others. Then hang him, and let his head remain upon the Eastern Gate for three days. Do it now."
Guards seized Haklan. His protests shrieked, high and frantic, but no one listened. The executioners moved, precise and merciless. Bones cracked; the hall winced as one body. Then the rope took him, and his scream ended into silence, his swaying body a dark pendulum against the law's bright face.
The Emperor turned to the Magistrate. His voice was low now, heavy with iron. "And you. Your deeds are cowardice. You betrayed law not for gain but for fear. You served once with merit; for that, your life I spare. But the hand that wrote false orders, which signed unjust decrees–it, will not remain."
The Magistrate collapsed, wailing. Guards seized his arm, bared it across the block. The executioner's rune-iron blade fell. Flesh parted, and a scream lanced through the chamber. Healers moved forward, but Dharam's hand lifted.
"Rune-iron cuts sever spirit as well as flesh. No healer shall restore what was willingly forfeited. Serve henceforth with your left hand, and remember that justice you denied others has touched your house."
The Magistrate sobbed, clutching his ruined stump. His son's cry rose from among the commoners, but was stifled by guards' firm hands.
The Emperor stood. "This court is adjourned. To the Eastern Province: for two months, no tax will be levied. Scholars and healers will dwell among you, not as guests to be served, but as kin to serve with you. Let the land be restored. The throne will watch."
Pellatin and the Eastern commoners fell to their knees. "Hail to His Majesty!" their voices rang, mingling with the formal chorus of officials.
But Dharam did not bask in their hails. He turned and left, his robe sweeping the stone like the last wave upon sand.
When the hall emptied, silence returned. Attendants hurried to wash blood from the black marble, their cloths red-stained in the torchlight. Ministers filed out, whispering their interpretations of justice.
Only in the shadowed corridor did Dharam's mask shift. His lips bent, not in weariness nor in sorrow, but in a smile sharp and cold.
"The fair prize," he murmured, as though testing the taste of the words.
He did not turn toward his chambers. His steps angled downward, toward the palace roots, where stone sweated and chains spoke. His heart was not in the hall's verdict–it was already walking into the dungeon.
Jo Berque waited in the dark.
And Dharam, Emperor of the Empire, intended to meet him.