The morning of June 10th, 2025, arrived with a sky as pale and uncertain as Aldric's own thoughts. The alarm on his phone buzzed sharply at 6:30 a.m., slicing through the quiet hum of his apartment. He had slept fitfully, the restless weight of anticipation and anxiety pressing against his chest. Even in sleep, he had dreamt of courtrooms—of judges with gavel in hand, of papers scattered across desks, and of his own voice arguing before unseen eyes.
Aldric stretched, his lean frame tall and unyielding at 5'11". His black hair was tousled, and his dark brown eyes glinted with a mix of determination and weariness. The shadows beneath his eyes told the story of nights spent caring for his family, studying late into the night, and wrestling with despair. But today, all of that was beneath him, hidden under the armor of purpose he now wore like a second skin.
He dressed carefully, choosing his lawyer suit—a deep charcoal gray, crisply pressed, paired with a simple white shirt and a dark tie. It was not expensive, not luxurious, but it carried the weight of professionalism and intent. He slung his worn leather briefcase over his shoulder, the interior modest: just notebooks, pens, and a few carefully placed stickers for a touch of personal whimsy. Aldric never carried unnecessary weight; everything inside was essential.
As he reached for his phone to check the time, a new notification appeared: an unknown number had sent a message. It read simply:
"A bus will arrive at 8:00 a.m. sharp for law school candidates. Be ready."
A chill ran down his spine. The message was concise, almost clinical, yet there was an undeniable authority behind it. No explanation, no preamble—just an instruction. Aldric knew enough of Mercury to sense that this was serious. Yet he did not hesitate. Today, he thought, was the first step into a new life.
By 7:30 a.m., he was outside the apartment building, the humid Castria morning clinging to his skin. The streets were alive with the mundane rhythm of the city—children walking to school, vendors calling out the day's wares, the low hum of traffic weaving through the alleys. Aldric's shoes clicked against the uneven pavement as he waited, his mind rehearsing arguments, statutes, and logic in a steady, methodical rhythm.
At exactly 8:00 a.m., a sleek black bus rolled into view. It had no markings save for a small emblem engraved on the door—a stylized balance scale. The driver gave no greeting. Candidates, each looking anxious or excited in varying degrees, lined up silently. Aldric climbed aboard, nodding briefly to a few faces he recognized from the application process, and found a seat near the middle.
The bus moved smoothly, its engine quiet, almost unnaturally so, weaving through Castria's streets and then out toward the outskirts where the law school stood. It was a building that could have been mistaken for a fortress. Tall, imposing, with pillars that stretched skyward and dark glass windows reflecting the morning sun, it exuded both authority and intimidation.
When the bus came to a halt, a woman emerged from the building to greet the candidates. Her presence was commanding but measured, her expression unreadable. Dark hair fell neatly over her shoulders, and her sharp eyes scanned the line of students.
"Good morning," she said, her voice precise and calm. "I am Ms. Selene Varo. Welcome to Mercury Institute of Jurisprudence. I will be overseeing your initial examination today. Please follow me."
The candidates rose in unison, following her inside. The building was colder than the day outside, the air-conditioned halls stark, with a faint scent of polished stone and old books. They were led to a single room with no windows, the walls pale and unadorned, save for a chalkboard dominating the front. Only one exit existed: the door through which they had entered.
"This is where you will prepare," Ms. Varo explained, turning to face the group. "You will review the case assigned to you here. One by one, you will be called into the courtroom to present your arguments. Each candidate is expected to analyze, reason, and argue with clarity, integrity, and precision. There will be no assistance beyond what is available in this room. Understood?"
A chorus of nods followed, the tension thick in the air. Aldric found a seat near the center, pulling out his notebooks and pens, his briefcase lying beside him. His mind, already alive with anticipation, immediately focused. He studied the chalkboard, which held the details of the case:
Case File — Suspected Counterfeiter
Defendant: Marcus Ellison, age 38
Incident Date: June 3rd, 2025
Time: 10:43 PM
Location: 1423 Briar Lane, Castria
Allegation: Possession and intent to distribute counterfeit currency.
Evidence: Stockpile of cash found in backyard, wrapped in tape, no fingerprints present.
Additional Notes: Defendant claims no involvement; alibi under review.
Aldric's eyes scanned the case methodically. He imagined the scenario, placing himself in the defendant's shoes: a man accused, with evidence stacked against him yet lacking fingerprints. He noted the small details: the time of the alleged crime, the condition of the money, the wording of the accusation. His mind immediately ran through logical possibilities, inconsistencies, and alternative explanations.
Around him, other candidates whispered softly, reviewing their notes, strategizing. Some frowned, anxious. Others exuded a quiet confidence, tapping pens against notebooks in rhythmic thought. Aldric, however, remained silent, absorbed in the analysis. He had always possessed a certain ability to step beyond emotion and see the raw mechanics of events—the pattern in chaos, the thread through the tangled web. It was both a gift and a burden.
Hours seemed to pass before his name was called.
"Candidate Aldric Benedict," Ms. Varo announced. Her voice was calm, authoritative, and carried the weight of expectation. "Please follow me."
Aldric stood, straightening his suit, and slung the briefcase over his shoulder. The room watched silently as he left, some eyes curious, some envious, some indifferent. He stepped down a long corridor, the sound of his shoes echoing against the polished floor, and entered a courtroom that seemed both real and surreal.
It was an actual courtroom, complete with a judge's bench, witness stands, a jury section, and opposing counsel tables. Behind the benches, dark wood stretched from floor to ceiling, absorbing light and giving the room a sense of gravity. Aldric's heart beat steadily, but not with fear—this was anticipation, sharp and electric.
"Please, sit," Ms. Varo gestured toward the table in front of the judge. Papers were laid out neatly in front of him: the defendant's information, the charges, evidence, and preliminary notes. Aldric sat, sliding the briefcase to the side and flipping it open. He laid his pens and notebooks with deliberate care.
The judge entered. She was stern, mid-fifties, with steel-gray hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her gavel struck the block, echoing through the chamber.
"Court is now in session," she intoned. "We are here to review the case of Marcus Ellison. The defendant is accused of possession and intent to distribute counterfeit currency. Mr. Benedict, you may proceed."
Aldric's eyes scanned the opposing counsel—a man in his early forties, sharp suit, sharper eyes, a voice smooth with practiced persuasion. He rose immediately, holding a stack of papers.
"Your Honor," the counsel began, voice deliberate and confident, "the evidence is clear. A substantial sum of counterfeit money was found on the defendant's property. No fingerprints, yes, but circumstantial evidence points conclusively to Mr. Ellison. He had both motive and opportunity. The integrity of Mercury's currency cannot be undermined. This court must act to ensure justice and deter criminal activity."
Aldric listened, absorbing every word, noting the cadence, the tone, the subtle attempts to frame the defendant's character. When the opposing counsel finished, he returned to his seat, a faint smirk of satisfaction crossing his face.
The judge's gaze turned to Aldric. "Sir Benedict," she said, the gavel poised, "do you have anything to add?"
For a moment, Aldric's mind went blank, the courtroom sounds fading as he processed the case from every angle. Then, almost reflexively, he tapped his hand on the table and laughed softly.
"Forgive my behavior, Your Honor," he said, composing himself. "Yes, I have something to share."
He paused, scanning the courtroom, his voice steady, resonant, but carrying the weight of truth.
"If you look at today's society," he began, "the poor and the average are often considered lower class, while the rich are portrayed as powerful by something that can be printed. But if anyone else prints it without government approval, it is considered a crime. Why? Because it undermines the integrity of a nation's currency and economy. My client, Marcus Ellison, is not so foolish as to commit counterfeiting. He has evidence to prove his innocence."
Aldric turned to the defendant. "Sir, where were you on the night of June 3rd at 10:43 PM?"
Marcus Ellison, tall and weary, spoke clearly. "I was at home with my neighbor, watching over his child. He needed help; I was there all night."
Aldric nodded, jotting notes, calculating timelines, cross-referencing probable scenarios. "And can anyone verify this?"
"Yes," Marcus said. "His wife and several neighbors can confirm."
Aldric looked back at the opposing counsel. "Your argument relies on circumstantial evidence. There are no fingerprints. There is no direct link between my client and the cash. And there is a verifiable alibi for the time in question. The prosecution's case, Your Honor, while logically appealing, collapses under scrutiny."
A hush fell over the courtroom. The opposing counsel rose, indignation flashing across his face.
"Objection!" he said sharply. "The defendant may have accomplices! He may have staged an alibi! The evidence is undeniable—he must be guilty!"
Aldric smiled faintly, a calm precision in his tone. "With respect, sir, speculation is not evidence. Logic, facts, and verifiable testimony are. And that is exactly what I am presenting to this court."
The judge leaned forward, studying Aldric intently. After a long pause, she tapped her gavel.
"Very well," she said. "Based on the evidence presented, the charges against Marcus Ellison are dismissed. Case closed."
Aldric exhaled, feeling the familiar thrill of justice served—not only for the client, but for the principle itself. Yet, as he looked at the courtroom, he noticed something odd: a security officer, typically neutral, wearing a tight expression and speaking rapidly into a phone. The officer's eyes lingered on Marcus Ellison for a moment too long before he turned and disappeared from the courtroom.
Aldric felt a chill, a premonition he could not place. He had won the case—but perhaps it was not over. Somewhere, beyond the courtroom walls, forces were moving, unseen and deliberate, setting the stage for what would come next.