Aren expected chains.
He expected a cell, cold stone, and time to think about what he had done.
Instead, he was given water.
The cup was clean. Ceramic. Unchipped. A small courtesy that felt heavier than any punishment.
"Drink," the attendant said, not unkindly.
Aren obeyed.
The hall he was brought into was narrow and tall, its windows placed too high to see through. Light filtered down in pale lines, never touching the corners. At the far end sat three magistrates, their robes dark, their faces calm in the way only people untouched by consequence could manage.
Aren stood alone before them.
"You offered yourself in exchange," the center magistrate said. "Not your life. Your usefulness."
Aren said nothing.
"You did not beg," another noted. "You did not hesitate."
Silence stretched.
"That is rare," the first magistrate continued. "And valuable."
Aren felt it again—that faint warmth beneath his ribs. Steady. Patient. Like something listening.
"What will happen to her?" he asked.
The magistrates exchanged glances.
"She has already been escorted home," one said. "She will not be questioned again."
Relief settled into Aren's bones.
No surge of emotion followed it. No shaking hands. No weakness.
Just relief.
"That is all?" Aren asked quietly.
The center magistrate smiled. "That is everything."
He leaned forward. "Do you know why the law exists, boy?"
Aren shook his head.
"Because hesitation kills more people than cruelty ever has."
The words did not sound cruel. They sounded… reasonable.
"You made a correct decision," the magistrate said. "One life for order. One life for stability."
"She would have died," Aren said.
"Yes," the magistrate agreed easily. "And instead, someone else will."
Aren waited for something to twist inside him.
Nothing did.
"You will serve," the magistrate said. "Not as punishment. As recognition."
A scroll was placed at Aren's feet.
"Judgment bearer," the title read.
Aren stared at the ink. It looked darker than it should have been, as if it absorbed light.
"What does that mean?" he asked.
"It means," the magistrate replied, "that when the next choice must be made, you will make it."
Aren thought of Lysa's face when the ropes fell away.
"I understand," he said.
The warmth in his chest deepened.
Outside the hall, the city moved on. Vendors shouted. Bells rang—not judgment bells this time, but market calls. Life continued, ignorant and unbothered.
Lysa was waiting for him near the steps.
She ran to him the moment she saw him, gripping his coat like he might disappear if she let go. "They didn't hurt you," she whispered, half-question, half-prayer.
"No," Aren said.
She pulled back, searching his face. "You're shaking."
He looked down.
He wasn't.
"I'm fine," he said, and realized it was true.
That night, as Aren lay awake, he tried to remember what fear had felt like.
The memory wouldn't come.
Instead, he thought of the next choice.
And how easy it would be.