The Hall of Triumphs stood silent as the morning light streamed through its high arched windows, painting long golden rays upon the polished marble floor. The banners of the Solareye Contract Army hung above, their golden embroidery shimmering against deep black velvet. This was a chamber of judgment, of reckoning—where honor and disgrace were weighed upon the scales of the code.

  At the center of it all, Yirtin Solareye stood.

  His golden mane, though matted with the remnants of travel and blood, still caught the light like a lion wreathed in fire. His light golden-beige fur, bearing the marks of his battle and his wounds, gleamed under the dim glow of the torches that lined the chamber. Beside him stood two Gath warriors—silent, unmoving, their ceremonial golden armor polished to an unnatural sheen. And behind him, standing just outside the reach of his shadow, was Kogun.

  His brother had led him to this moment, yet his face betrayed nothing. Neither pity nor condemnation. Only a solemn duty, carried out with the precision that the Solareye demanded.

  Before them, upon the raised council bench, Ethos Solareye sat in solemn authority.

  The Grand General, Grand Judge, the Battle Dean, the lion of war and wisdom, watched his son with an expression that betrayed neither anger nor sorrow—only a cold weight of expectation. His golden mane was streaked with white at the edges, an earned symbol of age, yet there was no frailty in his form. His presence filled the hall as much as his voice would. He did not yet speak, but the silence that preceded his words was heavier than any condemnation.

  To his left and right, the Council of Elders watched with careful, weighing eyes.

  Sorra Thundermoon, the elven spymaster, sat with her long silver hair draping over her dark robes, her black, bottomless eyes betraying no immediate emotion—only quiet calculation.

  Sargamri Flintfinger, the dwarven war engineer, kept his arms crossed over his broad chest, his long red beard shifting as he frowned beneath his breath.

  Coxnas the Blue, human war mage and arcane professor, watched with a cool detachment, his blue eyes gleaming with the sort of knowledge only men of the entanglement possessed.

  Duvulnox Oleg, the bookkeeper, the financier sat ready with a scroll before him, his thin, bespectacled face a mask of neutrality. His inked quill hovered above the parchment, waiting to record whatever judgment would soon be passed.

  Yet before any of them spoke, Ethos did something that no one in the chamber expected.

  He sighed.

  A long, weary exhale, his hand briefly pressing against the polished wood of the council bench as if the weight of the moment had finally settled upon him. And then, for just a second, he did something else unexpected.

  He looked away.

  Not for long. Not enough for most to notice. But he could not look at Yirtin. Not at first.

  Then, finally, he spoke.

  His voice was commanding, deep, resounding—more powerful than the average leonine warrior, carrying the full force of his years upon the battlefield and his authority upon the council. It was the voice of the Solareye.

  "Yirtin Solareye, of Clan Solareye, son of Ethos Solareye. Captain of the Golden Dragoons. Fourth-born of his father, second-born of his mother."

  His gaze finally met Yirtin’s, piercing and unreadable.

  "Is that who you are?"

  Yirtin, despite the weight in his limbs, despite the weight in his heart, did not falter.

  "Yes, Grand General. That is who I am."

  Kogun, still silent, moved beside him.

  From his belt, he pulled a Solareye banner—golden thread woven into deep black silk, the proud insignia of the lion’s gaze embroidered upon it. He unfurled it before Yirtin, the standard of their family, their company, their code.

  "Do you swear by your oath that you will speak the truth, and only the truth, no matter the question?"

  Yirtin raised his bound hands, pressing his palm against the banner. It felt familiar beneath his touch. Once, he had carried this sigil into battle. Once, it had been a banner of pride. Now, it was an oath of judgment.

  "The truth, and only the truth."

  "In the name of the Eternal Lion?"

  "In the name of the Eternal Lion."

  Satisfied, Kogun stepped back.

  Then Ethos glanced at Councilman Oleg.

  "Councilman, will you accept the duties of Trial Keeper?"

  Duvulnox Oleg dipped his quill into ink.

  "I accept the duty of Trial Keeper, Grand Judge," Oleg stated, setting the quill’s tip to the blank parchment.

  Aldox Solareye took a step forward, clearing his throat, his sharp golden eyes glancing down at Yirtin as though he were a ruined artifact rather than his own nephew.

  "Captain Yirtin Solareye, you have violated several laws of the code that binds both our company and our clan." His voice was crisp, clipped, practiced. "May I remind you of the crimes you have committed?"

  Yirtin kept his mouth shut. He knew it would come. The moment when his failings would be stripped bare, his every error laid at his feet. He had been prepared for this moment.

  Or so he thought.

  Because before he could answer, another voice rang out from the gallery above.

  "Yes!"

  The word carried with it the unmistakable tone of satisfaction.

  The council looked up.

  There, reclining against the balcony railing, was Iros Solareye.

  The eldest of the Solareye brothers. The General. The warrior who had never lost a battle, never known defeat, never tasted the bitter failure that now clung to Yirtin like a curse.

  A grin split his scarred face. He had no shame in his interruption, no hesitation. He leaned forward slightly, his heavy plated arms resting against the railing.

  A few murmurs rippled through the lower-ranking spectators.

  Yirtin’s fingers curled into fists, his bound wrists straining against the chains.

  Ethos’s gaze darkened.

  "Do not interrupt, General." His voice was quiet, but in it was the unmistakable edge of command. "Or I will request the Gath to remove you from the chambers."

  Iros raised a single hand in mock surrender, smirking beneath his scarred cheek.

  "My apologies, Grand General."

  A silence heavier than the iron chains around Yirtin’s wrists.

  Then he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

  Ethos Solareye, his father and judge, arched a brow. "Come again, Captain?"

  Yirtin swallowed, his throat dry. His shoulders, despite their trained strength, sagged slightly under the weight of the moment.

  "Yes. I would like my crimes to be read to me."

  A slow murmur swept through the council benches, though none dared speak aloud. Aldox tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment.

  "I see." His gaze shifted. "Councilwoman Thundermoon."

  Sorra Thundermoon rose from her seat. Draped in long robes as dark as the void, her silver hair cascaded in soft waves over her shoulders, untouched by age, her black eyes piercing as they settled upon him. She moved with a deliberate grace, her every gesture imbued with the authority of centuries.

  "Captain Solareye, thou hast committed transgressions against thy kin and company, grievous infractions that hath brought thee before this chamber in shackles. The first of thy charges is thus—thou didst fail in calling a proper retreat for thy men, leading to their utter ruin upon the battlefield. How dost thou plead?"

  Yirtin held his breath. He had expected this charge, yet hearing it aloud twisted something deep within him.

  "Not guilty."

  Sorra’s dark eyes narrowed slightly.

  "What cause dost thou give to reject such a burden?"

  "I was incapacitated, unable to move or give orders. I was unconscious."

  "Councilman Coxnas."

  Coxnas the Blue, ever the methodical one, rose from his seat. A shrewd merchant as much as he was a statesman, he carried himself with the air of a man who believed in undeniable truth. He reached into the leather pouch at his hip and retrieved a small handful of crushed powder—its color indistinct beneath the flickering torchlight.

  With deliberate movement, he crushed the substance between his fingers, muttering words in an old, forgotten dialect.

  The moment the last syllable left his lips, a faint circle of light illuminated the floor around Yirtin’s feet, its glow steady, unwavering. A truth ward.

  Yirtin exhaled sharply, a strange compulsion settling deep within his chest. The spell did not control his words—no, it was far more insidious than that. It demanded honesty, not half-truths or softened versions of reality, but raw, naked truth.

  The memories clawed at the edges of his mind. Boots marching. Metal upon metal. The roar of battle. The smell of sweat and blood. His hands clenched into fists as fragmented recollections swam before him.

  He remembered giving the order to advance.

  He remembered Lieutenant Ortho Heliondor—his friend, his love’s brother—marching forward at his command.

  "March. Not back. Never back. Always forward."

  He remembered the words leaving his lips.

  But then—nothing. A void where memory should have been.

  The fragmented thoughts crashed together, the edges blurred and ungraspable. He tried to reach deeper, tried to push past the fog in his mind, but it was like staring into a shattered mirror.

  The truth pulled from his lips before he could even question it.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "My memory is imperfect. I can remember ordering my men to march forward—always forward. I remember telling Ortho to do it, to never look back… I remember being with them… but I cannot remember what came next."

  A muffled sob broke the silence from the mezzanine above.

  Yirtin didn’t need to look to know who it was.

  His breath hitched slightly. He forced himself to keep his gaze forward, even as his heart twisted at the sound of her grief.

  "Is that all, Captain?"

  His father’s voice cut through the air, steady, commanding, filled with an unshaken resolve.

  Yirtin clenched his jaw. "That is all, Grand Judge."

  A sharp voice interjected from above.

  "He lied!"

  Iros’ sneer was almost audible in his tone. "No need for cheap Entanglement shamanism to know it!"

  The room tensed.

  For the first time since the trial began, Ethos moved. His head snapped toward the mezzanine, his golden mane shifting like a stormcloud rolling across the sky.

  His voice thundered. "Be silent at last, boy! This is your last warning!"

  A thick pause.

  Then, Iros exhaled sharply, a smirk still ghosting his lips.

  "Yes, Father."

  His presence faded from the railing, but the weight of his accusation still lingered.

  "Proceed, Councilwoman."

  Sorra did not turn her gaze from Yirtin.

  "Secondly, thou art charged with cowardice—for thou didst abandon thy men, leaving them to fend for themselves whilst thou wert spared."

  Yirtin’s breath hitched.

  Cowardice.

  The word burned.

  He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to remember.

  The truth circle still pulsed beneath him, compelling him, unraveling his thoughts with its insidious demand for honesty.

  The images came again. The battlefield—the scent of blood, of metal, of sweat. The cacophony of war. The cries of men. The death of giants.

  A tree.

  He remembered crouching behind a tree, panting, his pulse pounding in his ears. Ortho’s blood slick on his hands, warm, sticky.

  The scent of lavender filled his nostrils.

  His breath stilled.

  Arana.

  She had always given her brother lavender before every mission. A token of fortune, a ward against death.

  Yirtin closed his eyes.

  She used to give him cinnamon. A simple stick, to keep in his pocket, a piece of home.

  But that night—

  He opened his eyes. His voice, hoarse, broken, answered before he could steel it.

  "I— I can’t remember well. I hid. Behind a tree."

  His ears flattened slightly, his tail curling against his leg in self-loathing.

  "I remember Ortho’s blood. It smelled like lavender. I didn’t have my cinnamon that day."

  A sob, louder this time, wracked the mezzanine.

  The weight of grief crashed over the chamber like a thunderclap.

  He didn’t dare look up. He didn’t dare meet her eyes.

  Sorra’s gaze did not waver.

  "Dost thou plead guilty?"

  Yirtin inhaled sharply.

  Kogun turned his head slightly toward him. For the first time, Yirtin saw it—the faintest flicker of sadness in his brother’s golden eyes.

  Yirtin’s hands tightened into fists, his claws biting into his own palms.

  His voice cracked.

  "Yes."

  The word felt like an execution.

  "I plead guilty."

  Kogun looked at him, long and slow.

  Not in anger. Not in disdain.

  But in understanding.

  Yirtin barely noticed. His chest was too tight, his breath too shallow.

  Sorra, watching him, exhaled.

  "The trial is up here, Captain Solareye."

  Her voice was steely, distant—like a woman who had seen too much, judged too many.

  "Look upon me."

  Yirtin lifted his head.

  Sorra Thundermoon’s voice rang through the chamber like the stroke of a solemn bell.

  "Third infraction—thy crime of desertion."

  The words themselves carried weight, each syllable sharpened like a blade, cutting away at the last defenses Yirtin might have had left.

  "Thou failed in thy charge, abandoned thy men, and in thy panic-induced foolishness, fled the battlefield. Only to be found, discarded and unmade, upon the dirt roads of Aldir’s Hollow, where the pity of villagers granted thee a sliver of life. Is this thy truth?"

  Yirtin swallowed hard. His breathing came shallow, uneven.

  What did he remember?

  The memories were a blur, tangled and fragmented, fraying at the edges of his mind.

  The panting. The ache in his ribs. The iron scent of blood—his and others'.

  He remembered stumbling through the trees, breath ragged, skin burning. His legs had carried him, but he did not know where.

  The road.

  The screams.

  Something monstrous. Something beyond the realm of men.

  The sound of bones snapping, wrenched from their sinew. The hideous, wet crack of something being ripped apart. The growl—low, guttural, otherworldly—stalking the edges of his consciousness like a nightmare that refused to fade.

  His hands trembled.

  "I... I remember fleeing." His voice came hoarse, raw. "I remember the blood. The screams."

  He exhaled sharply, closing his eyes.

  "I remember... it. Whatever it was."

  His body still bore the phantom ache of that night—the bruises, the exhaustion, the sheer terror that had sunk its claws into his ribs and never let go.

  A voice, gruff and furious, broke the silence.

  "Have ye left your men?!"

  Councilman Flintfinger, for the first time, spoke.

  The dwarf’s voice was like thunder on stone, deep and uncompromising, a voice of a soldier who had long since buried too many brothers to bear another betrayal.

  Yirtin opened his mouth, but nothing came.

  His breath hitched.

  "I... I can't recall."

  Flintfinger’s chair scraped violently against the marble floor as he slammed a fist down on the table.

  "Remember it, ye coward!" the dwarf snapped, his thick beard bristling with barely contained fury. "They were good men!"

  Yirtin flinched. His ears pinned back, his tail curled around his leg in something instinctively defensive.

  The chamber tensed, every council member watching as Flintfinger’s fury boiled over.

  "Enough, Councilman."

  Ethos’ voice carried absolute command.

  Flintfinger inhaled sharply, the fire in his eyes still burning, but he bowed his head slightly.

  "Yes, Grand Judge."

  The moment hung thick in the air.

  Yirtin's fists clenched at his sides, the manacles biting into his wrists.

  "I can’t remember..." His voice was barely more than a whisper, his throat tightening, a single tear rolling down his sharp cheekbone.

  For all his strength, for all his training, for all the battles he had fought, this—standing before his father, his people, stripped of everything—this was his lowest moment.

  "I can't remember."

  Sorra did not let him breathe before the next words came.

  "Dost thou plead guilty?"

  Her voice was cold now. Not cruel. Not without empathy. But distant, like a judge who had long since grown weary of weighing the lives of men.

  Yirtin stared at the floor.

  His claws curled against his palms, drawing sharp crescents into his skin.

  A slow, shallow inhale.

  "I plead guilty."

  His voice was low, almost a whisper, barely more than a breath, as if saying it too loudly would break something inside of him beyond repair.

  A pause.

  Sorra tilted her head slightly. "Come again, Captain?"

  He growled lowly.

  His head shot up, golden eyes ablaze, his voice thunderous, raw, unraveling at the seams.

  "YES! I PLEAD GUILTY FOR THE CRIME OF DESERTION, DAMN YOU!"

  His words rang through the chamber, crashing against the stone walls, filling the vast space with all the fury, the grief, the self-loathing that had been festering inside him.

  The room fell silent.

  From the gallery above, someone let out a soft gasp—or perhaps a sob, choked and half-swallowed.

  The weight of his confession settled like an anvil upon the council hall.

  And then, his father’s voice.

  "Captain Solareye, you shall not disrespect a member of this council. Do you understand?"

  Yirtin breathed in sharply. His body felt rigid, as though bound by something tighter than chains.

  His gaze flickered to his father—the great Ethos Solareye, Grand General of the Solareye Contract Army, a living legend, the unbreakable will of the clan given form.

  For the first time in the trial, Ethos was truly looking at him.

  Not past him.

  Not through him.

  But at him.

  His father’s face was unreadable. No fury. No disappointment. No warmth.

  Only a wall of stone and silence.

  Yirtin's ears flattened.

  His voice came small, quiet, almost childlike in comparison to the thunder he had loosed just moments before.

  "Yes, Father."

  The words tasted bitter in his mouth.

  His father nodded once. Slow. Calculated.

  Sorra Thundermoon’s voice rang with practiced neutrality, but there was no mistaking the gravity of the words she spoke.

  "Though failing in thy mission is not a crime, nor is the loss of thy legion, thou hast failed to uphold the sacred standard of the Golden Dragoons. One of our oldest, most hallowed legions—an order forged by the hand of the late Kraxinos Solareye himself, as thou should well remember, him being thy great-grandfather."

  She did not need to remind him.

  Yirtin swallowed hard. "Yes, I do know."

  "And yet, in this failure, thou hast sullied the honor of thy house, stained thy company’s name, and brought shame upon the legion that once stood as a pillar of our might. Thus, thou dost stand accused of the crime of Dishonor."

  The chamber fell into a hush, the weight of those words lingering like the final toll of a funeral bell.

  Sorra’s dark, impassive gaze bore into him. "How dost thou plead?"

  Yirtin drew in a shaky breath.

  The memories hit him with full force—the sensation of his own feet pounding against the dirt, the cold sweat clinging to his fur, the agonized screams behind him begging for orders that never came. He had felt their blood on his armor, hot and slick, sinking into the grooves of the golden filigree.

  His shoulders slumped, his ears pinned back, and his tail curled tight against his leg in silent acceptance of his shame.

  A single tear fell, splattering onto the polished black marble floor beneath him.

  He did not wipe it away.

  "I plead guilty."

  There was no need to shout this time. No fire left to burn. The words slipped from his lips like a confession at an altar, offered freely, without resistance.

  Sorra inclined her head, her tone giving no indication of satisfaction or judgment.

  "Very well, Captain. I shall defer to the wisdom of our Grand Judge."

  The room turned as one toward Ethos Solareye.

  The Grand General—the Grand Judge in this trial—sat silent for a long moment.

  His powerful arms rested on the great council table, his claws drumming softly against the polished surface. He exhaled through his nose, a long, heavy breath, and rubbed his chin, his golden mane streaked with silver from age and wisdom.

  Slowly, his gaze flicked toward his council.

  Coxnas. The elder strategist nodded once, his blue eyes sharp and considering.

  Sorra. She nodded as well, her silver hair unmoving, her expression unreadable.

  Flintfinger. The dwarf gave a gruff grunt, folding his thick arms over his broad chest. His silence was more telling than words.

  Then, finally, Oleg raised a hand.

  A ripple of murmurs spread through the chamber.

  Oleg, the ever-pragmatic merchant-lord, the man who measured life in ledgers and coin, did not nod.

  "Just a moment, Grand Judge."

  All eyes turned toward him.

  Oleg adjusted his thin glasses, his dark brown eyes scanning the chamber, carefully calculating his next words.

  "I am to understand that Yirtin Solareye is an esteemed member of the Contract Army. A Captain of notable skill. A Solareye of considerable heritage." His voice was smooth, reasonable, like a merchant brokering a delicate deal. "Would it not be a grave waste to discard him like some... common criminal?"

  Then—Flintfinger slammed his fist against the council table, making the entire marble platform shudder.

  "Rehabilitate, lad? Have ye gone insane!?"

  Oleg did not flinch. "No, Councilman. But I would ask that you think not just with your beard, but with your mind."

  Flintfinger slammed a fist on the table. "Bah! Damn yer cost, Oleg! This man—this deserter—is a stain upon our name! A shame!"

  "Councilman Flintfinger."

  Ethos’ voice rumbled like an approaching storm, cold and commanding.

  Flintfinger exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple, but he did not speak again.

  Then Ethos inhaled slowly, leaning forward.

  "Captain Yirtin Solareye." His voice carried through the chamber with unshaken authority. "You are declared guilty by this court, and your punishment is—"

  The voice rang from above—a furious roar that shattered the moment like a warhorn at dawn.

  All eyes turned to the mezzanine.

  There, standing against the railing, Iros Solareye loomed above them, his golden mane wild, his scarred face twisted with unmasked rage.

  "Death is the only fitting end for a coward!" His voice thundered through the hall. "Strip his rank, strip his name, and then strip his head from his shoulders!"

  Ethos rose to his feet.

  "Guards." His voice was low, yet absolute. "Remove General Iros Solareye from these chambers."

  The Gath moved swiftly, two golden-clad warriors stepping forward.

  "I hope you rot, rat!" Iros spat as they seized him by the arms, dragging him back toward the gallery doors.

  "Don't touch me, Lieutenant!" his voice snapped like a whip, filled with venom as the doors slammed shut behind him.

  The chamber settled into silence once more.

  Ethos exhaled through his nose, adjusting the golden rings on his fingers.

  Then he continued, as if nothing had happened.

  "As I was saying."

  His deep voice filled the hall once more.

  "Your punishment."

  And then—another interruption.

  The council turned their gaze to the mezzanine once more.

  This time, the voice was not filled with fury.

  It was filled with something else.

  A plea.

  Yirtin’s breath caught as he turned, his golden eyes landing on her.

  She stood at the balcony railing, her white fur catching the morning light. Her icy blue eyes glistened—not with rage, but with tears.

  "Sergeant Heliondor."

  Ethos’ gaze settled upon her.

  "I beg of you, Grand General." Her voice was strong, but trembling at the edges. "Captain Yirtin Solareye does not deserve forgiveness. But he does not deserve death."

  The chamber was silent.

  Even Flintfinger, whose rage had flared moments ago, did not speak.

  Arana took a slow, steady breath.

  "His death would dishonor his men. It would dishonor my brother."

  Yirtin felt something shatter inside him.

  "Clan Heliondor is not a clan of vengeance." Her voice softened, though the steel never left it. "We do not demand blood for blood, but honor for honor. Let Captain Solareye be judged—not by an executioner’s blade, but by the trials of exile."

  Ethos did not speak at first.

  Then he slowly nodded.

  Flintfinger, however, was not done.

  "Sergeant—!"

  Ethos raised a hand.

  Flintfinger immediately silenced himself.

  Then Ethos turned his gaze back to Arana.

  "Exile is your proposed solution, Sergeant?"

  She exhaled.

  "Yes."

  Murmurs rippled through the council.

  Oleg rubbed his chin. "An interesting alternative." His voice was smooth, deliberate. "I second that motion. Let the Captain prove his worth so that one day he might return—not as a liability, but as an even greater asset."

  Ethos turned to Coxnas.

  "Your verdict?"

  Coxnas folded his arms. "I agree with the motion, Grand Judge."

  Thundermoon inclined her head. "So do I."

  Flintfinger scowled, rubbing his temple with a grumbled, "I think it’s insulting."

  Ethos leaned forward.

  "The council has decided by majority."

  The chamber hushed.

  Ethos straightened, his gaze falling upon his son.

  "Yirtin Solareye, of Clan Solareye, Captain of the Golden Dragoons."

  The weight of his name hung in the air.

  Then Ethos’ voice turned sharp.

  "You are hereby stripped of your rank. Stripped of your name. Your contract with the Solareye Contract Army is officially terminated."

  Yirtin’s breath hitched.

  A name. A rank. A contract. His identity.

  Gone.

  He slowly nodded, unable to form words.

  "You are to be exiled."

  Then Ethos spoke the final blow.

  "To the nation of Amif."

  Yirtin’s ears flicked back.

  A desert nation to the southwest—a land of tyrants and beasts, where coin ruled above all else, and magic flowed in the air like dust.

  The journey there could spell his doom, but it could also spell a new beginning, could spell his return to the Solareye clan, to his army, to the arms of Arana.

  He simply bowed.

  "As you wish, Grand General."

  "Go in peace and that one day you might return in glory, son, or not return at all." Ethos spoke, this was the first and last drop of his emotion.

  He waved to the guards to grab Yirtin.

  Kogun wrapped his arms around Yirtin's arms as they dragged him from where he stood.

  "Good luck brother, you will need it."