Preparations
After presenting the plan, silence takes over the room. Reinhard, Felt, and Rom remain quiet, their faces tense, eyes interlocking as if trying to find answers in one another.
'Come on, Emilia, they're just thinking about something important.'
Crusch and I wait in the same silence, though impatience starts clawing at me from the inside.
'If they don't accept, we'll be in trouble.'
The sound of Garfield's footsteps fading into his room disappears into the background, but I barely notice. My heart is racing wildly, like it wants to break free from my chest. I feel nervous, this uncertainty tearing me apart inside.
'I just have to keep going, stay alert.'
But at the same time, I embrace it, because I know it's proof of how much I care about what's at stake. Without this pain, I wouldn't be able to push forward, wouldn't be able to fight for what I value most: my people.
'I'll be honest; that's just how I am.'
"I know this is difficult." My voice trembles slightly as I speak to them, and their gazes shift toward me with curiosity. There's something in the way they look at me, as if I'm not the same person they knew. "I understand the situation is serious. I'm scared too, and… well, even a little annoyed." A bitter smile appears on my lips, and my own nervousness forces a soft laugh out of me.
Felt, always straightforward, watches me with surprise, but then her face lights up with a knowing grin.
"The little sister's been working hard. You're nothing like you used to be," she says, her tone teasing but with warmth I can't ignore.
'So, she noticed too… how nice.' I close my eyes for a moment, feeling a tremor run through my body. Her smile hits me in an unexpected way. I feel a strange warmth fill my chest, as if those words were validating something inside me, something I didn't realize I needed.
'I'm on the right path.'
"Now you look like a real woman," Rom adds, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "And you've already got yourself a man!"
My eyes fly open, and I feel the blush spreading across my cheeks and ears all at once, burning with embarrassment.
'My man?! AHHHHHH!' I clutch my cheeks to stop myself from grinning from ear to ear.
"No! Wait! Marco and I aren't…" The words get stuck in my throat, and I close my eyes tightly, struggling to regain control of my breathing.
Felt bursts into laughter, and the sound, so sincere and carefree, fills the room. Even though I try to keep a calm expression, I can't help the twinge of embarrassment twisting inside me.
'They're such idiots, making fun of me.'
Even Crusch smiles, and I know she's enjoying my discomfort too.
'I didn't think they'd attack me from that angle,' I think, trying to soothe the turmoil in my chest.
Before I can react, the door swings open suddenly. A group of merchants enters, carrying heavy crates. Their white and yellow clothes give them the look of professional mercenaries, but there's something about them that feels oddly familiar.
Marco mentioned something like this once, and my mind starts putting the pieces together.
"Lady Emilia, the envoys from Lady Anastasia have arrived." Sert, a loyal demihuman servant, bows at the entrance, making way for a child.
No, not just any child.
'What a cute kid.'
He looks about ten, maybe twelve years old, but the seriousness in his gaze and the monocle perched on one eye give him a disconcerting presence. Still, his cuteness reminds me of when Petra used to play dress-up.
"Good afternoon, everyone," he greets in a high-pitched, slightly squeaky voice, but with confidence that surprises me. "I'm Tivey Pearlbaton, envoy of Lady Anastasia Hoshin. I'm here to deliver your order."
The crates are set down on the floor with a soft thud. There are three in total, each just over a meter tall, but they look like they weigh a ton.
"Nice to meet you, Tivey," I reply, raising a hand in greeting, though I do it slowly, giving him time to come closer. In his hand, he's holding a folder, like a little miniature salesman.
'He's trying so hard,' I think, and my heart softens.
When he's close enough, my hand moves almost reflexively, gently ruffling his hair. His eyes lift toward me, startled.
"Hm?" he says, but I can't help but smile at him.
"You're such a hardworking boy, thank you for your efforts," I say, and he quickly looks down, hiding his face behind the folder as a slight blush colors his cheeks.
"Emilia, you're scaring him," Crusch chimes in, her tone teasing though a light smile plays on her lips.
'I'm not intimidating!' I think to myself, resisting the urge to react with surprise. I pout slightly, responding in a whisper, "He's just so cute, I couldn't help it."
I take the folder carefully and sign the documents he hands me in. Tivey watches me with a mix of shyness and pride. It's incredible that someone so young already bears these kinds of responsibilities. If he keeps on this path, he'll undoubtedly become someone important in the future.
"Do you know how to use the Meteors?" he asks, and I shake my head. "Then allow me to explain to everyone."
The assistants open the boxes, revealing what's inside. Felt is the first to step closer, curiosity sparking in her eyes. Inside are smooth glass panels, about the size of a hand, covered with protectors. These Meteors will be essential to capture Bordeaux and Harald without spilling any blood.
The tension grips the air again, and I can't help but wonder, 'Will this be enough for what lies ahead?'
"Thirty minutes left," I say softly, looking up at the sky while checking my watch. The sun is slowly setting, painting the horizon a muted orange, but the cold in the air makes even this warmth feel distant, almost unreal.
"Do you think the general is alright?" Lessed, one of my most loyal soldiers, breaks the silence.
I nod without looking at him. "The general had all of this planned. It's certain he's prepared for every emergency." My words are firm, but deep down there's a lingering worry I can't shake. 'Why does he keep us in the dark?'
The general never explained the full details of the plan to us, as if the mystery itself was part of his strategy. And although I trust his genius, the uncertainty eats away at me. 'What is he hiding from us?'
"We just have to fulfill our duty. We are an elite squad; obeying is our only mission," I add, and the rest of the soldiers nod without hesitation.
"Prepare Erick Costuul. Take him to the prison immediately," I order, and they hurry off.
The sun dips a little further, casting long, cold shadows around us. It's in moments like this that my mind drifts back to that day. I can feel it. The heat of blood in the air, the gut-wrenching screams echoing in my ears as if I were there again.
My fists clench tightly. 'I can't help it.' The rage slowly consumes me, a relentless current beneath my mask of calm.
When I saw the general being cornered by those bastards... it was then that I nearly lost it, almost used my abilities to take them all down. Those arrogant knights, who hide their rot beneath a facade of honor and nobility.
They call themselves knights, but they're little more than animals in armor.
'I will destroy this era of knights, myself.'
And not only will I do it, but I'll prove the world doesn't need them. With my strength, and that of my soldiers, we will crush their false illusions of grandeur. But for that... I need to become stronger.
I recall a conversation between the general and Mr. Otto. They spoke about that man, Reinhard Van Astrea, the Sword Saint. And something they said got stuck in my mind.
"Reinhard even has a divine blessing that protects him from projectiles," they said. A blessing with almost ridiculous power.
That was enough for me to make the decision I'm about to carry out.
I walk slowly, carefully observing the man before me, the one they call the Sword Saint. A man others look upon with reverence. I, however, only see a boy trapped in a fate he never asked for.
'Frederica, mother... give me strength,' I think reflexively. Miss Frederica must be worried, so I must do everything right. I close my eyes for a few seconds, killing these thoughts.
"Things like that shouldn't happen, not to someone who lives for revenge."
I activate my stealth ability before Reinhard can sense me; my presence and mana vanish into thin air. For a moment, everything around me goes dark, but I know exactly where to aim.
Bang!
As the echo of the shot fades away, I release my divine blessing. I look toward where my target should be, but there's nothing.
Not a single trace.
"Ugh!" I feel a crushing grip on my wrist before I can react, slamming me against a wall with force.
Breathing becomes difficult, but I smile. I feel the power of my divine blessing coursing through my veins, revitalizing my body.
"Why did you do that?" Reinhard's voice is calm, but there's a note of confusion in his question. His hand is still gripping my wrist, firm.
My smile fades. I look at him, and for a moment, I see something in him that's different from the knights I despise so much. Reinhard isn't like them, and I know it.
'The general admires him a lot, considering him a great friend.'
But… he has their blood.
That blood I hate so much.
"I needed a little help," I reply coldly, without looking away.
His eyes drift to my chest.
Reinhard sighs, almost resigned.
"That's quite the divine blessing…" he murmurs, but his words don't reach me.
'He doesn't understand anything.'
I break free from his grasp, and as I do, I feel something unsettling, a strange mix of emotions. Maybe, in another life, I would have liked to help him.
But not in this one.
Not when he carries the blood of the person, I despise the most.
'Revenge is a poison that only corrodes your soul, but the way I see it, a bit of corrosion can make you shine; only when you see the evil in yourself can you polish it to sparkle.'
I'll never forget those words from my mother.
"Reinhard, do you love your father?" I ask suddenly, and his eyes widen in surprise.
Silence stretches between us, dense like a storm about to break. I see him struggle with his answer, his gaze clouded with doubt.
"He's, my father. Of course, I care for him," he finally says, though his tone sounds more like duty than a conviction.
I feel anger bubbling up inside me, hot and searing. I clench my teeth and extend my hand, not to attack, but for something else.
"If you knew what that bastard did, you wouldn't be able to say those words," I whisper, the words spilling from my mouth like venom. "Nice to meet you. My name is Alsten, just Alsten, because my last name is something I will never carry with pride."
Reinhard takes my hand, firm, but with growing confusion in his eyes.
"I'll tell you someday… after all, you're my little brother."
His eyes widen in shock, but before he could react, I turn around and start walking away.
"Wait!" he shouts, his voice filled with uncertainty.
But I don't stop.
Not now.
"There will be other times to talk. Right now, we each have a duty to fulfill."
As I walk away, I feel the weight of my words pressing down on my shoulders. The desire for revenge still burns in my chest, but the urge to destroy everything I hate… 'it's never been clearer.'
I clench my hands tightly, feeling my nails dig into the skin of my palms as my gaze fixes on the great wooden door before me. The wood, dark and worn, bears the marks of time, but still imposes with its size and sturdiness.
'It's time.'
A faint smell of old wax and dampness lingers in the air, a reminder of this place's age. The cold of the stone beneath my feet, though softened by my boots, seeps into my bones.
Never, in all my years as a duchess, did I imagine being here: defending someone in a trial.
As a duchess, I should be on the judge's side, not standing before him.
It's strange. My mind tells me this is wrong, that it's not my place, but deep in my chest, a familiar emotion—the fire of duty and challenge—begins to ignite.
I will defend justice with my honor.
My fingers tremble slightly as I slip a hand inside my coat and touch the rough surface of the letter I found in my room.
I can feel the paper's folds, slightly crumpled, reminding me of a deep ache.
'Go to the bathroom during the first break.'
That's all it said. Brief, cryptic, but the handwriting... I instantly recognized the elegant and determined script.
'Fourier...'
Just thinking his name makes the air in my lungs feel heavy, as if each breath becomes harder to hold. My heart gives a painful jolt, and my hands, which have always been steady, tremble involuntarily.
After so much silence, 'why now?' 'Why at this critical moment?' The last time I saw him, he didn't even spare me a word, not even a glance.
"Why now?"
My thoughts are like gusts of cold wind hitting a closed window. I can't find a coherent reason. I know I should tell someone about this letter. I know. My instincts scream that I'm being manipulated.
And yet, my parents' situation prevents me from opening my mouth and asking for help.
I'm on my own in this, but I must not be afraid.
I am Crusch Karsten.
"Crusch?" Emilia's voice reaches my ears like a soft breeze, interrupting my thoughts. I look at her, seeing the concern on her face, though she tries to hide it.
"I'm sorry," I reply, my throat is a little dry. I cough slightly before gesturing to the guards stationed at the doors. "Open the doors."
The hinges creak softly, and the enormous wooden doors begin to part. The echoing sound in the empty hall is almost hypnotic. A faint draft of cold air brushes against my face as the room reveals itself before me.
It's not the first time I've seen it, but today everything feels different.
The space, so vast and solemn, seems much more intimidating when filled with people. The murmurs among the audience fill the air, like the distant hum of bees in a hive.
To my left, those supporting Marco; to the right, those with Harald. My eyes scan each face, searching for allies and enemies in the crowd.
Our allies are on the left: farmers with rough hands and faces weathered by the sun, people who have worked and, through that, attained high status. Among them, a few knights stand out with their gleaming armor.
And then, a familiar face appears in the crowd.
'Milena.'
A knight I thought had retired. I had no idea she had aligned herself with us. The metal of her armor shines under the lagmite light, and her stance is as straight and firm as ever.
Not everyone who supports us has sent letters, nor have we been able to meet with many of them. These people have come on their own, by their own choice. As I move forward, I count silently, surprised to find that we have more allies than I expected.
Thirty-three on our side.
Forty on Harald's.
The seats aren't all filled, but that no longer matters. In the end, only the four guarantors from each side will count those who will deliver their verdict. Eight people will have the final say over the rest.
But something must change.
'It must be impartial, not a display of power or allies.'
The light touches my forehead pulls me from my thoughts. Emilia has closed her eyes, her fingers brushing against my forehead, like a silent blessing.
"May the spirits be with you," she says softly.
Her concern, though evident, comforts me.
"Thank you. I'll be fine," I say, a faint smile barely touching my lips.
Having Emilia as a friend is something I never would have expected, but her support strengthens me.
I watch her retreat to her place among our allies. Her figure disappears into the layers of people, and as I prepare my first steps, my mind repeats a mantra.
'Speak with firmness, speak with confidence.'
I have to start strong if I want to capture the judges' attention. Bordeaux, close to Harald, won't be a judge.
Miklotov, who supports Priscilla Barielle, will participate as a judge, unlike Tristan, the wise one who stands with us.
'I never thought that would work in our favor.' 'Could Marco have foreseen all of this from the beginning?' I shake my head. There's no time for speculation.
"Defender Crusch, please take your seat," one of the knights instructs, his voice firm and distant.
He escorts me to my place: a worn wooden table and a small chair with a stiff back. The varnish on the wood is cracked, and I can feel the roughness from years of use as I touch it.
To my right, the same setup is prepared for Harald's defender. In front of us there are four imposing seats occupied by the judges. The arrangement is simple, but the gravity of the situation makes the atmosphere feel oppressive.
Miklotov is the first to sit, with the calmness of a sage well-versed in politics. His cold, calculating gaze meets mine from his seat. Next to him is July Cariana, a reserved sage with whom I've barely exchanged words in the past.
Her eyes move slowly, almost as if measuring every gesture from those presents.
The third is Solomon Van Mercury, an elderly man whose only concern is the economy; his presence gives me the impression of a man detached from human conflict. Finally, there's Frederick le Gran, whose face I find as repulsive as his intentions.
His reputation for seeking only his own gain is etched in his expression, so much so that I can already anticipate his opinions before he even speaks.
As I settle into the chair, trivial questions flood my mind, resonating with intensity.
'Am I presentable?' 'Do I have all the necessary documents with me?' I force myself to breathe slowly and dismiss those useless thoughts. I meticulously reviewed everything last night. It's all ready. I've practiced every line, every argument.
There's no room for improvisation; the stakes are too high.
Now, I just need to perform as rehearsed.
'Where is Marco?'
"Count Marco Luz is making his entrance!" one of the knights announces. The doors open again, revealing Marco's figure.
The impact is immediate. I rise from my seat at once, my heart frozen by what I see.
'Is this what you wanted, Marco?'
His figure, usually strong and resolute, now appears shattered. His face is swollen, with bruises so deep they distort his features. Split lips, an ear barely clinging on, and a nose twisted in a grotesque manner.
He's wearing appropriate attire for the occasion, but his condition is impossible to hide. Murmurs of horror spread among our allies, and even on the opposing side.
Some of Harald's supporters can't conceal their shock.
Marco walks slowly, dragging his feet, escorted by the guards. He doesn't lift his head, doesn't look at anyone, as if the weight of his own body is unbearable. Each step seems to be an act of pain.
His expression of suffering pierces through my chest, but I am not the most affected.
Emilia leaps from her seat and runs toward Marco, without hesitation.
"Marco!" she cries, her voice filled with desperation, interrupting the guards escorting him.
One of the guards tries to stop her, reaching for the hilt of his sword, but the blade freezes in its sheath, halted by Emilia's magic.
The air around us chills abruptly, as if we had been transported to an icy cavern. The ground beneath my feet begins to frost over, and my fingers start to tremble.
"JUDGES OF LUGUNICA!" Emilia's voice booms with such force that the echo seems to vibrate through the walls. "How is it possible that the Count is in this state after just a few hours in a secure prison?"
The air is so cold I can see my breath, and Emilia's fury is so palpable that everyone present seems to hold their breath.
Harald enters at that moment, his confident and arrogant demeanor in stark contrast to the tension filling the room.
"A demihuman who can't control herself." His tone drips with contempt as his echoing footsteps draw closer. "You disgrace this kingdom."
Emilia looks at him, her eyes burning with fury, but after a moment, she lowers her head, biting her lip. The ice in the air slowly begins to dissipate.
"I'm sorry..." she says quietly.
She tries to heal Marco, but he refuses.
He quickly sits down, and after a few seconds, Marco takes a seat beside me. His breathing is unsteady, the pain evident on his face, but still, he gives me a faint smile.
"She almost made me shiver with fear. They're going to beat me up when this is over," he murmurs, a crooked grin on his lips.
"You're an idiot," I whisper back, pulling out my documents and doing my best not to let his physical state distract me.
I need to stay focused on what's at stake.
In front of me stands Harald's defender, none other than Julian Meyer, a lawyer famous for never losing a case. But I'm not afraid. In the House of Karsten, I've trained to face formidable opponents, and today will be no exception.
'I have to be like a true Karsten.'
"Stand up," orders the lead knight, Marcus Gildark, as a healing mage steps in behind him. "The court will proceed with the healing, Marco Luz."
The healer approaches, but Marco raises a hand to stop him.
"How do I know you're not going to mess with my mind?" Marco's voice is filled with distrust, his gaze locked onto Gildark with evident hostility.
I speak up before anyone else can.
"My client is right. We cannot allow a healer to alter his mental state without his consent." I glance at Marco out of the corner of my eye. "As you can see, dear judges and jury, my client, Marco Luz, feels fit to continue the trial despite his injuries."
The murmurs among the jury grow louder, most in support of Marco, while others look at his condition with increasing concern. Harald, for his part, shows no sign of surprise. His face is a mask of indifference, as if everything is unfolding exactly as he planned.
"If Count Marco Luz shows any signs of impairment due to his injuries, and it disrupts the trial, we will take a recess and proceed with mandatory healing," Gildark declares, dismissing the healer.
Marco and I both nod, fully aware of the precariousness of the situation.
"Can you hold on until the break?" I ask him quietly.
"I feel like I'm going to die, but I can make it," he replies, forcing a smile that barely masks his pain.
I know why Marco has allowed himself to be in this state. His wounds are a statement, a demonstration that he is willing to sacrifice everything for his cause. The sight of his broken body, though painful to witness, is meant to win the sympathy of the judges and the support of those who still have doubts.
The problem is the healer.
If he's skilled enough, he could manipulate certain aspects of a person's mental state without anyone noticing. Even a minor change could completely shift the course of the trial.
'He must have been assigned by Harald,' I think, eyeing the mage warily. 'Poor Marcus.'
Marcus Gildark, the lead knight, is known for his integrity, a man whose sense of honor is above all else. Seeing him in this situation must be making his blood boil. It must be tormenting him to see how political manipulation has tainted the system he swore to protect.
Yet he endures it, all for the sake of Lugunica, but even a man as strong as him has his limits.
This is another thing Marco wanted to expose: the decay of the royal guard and the knights of the realm, how the actions of some have stained the honor they once carried with pride.
"Now, I ask you all..." Marcus's voice resonates through the room, firm but with a barely perceptible tension.
Everyone present places a hand over their heart in a solemn gesture, straightening up and looking ahead with reverence. The atmosphere changes immediately, filled with formality and a kind of respectful rigidity.
"Do you swear before the dragon that your actions are honest?"
"Yes, I swear," they respond in unison, their voices filling the hall with a singular purpose.
"Do you swear before the dragon that you will speak only and only the truth?"
"Yes, I swear," they reply once more, a promise laden with gravity, as they all keep their hands over their hearts.
The air in the courtroom feels heavy, almost suffocating. The weight of tradition, of the oath to the dragon, hangs over us like an invisible but palpable fog.
"Very well," says Marcus, his face stern as he looks at those present, searching for any sign of doubt or dishonesty. "With this, the ninety-sixth trial of the Kingdom of Lugunica will begin."
The sound of his words falls upon the room like a hammer, marking the start of what could be a battle not only for justice, but for truth.
It's time to show what the Karsten family can do.