25. Megan
MEGAN
Resting upon the polished table, the undeniable reality of the iron-clasped tome shatters the oppressive tension of the Tribunal hall.
Before Patriarch Varynth can raise a skeletal hand to call for a recess and bury the scandal under parliamentary procedure, my bare feet carry me fully into the middle of the floor.
The ambient, blood-red light of the alchemy spheres bleeds over the indigo silk of my gown.
Hundreds of immortal stares press their crushing, collective hostility down upon my fragile frame, yet the freezing power of Zhetrin’s magic radiating directly behind me acts as a massive, unyielding wall guarding my back.
"The Patriarch claims the Thosti bloodline does not deal in shadows.
" Projecting my tone upward to the high benches, the sheer volume slices effortlessly through the quiet.
"He claims Lord Kryven acted alone. But the ledgers do not lie.
And these ledgers were sealed in the lowest, restricted vaults of the ancestral palace. "
Hauling the thick leather cover open, the brittle vellum pages rustle sharply in the quiet chamber.
"Eldric." I gesture sharply to the Zagfer archivist.
Bridging the distance with trembling hands, the archivist unrolls a massive, blank vellum sheet across the table, extracting a thick stick of charcoal.
"Seventy harvests ago." My ink-stained finger drags ruthlessly down the faded Khuzuth sigils.
"The neutral houses petitioned the Patriarch for a lower grain tithe.
The petition was denied. The following season, a sudden, devastating famine swept the eastern foundries.
The laborers starved. The neutral fleets were forced to purchase emergency rations from the Thosti granaries at four times the standard value, entirely bankrupting their fleets. "
Murmurs of dark, angry realization ripple through the lower benches. Lord Vane, the master of the southern granaries, leans forward, his gaunt face hardening into a furious scowl.
"It was not a natural blight." Elevating my volume entirely drowns out the whispers. "Eldric, cast the sum."
The archivist rapidly sketches the ancient tally onto the blank vellum for the assembly to see. The numbers are stark, undeniable proof of a massive, sudden withdrawal of grain from the foundries, directly followed by a shadow-transfer of wealth back into the Patriarch’s personal vaults.
"Varynth poisoned the aqueducts to simulate the blight," I press the attack, pointing directly at the encrypted Khuzuth seal at the bottom of the page. "He starved my people simply to drain the wealth of the neutral lords and force them back onto their knees."
"Silence the beast!" The Patriarch’s outrage tears from his ancestral throne.
Rising to his feet, Varynth's pristine white robes sweep around his skeletal frame. His pale silver eyes burn with a feral, desperate malice. The foul, grave-rot scent of his magic floods downward, attempting to crush the oxygen from the room, but it smashes uselessly against the freezing, impenetrable dome of Zhetrin’s protective wards.
"She is a filthy, lying mortal!" Gripping the stone balustrade of his high seat, Varynth's knuckles turn completely white. "She brings forged parchment into the sacred hall to defame the crown! She seeks to destabilize the realm on behalf of a Warlord who has lost his mind to a surface-whore!"
Refusing to flinch at the insult, I haul the next page over, the vellum slapping brutally against the timber.
"Forty harvests ago." I refuse to surrender an inch of the floor.
"Lord Kryven’s predecessor raised a mercenary army to challenge the Thosti borders.
Within a month, the human laborers in the outer rings began dropping from a mysterious sickness.
The resulting desperation fueled a massive spike in the flesh-markets.
Children were sold to the Dark Market brokers by the thousands. "
Tilting my chin upward, I anchor my undeniable defiance against the stunned countenances of the neutral nobles.
"Those brokers were secretly funded by Patriarch Varynth.
" My volume drops into a harsh, cutting clarity that ensures every word strikes like a blade.
"He purchased the stolen children, traded them to the far continents, and used the wealth to crush the rival army.
He engineered the misery of the surface to manipulate the economy of the Undercity.
He has been pulling the strings of your trade for centuries. "
"Lies!" Varynth's magic lashes out wildly, shattering a floating alchemy sphere near the vaulted ceiling. Red glass rains down upon the empty benches. "The scribes will verify! The seals are false!"
"Then let the scribes verify." A sharp, sardonic edge cuts perfectly through the chaos.
Descending the obsidian steps of the western tier, Lady Nyxira Velmorne’s striking silver hair catches the dim light.
The high-ranking neutral noble bypasses permission entirely, crossing the floor to halt directly at the presentation table.
Extracting a small, silver monocle from the folds of her cloak, she lifts it to her plum-colored eye.
The monocle is a truth-glass, an ancient, enchanted lens used by the high merchants to detect magical forgery and falsified ink.
The entire Tribunal chamber holds its collective breath.
Leaning over the thick, iron-clasped tome, Nyxira traces the faded Khuzuth sigils. The monocle uncovers the shadow-transfers, the grain withdrawals, and finally, the sprawling, looping signature at the bottom of the page.
For a long, agonizing moment, the neutral noble holds the chamber in deafening silence. Lowering the silver lens, her expression twists from arrogant amusement into a mask of pure, unvarnished revulsion. Pivoting away from the ledger, she angles her chin toward the highest seat in the amphitheater.
"The ink is ancient. The seals are unbroken.
" The death knell of Nyxira's confirmation rings out in the quiet hall.
Pinning the neutral houses with certainty, she drives the final nail.
"The mortal speaks the truth. Varynth’s seal is authentic.
He has been bleeding our fleets and slaughtering the surface to pad his own rotting vaults. "
The silence shatters entirely.
The neutral houses erupt in a deafening, unified roar of outrage.
The Khuzuth lords do not care about the human lives lost in the foundries, but they care deeply about the coin stolen from their own estates.
To learn that the devastating famines that bankrupted their houses were not acts of nature, but the deliberate, calculated treason of the Thosti Patriarch, pushes the assembly past the point of return.
"Treason!" Drawing a ceremonial dagger, Lord Vane slams the hilt against the stone railing. "He starved our people! He stole our wealth!"
"Drag him from the throne!" A secondary demand tears from the unaligned benches.
The sovereign guards, already rigid from the arrest of Lord Kryven, tighten their grips on their polearms, entirely unsure of who to defend. The authority of the High Council collapses in real time.
Standing upon his dais, the furious sea of Khuzuth nobility turns against Varynth. His skeletal face drains of color, lips pulling back into a desperate, cornered snarl. Throwing his hands upward, he attempts to summon the full, devastating force of his foul magic to silence the room.
He does not get the chance.
Zhetrin moves.
The apex predator glides past me, his towering, massive frame completely eclipsing the presentation table. Refusing to shout over the chaos, he simply unleashes the catastrophic force of his magic.
A catastrophic wave of pure energy erupts from his iron-shod boots, a violent shockwave of raw power that ripples straight up the obsidian steps.
The sheer, concussive force shatters the remaining alchemy spheres into crimson dust, plunging the lower tiers into darkness.
The leaden, crushing pressure forces the shouting nobles back into their seats, physically silencing the chamber.
Claiming the middle of the frozen floor, Zhetrin's violet-ringed irises pin the rotting Patriarch of his bloodline.
"The ledgers are open, Varynth." The baritone vibrates straight through the very foundation of the Tribunal hall.
Anchored completely to the Warlord's back, the deep indigo silk of my gown flutters in the freezing wind generated by his power. We did not come here merely to survive the vote. We came to tear the crown from the butcher’s head.