𝐈'𝐦 𝐚𝐧 𝐄𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝𝐲 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥 (𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐃)

Chapter 63: The Violence Cycle

The town square had been cleared for the day, every stall and cart forced back to make room for the crowd.

The cobblestones were packed, nobles and commoners alike pressed shoulder to shoulder, every window and balcony overlooking the square was crammed with faces, eager to witness the end of the man whose name had been the hot topic in the empire for the last few days.

At the center of it all, on a raised wooden platform built for the occasion, stood Constantine.

Chains bound his wrists and ankles, clamped to an iron post so he could not sit, could not fall. His silver hair hung matted and unkempt around his face. His coat was gone, replaced by a plain prison tunic that did nothing against the winter wind. His red eyes were unfocused, darting to the corners of the square that held nothing.

For the last five days since I had given him the potion, he had been a screaming, raving thing in his cell. Guards spoke of nights when he clawed at the stone walls and cursed names no one had spoken in years.

Rumor had spread through the empire like wildfire: it was divine retribution. The gods themselves were punishing him for his treason. Princess Belladonna's quiet endorsement had turned rumor into certainty.

Today, he was quiet. Not calm, but lucid enough. The court physicians had declared him fit enough to stand trial.

The trial was held in the same place I had my execution, and it was held in the open, by decree of the crown. An open trial, they called it. A chance for the people to see justice done. 

Everyone knew the truth. It was a humiliation.

The trial was led by the High Court, with my uncle, Duke Leander Elloid presiding from a raised bench at the front of the platform.

My uncle was everything a snobbish noble was expected to be. Sharp dress, sharp tongue, nose tilted just high enough to remind everyone of his lineage. But he was also sharp in the ways that mattered. Politics, law, duty. He had worked through the night for weeks to see this case through, and he took it seriously.

The other nobles involved in the treason had already faced him. One by one, their trials had been swift. Titles stripped. Lands and wealth confiscated. Families uninvolved were placed under the crown's protection program, relocated, and guarded.

The public demanded blood, and the court gave it. The guilty were executed at dawn, heads displayed on the city walls for three days to satisfy the people's cry for justice.

But not Constantine.

I had pulled strings with my uncle. The execution was halted, though no one knew why.

Now it was his turn.

Arsen and I stood at the side of the platform. Leon stood on the other side with Phoebe standing next to him, hands clenched so tightly her knuckles were white. She had not taken her eyes off Constantine since she entered as if seeing him like this had gutted her.

My uncle rose. His voice carried without effort through the hall.

"Constantine Aragon," he began, "you stand accused of high treason against the Imperial Crown. Of attempting to usurp the throne. Of conspiring to destabilize the empire for your own ends."

He listed the crimes. Each one was read aloud in precise, damning detail. Assassinations. Forged decrees. Manipulation. False reports. Cooperating with the Barbarians. The list went on, and with each charge, a murmur ran through the square.

"Before the court proceeds to sentencing," Uncle said, "we shall hear witness testimony."

He turned his gaze to the side of the platform. "Sir Leon Sanders. Step forward."