Underneath A Thousand Skies ✔️

84 Foster Son, Don't Be So Crazy (21)

"Wait."

Song Jia's clear voice echoed in the chamber, successfully getting the attention of all the people there.

She raised a gloved hand, slightly tilting the feathered hat that hid the upper half of her face in shadow.

"I request a trial by ordeal," she said.

In the modern judicial system, the innocence or guilt of an accused may be established based on the evidence brought against them. In ancient and medieval societies, however, a different way of determining a person's innocence or guilt was used. This was called the 'trial by ordeal'.

The accused had to do something dangerous or even life-threatening, and if they survived the ordeal, they would be proclaimed innocent. If guilty, the individual would perish. The intention of the trial by ordeal was to leave the judgment of an accused in the hands of a higher force, believing that God would intervene and protect an innocent person during a trial by ordeal, while punishing a guilty individual.

The merchant matron's cheeks jiggled enthusiastically as she smiled, her eyes nearly disappearing into the soft folds.

"Right...I, I, too, request a trial by ordeal!"

Hmph, the Magistrate might treat this only as a homicide, but there is still a way to make you die for harming my child!

The merchant matron glared viciously at Nian Shou.

The Magistrate looked at Song Jia.

"Madam, only those with a close relationship to either the suspect or the victim may participate in the hearing. If you have no business here, I suggest you leave the judicial court."

Song Jia pursed her lips and used a gloved finger to point at Nian Shou.

"But I do have a relationship with him though."

She lifted up her skirts and slowly walked towards the podium. Subtly, gradually, the aura around her changed. Her strides lengthened, and Song Jia placed one foot in front of the other as if she was walking down on a narrow line. Hips swinging, she approached the tightly bound Nian Shou, her mouth turned up slightly at the corners.

"This man," she said, gently lifting his chin with a gloved fingertip, "is my husband in all but ceremony."

A ripple of shock spread through the hall.

The merchant's daughter gasped. The fat woman sputtered in disbelief. Even the Lady Magistrate frowned.

Song Jia did not give them time to breathe.

Song Jia drew a small bundle from her sleeve—a strip of worn red cloth, carefully folded, its embroidered edge frayed by time.

"This," she said softly, "was given to me by him when we were young. He swore that one day he would become my husband. I have kept it close ever since."

A murmur rolled through the hall. Childhood vows were not binding in law—but they carried weight in memory and sentiment, especially to common folk. Song Jia leaned into that ambiguity of tradition to strengthen her case.

"He said," she continued, "that this cloth was cut from the sleeve his mother sewed for him. He was to become my main husband. This was an agreement our families have decided upon a long time ago."

This part was true enough to be believable. In reality, the cloth had come from a traveling seamstress willing to part with scraps for a handful of coppers—scraps cut in the manner of many village households.

The Magistrate's expression shifted...just a centimeter. But it was enough.

Song Jia pressed on, her voice light as silk.