The courthouse of Windsor stood like a stone cathedral of judgment — its columns towering, its steps slick with the remnants of rain. The morning light caught on the damp marble, pale and cold, the kind of light that turned people into silhouettes.
By ten o'clock, the square outside was already crowded.
Vendors had abandoned their stalls, clerks had stopped their errands. The trial of the Minister of Justice was not an event — it was a spectacle.
Serena stood among them for a moment before climbing the steps. Her hood was drawn low, her gloved hands tight around the rail. No one noticed her; that was the mercy of scandal — once you'd been ruined, the world stopped expecting you to belong anywhere.
Inside, the air was thick with perfume, parchment, and whispered tension. The benches were filled with parliamentarians, nobles, and merchants pretending indifference while waiting to see blood.
The hum of the room dimmed when Christopher Cross entered.
