The morning broke gray and soundless.
Mist lay heavy over Windsor, swallowing its spires and domes until the city looked half-drowned — as though the river itself had risen in judgment.
Inside the courthouse, the marble floors glistened with the residue of the night's rain. The air was cold enough that every whisper seemed to echo.
The chamber was already full.
Every noble house that mattered had sent a representative.
Every radical faction had sent a spy.
And at the center of it all — standing tall, unflinching, perfectly composed — was Christopher Cross.
He wore black again, immaculate as always, as if mourning something no one else could see. The light from the clerestory windows caught on the edge of his signet ring — the crest of House Brenford — a symbol that even now held weight enough to make the room hesitate.
The magistrate entered, flanked by clerks and guards. The sound of his gavel broke the silence.
