A farmer, boots splattered with mud, stepped up next.
"My neighbor dug a channel and stole my spring. My orchard might soon die. I have three witnesses. If this issue of mine is not solved, my poor sons will starve."
"Have you declared it?"
The farmer's face turned red with shame.
"Yes, my Lord."
"Crown or throne?"
"T-Throne."
The farmer was firm for a flash.
Malik revealed a throne, and the farmer smiled, clutching the hem of his robe in surprise. Yet before he could thank his Lord, his presence was smothered in the crowd.
"Next!"
A blacksmith staggered forward, chest heaving.
"Some thief stole my furnace molds, but my apprentice is accused. Farajah wants him flogged; he's innocent! I beg—"
"Have you submitted a petition to them?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"Crown or throne?"
"Crown."
It was throne, once more.
