The marquis opened his mouth. She didn't let him.
"High Priest Raphael's tithes?" Heena continued relentlessly. "They rebuilt the orphanages your 'virtuous' wife raided for fighters. And as for excess—tell me, Marquis, when your people starve on pothole roads, where does your 'love' go? To wine cellars? Silk wardrobes? Or perhaps to bribing inspectors who 'overlook' those tournaments?"
He flushed beet-red. "Lies! Slander! I demand a trial—"
"You demand?" Heena's laugh was sharp, echoing off the walls. "In 'my' study? On 'my' authority?" She snapped her fingers. Two shadow guards materialized from alcoves—silent, hooded, hands on sword hilts. "Marquis Damon, you stand accused of tax evasion, illegal slavery, embezzlement, and now—insolence toward the crown."
The marquis paled, glancing at the guards. "Your Majesty, please. This is a misunderstanding. I'll… adjust the figures. Lower the taxes. Donate to the roads—"
