Serena assumed he was clinging to the faint hope of a miracle, a repeat of the anomaly from thirty years ago.
However, there was a hidden truth that neither Aren nor the courtroom spectators understood.
Thirty years ago, the murderer who survived the Divine Trial had been an indispensable Nyx. The Kingdom needed his power, so the court had engineered his absolution.
The "Holy Sword" used that day had been a clever counterfeit. With that fake blade, a killer had bought his freedom and continued to serve as a Nyx, even while living under a cloud of public curses and suspicion.
What Serena did not realize was that Aren already held every piece of this puzzle.
Convinced of Aren's guilt, Serena saw the trial as a convenient solution; it would silence any future dissenters by letting "divine providence" do the dirty work.
"The court accepts the request for a Divine Trial," she announced.
A second wave of shock rippled through the gallery.
"However," she continued, her voice regaining its iron edge, "given that the last rite was performed thirty years ago, I am postponing the proceedings for three days to allow for the necessary preparations."
With a final, echoing strike of her gavel, the session was closed.
As the guards escorted Aren back to his cell, the room erupted. Citizens and journalists scrambled to be the first to break the story.
Within hours, the news of Aren Donovan's gamble spread like wildfire, reaching every corner of the world.
Those who awaited the spectacle with bated breath, those who mocked Aren's perceived folly, and those who hungered to see his arrogance shattered—they all shared a single conviction: Aren Donovan had been driven mad by terror and was merely delaying his pitiful end.
Yet, the man at the center of the storm sat in his cell with the unnerving calm of a man on holiday. For three days, Aren remained in silence, undisturbed by the world's clamor.
Now, three days later, Aren stood before the masses once more.
This time, the setting was not a sterile courtroom, but the hallowed halls of the Temple. The trial was no longer a private affair; it was a public execution in all but name.
Aren felt like a prized exhibit in a zoo, thousands of eyes boring into him. Serena Winter stood upon the temple's elevated dais, draped in flowing white robes with a silver staff in hand—the very image of a goddess of justice.
The roar of the crowd was severed as cleanly as a blade when she struck her staff against the marble floor.
Her gaze swept over Aren, who waited below like a sacrificial offering. The silence that followed was cold and suffocating.
Drawing a deep breath, Serena's voice—authoritative yet melodic—carried to the farthest reaches of the sanctum:
"People of the Kingdom, gathered beneath the shadow of the Sacred Light! Defenders of the unyielding law! Today, we look beyond the evidence touched by human hands. We entrust the truth to the judgment of the Creator and the ancient statutes of old.
The defendant, Aren Donovan, facing the weight of his crimes and a sentence of life imprisonment, has invoked a rite long forgotten: the Divine Trial.
Mortals may err. Evidence might obscure, and people might silence witnesses. But the Holy Sword is infallible. It pierces beyond flesh and bone; it is the singular truth that illuminates the darkest corridors of the soul.
Today, on this sacred ground, the weighing will involve not only a body but also a soul.
Let the law be clear: this is not an act of mercy, but a total surrender. If the defendant is innocent, the sacred steel shall bloom within his heart like a flower, leaving him unscathed.
But if he carries the stain of darkness, the blade shall not only rend his flesh but shatter his very existence in eternal torment.
Aren Donovan! By your own will, you submit to this hallowed verdict. This court now awaits the final judgment, which will be written in your blood.
May justice tear the shadows from the light!"
As Serena's voice faded into the rafters, the pedestal at the temple's heart pulsed with a sickly light, revealing a hilt of ivory bone—a grasping claw waiting for a soul to claim.
With heavy, measured steps, Serena Winter descended from the dais and advanced toward the blade.
It looked less like a weapon and more like a relic clawed from a shallow grave, emanating a cold, creeping malice that seemed to choke the very air of the sanctum.
Serena Winter donned the ritual gloves presented by a nearby priest. She gripped the bone hand and stepped before Aren, meeting those eyes that gleamed like blood-soaked gemstones—eyes that had remained unnervingly calm throughout the ordeal.
Standing before him with the instrument of his judgment, she had expected at least a flicker of hesitation.
Instead, Aren's eyes curved. That thin, dangerous smile made Serena's brow twitch in irritation.
"I thought you were smarter than this," she whispered, her voice meant for his ears alone. "Despite your vile crimes, you might have survived IMFA. I did not expect you to summon your own death so prematurely."
Aren met her mockery—words that masqueraded as consolation—with a dull, vacant expression.
"If you are finished," he replied with a dismissive indifference that cut deeper than any insult, "can we proceed?"
Serena's grip tightened. She recognized the insolence behind that smile. He is still playing games, she thought, a surge of anger masking her growing unease.
Why this arrogance, even with the abyss at his feet?
Suppressing the tremor in her spirit, she drove the bone hand into Aren's chest as if to say, You asked for this.
As the blade sank into his flesh, a savage desire flared within her—she wanted to feel the steel tear his heart to shreds.
Go on, she urged silently. Shatter his pride. End this farce.
But Aren remained a statue of endurance; though his lips were pressed thin against the agony, the mocking glint in his eyes never flickered.