Kalyon stumbled, the chains between his ankles catching on an uneven cobblestone. He went down hard on one knee. Pain shot through his leg.
"Up," Renn ordered, not bothering to help him.
As Kalyon struggled to rise with his bound hands, something else hit him—a stone, small but sharp, catching him above the eye. Blood trickled down, warm against his cold skin.
"That's enough," one of the older guards said, stepping between Kalyon and the crowd. "Back!"
Too late. The stone-thrower had emboldened others. More rocks followed, most blocked by the guards, but one struck Kalyon's shoulder, another his ribs.
"MOVE!" Renn shouted, suddenly urgent. The procession picked up pace, the guards closing ranks slightly.
Kalyon limped forward, blood dripping into his eye, his princely composure fracturing with each step. The crowd's hatred was a physical thing, pressing against him from all sides.
I will not forget. I will not forgi–
Then he saw him.
In the chaos of the mob, a single still figure. Hooded, face obscured by a half-mask, but Kalyon would know those eyes anywhere. Piercing azure blue, with that unnatural focus.
Adom Sylla.
He'd grown taller—no longer the child Kalyon remembered. His stance was different too. More confident. More dangerous.
Their eyes met across the crowd.
A rotten cabbage hurtled toward Kalyon's face—then abruptly changed direction mid-air, as if swatted by an invisible hand. A stone did the same. A splash of mud that should have hit him veered unnaturally to the ground.
No one else seemed to notice the impossibility of these trajectories. No one except Kalyon.
Adom's hand was slightly extended beneath his cloak. The faintest white glow emanated from his fingertips.
Twenty minutes to go.
The masked figure melted back into the crowd as the procession continued its relentless march. Kalyon couldn't tear his gaze away from where Adom had been.
As they approached the Hall, the crowd began to thin, held back by the growing number of Imperial Guards. Kalyon's legs trembled with each step, the pain in his injured knee shooting up his thigh. Blood had dried tacky on his face, and every breath stung his bruised ribs.
Then, at the edge of the crowd, a flash of movement caught his eye.
A tall figure stood apart from the jeering masses, dressed in simple but well-made clothes. Kell. His face unreadable, his posture relaxed despite the chaos around him.
Their eyes met.
Kell held his gaze steadily, then gave a single, deliberate nod.
The nod said everything. That 11:45 was real.
Kalyon looked away quickly, not wanting to draw attention to the man.
The Hall of Justice loomed before them now, its white marble steps stretching upward, seemingly endless. The crowd couldn't follow here—Imperial Guards lined the steps, keeping the mob at bay.
Kalyon began the slow, painful climb. His clothing was stained with filth, his face bloodied, his dignity in tatters. Just as his father had intended.
The massive bronze doors of the Hall stood open. Beyond them, darkness.
Kalyon reached the top step. The noise of the crowd faded behind him as he crossed the threshold. The sudden quiet was deafening.
The doors swung closed with a thunderous boom.
Alone in the vast entry hall, with only his guards as witnesses, Kalyon's legs finally gave out. He collapsed to his knees, the chains rattling against the marble floor. He couldn't stop the tears now—they came in a flood, silent behind the muzzle, coursing down his dirt-streaked face.
One year of captivity. A lifetime of privilege. All washed away in a single mile of public shame.
The tears continued, uncontrollable.