The great hall of Northumbria, was a cathedral of judgment—cold, vast, and echoing with the whispers of gathered nobility. The banners of the twin lions hung limp in the draft, their golden threads catching only faint light from the high windows.

Outside, dawn had barely clawed its way above the horizon, yet the air inside felt already thick with the heat of unspoken tension.

They came to see a hanging.

They would instead witness a reckoning.

Aiden stood at the heart of the chamber, hands bound lightly behind him, chains clinking softly with every idle movement. Yet nothing about him seemed subdued.

His posture was regal—back straight, chin raised, that infernal smile carved lazily across his lips. Even in torn, dark clothes, he radiated the poise of a man not awaiting judgment, but preparing to deliver it.

Two figures sat elevated on the dais before him: Earl of wessex, —hard-jawed, eyes like black iron—and Earl of Saxon, the aging, red-faced drunk whose voice could fill a hall and whose mind had long since been pickled in wine.

Between them, the crest of the crown hung heavy, its gilded weight more symbol than justice. Behind the earls stood their knights—rows upon rows of armored men, a steel wall glinting in the morning gloom.

At the hall's flanks, the barons gathered like vultures uncertain of the carcass—watching, whispering, judging one another more than the man on trial.

Baron Meliodas was among them, his face pale but resolute. Aethal, the earl's son, stood just behind the benches, pretending neutrality, yet his eyes flicked often to Aiden, and something like quiet awe lived there.

When the herald's voice cut through the hall, it was like a blade shearing silk.

"The prisoner, Aiden of Leonidus. Charged with treason, blasphemy, and disobedience of the Rightly rules."

The crowd stirred. A murmur rippled like a serpent's hiss. Aiden did not bow, did not tremble—only tilted his head as though amused.

"Quite the list," he said softly. "Tell me, will you hang me once for each sin, or save the rope and call it efficiency?"

Gasps fluttered like startled birds. Even the guards shifted uneasily.

The Blood Commander's voice was thunder.

"Silence your tongue, cur, before I have it torn out!"

Aiden smiled wider. "Ah, the commander speaks. I almost mistook you for a statue this morning—stiff, cold, and entirely ornamental."

A ripple of shocked laughter broke from the far end of the chamber. Quickly silenced—but not before the commander's glare snapped toward it.

The Earl of wessex slammed his hand down. "Enough games! This man is no common man! He—he poisoned my house with his lies and magic! He defied the command of the crown!"

"Indeed," Aiden replied. "And yet, here you stand, my lord—alive, loud, and A miracle, surely."

The commander's gauntlet hit the table with a clang. "You dare mock the council?"

"No," Aiden said lightly, stepping forward as chains rattled like silver bells. "I dare to speak. A rare thing, I've noticed, in this court."

His eyes swept across the assembled knights and barons—those same men whose wives and daughters had been charmed by his words during the tea party days prior.

His incubus blood worked quietly even now, like a perfume in the air. Whispers of temptation, tendrils of persuasion, the subtle tug of loyalty in hearts that had long grown numb to duty. The seeds he'd planted had already sprouted.

A knight near the door shifted, eyes flicking toward Aiden with a strange flicker of respect. Another beside him frowned at the commander's tone.

Small things.

But small things could ignite revolutions.

"Let the record show," Earl of Wessex barked, "that this prisoner stands accused of heresy against the realm—of sowing deceit among our own men, and of defiling Nobel laws..."

Aiden's golden gaze sharpened at that last word.

"Nobel laws?" he repeated, voice soft, dangerous. "You make it sound so… .one-sided."

A few of the barons exchanged glances. The whispers deepened.

Earl Saxon leaned forward, face blotched red. "You tricked everyone—bewitched everyone with your devil's charm!"

"Is that what he told you?" Aiden asked, tone almost pitying. "The bloody commander the jealous cunt?"

A silence fell like snow—thick, soundless, impossible to breathe through. The Earl went white, knuckles whitening around his cup.

The commander stood. "You insolent filth! You think this is jest?"

"I think," Aiden said calmly, "this is fear dressed as law."

He turned his gaze fully upon the Blood Commander now—measured, unflinching, like a predator appraising wounded prey. "Tell me, Commander. You call yourself the sword of the realm, the loyal hound of the crown. But what happens when the hound begins biting the hand that feeds it?"

The commander's lips curled. "Careful."

"I'm past careful," Aiden said, stepping forward another pace. "You've already sent your decrees, haven't you? To Leonidus. To the court in the capital. Letters forged in righteousness, drenched in poison. You thought to end me before word could spread. But it has spread."

And indeed, it had. Every knight in that hall had heard the rumors—how Aiden had spoken of reform, of justice for the common ranks, of the rot festering in the noble courts. How his charisma had turned soldiers' loyalty like a tide. They had come to see a criminal. But what stood before them now was something else entirely: a man unafraid of death, a man who smiled before giants.

The commander's jaw clenched.

"You have no proof."

"No?" Aiden's grin turned razor-thin. "Then perhaps the earl should not leave documents lying around your desk."

A low gasp tore through the hall. Aethal froze. The commander's eyes snapped toward him, a flash of fury barely contained.

The boy said nothing—merely lowered his gaze, the faintest tremor betraying him.

Baron Meliodas stepped forward from the ranks.

"My lords," he said, voice clear and firm. "The prisoner speaks truth. I, too, have seen the sealed decree—one that condemns him before this council even convened. Is this justice… or vengeance?"

Sutherland's voice roared like a struck drum. "You would side with *him*?!"

"I would side with truth," Meliodas replied. "And truth, Commander, is not loyal to fear."

A ripple of murmurs surged again—stronger this time. The court was shifting. The tide was turning.

Aiden inclined his head toward the baron, gratitude flickering in his eyes, then turned back to the dais.

"So," he said softly. "You see, my lords—your noose hangs above the wrong neck."

The Earl of Saxon slammed his fist down again. "You speak treason in my hall!"

"No, my lord," Aiden murmured. "I speak prophecy."

He took another step forward—now close enough for the torches to catch in his eyes, turning the gold to molten fire.

"You call me heretic, yet your soldiers march hungry. You call me seducer, yet your courts rot with whoredom.

You call me traitor, yet you'd sell your sons' blood to hold your crumbling thrones another day."

He paused, the silence taut as bowstring.

"Tell me—when did the monsters stop hiding in the dungeons and start sitting on the thrones?"

The words hit like a hammer. Somewhere in the crowd, a knight dropped to one knee, muttering under his breath—a prayer, or a pledge.

Another followed. Then another. The sound of metal kneeling against stone echoed, growing, spreading like a contagion of faith.

The Blood Commander roared, "Enough! Arrest him—now!"

[Aura of allure used]

But the guards hesitated. They looked to each other, uncertain. Aiden stood in the center, still bound, still smiling, yet the air around him thrummed like a heartbeat.

His incubus blood pulsed—a slow, irresistible rhythm that whispered not lust, but loyalty, reverence, awe. The spell of charm had shifted form—it no longer seduced flesh, but conviction.

Even the Earl of Saxon's voice faltered.

"What… what trickery is this?"

"No trickery," Aiden said quietly. "Only truth given a voice."

The commander drew his sword. "Then let steel be the voice that silences it."

He stepped down from the dais, blade glinting in torchlight, boots thudding against stone. For a heartbeat, the room froze—the chain between Aiden's wrists glimmered, and that feral smile spread again.

"You think to kill me here?" Aiden murmured. "In front of your men?"

"In front of everyone," the commander spat. "Let them see what becomes of demons who toy with gods."

But before he could strike, a voice rang out—sharp and feminine, slicing through the hall like a drawn dagger.

"Enough!"

Every head turned.

The doors had burst open.

And there she stood—the Countess of Saxon, radiant even in fury, clad in emerald silk and defiance. Her eyes burned, and in her hand, she held the royal sigil—sealed, open, read.

"I received your decree," she said coldly, gaze locking on the commander. "And I burned it."

The Earl's jaw dropped. The hall erupted into chaos.

Aiden's smile deepened, almost tender. "Ah," he whispered under his breath. "The storm arrives."

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