The words landed like a hammer blow, silencing even the faintest whispers in the chamber. Stick’s breath caught in his throat. Shadis stood motionless, his jaw clenched, his face a mask of stoic resolve. The room seemed to hold its breath, awaiting Stick’s next move. His heart pounded in his chest. The weight of everything—his future, Shadis’ fate, and the ominous plans of the Carnifex guild—pressed down on him.

  “I won’t do it!” Stick yelled, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Never! You can take your deal and throw it in the trash!”

  The room fell into stunned silence. No one dared to speak, their expressions a mix of shock and disbelief. All except General Solo, who remained unflappable. She tilted her head slightly, an amused smile playing on her lips.

  “That was also expected,” she said smoothly. “As I mentioned, this is an unprecedented case.”

  She shifted her papers deliberately before continuing. “While it is true that, under normal circumstances, Shadis Moore deserves to be sentenced to death, we cannot afford to make him a martyr. Such an act would only give the other NPCs foolish ideas. That is also why he will not be returned to the workforce, but instead, he will remain here in the dungeon until the end of his days.”

  A wave of relief washed over Stick. He felt Shadis’ tension release beside him, the other man’s rigid posture softening slightly. For a moment, Stick almost believed things might turn out better than expected. Herzog’s voice broke through the momentary reprieve.

  “If he gives up the location of where he hid the Lords, then he won’t be tortured.” His tone was clinical, as if filling in a missing piece of General Solo’s statement.

  Shadis let out a breathy laugh, the sound brittle but defiant.

  “My brittle bones wouldn’t endure it anyway,” he joked, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

  Stick could sense there was more to the statement than humour—a calculated undertone, a man who had made peace with his fate.

  “If the Lords are captured,” Shadis continued, “then I want assurances that they will not be treated as slaves. They must be properly cared for. If they are, the others won’t feel the need to rise up.”

  Herzog’s brow furrowed as he considered Shadis’ words and he looked around to check the other members’ reactions.

  “What are you doing?” Stick asked.

  Shadis met his gaze, his expression calm, almost serene. “The next generation is our hope for real change. They have to live.”

  After a long pause, Herzog nodded. “I agree to those terms.”

  Baron Bonatelli shifted in his seat, his face darkening. “This is all well and good, but with the twins’ birthday coming up—”

  Herzog cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “We are not discussing that now.” The finality in his tone left no room for argument, and Bonatelli sank back into his seat, clearly displeased.

  Stick turned to Shadis, his voice tinged with desperation. “Why are you doing this?”

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  “Because I trust Lady Cassandra and Lord Alastair.”

  Stick’s throat tightened at the quiet conviction in Shadis’ voice. The man’s acceptance of his fate felt both noble and tragic.

  General Solo tilted her head slightly, her cold gaze fixed on Stick as the room hung in tense silence. Her voice sliced through the charged air, precise and unyielding.

  “So, Stick Arslan,” she said, her tone laced with both authority and disdain, “when you’re done fussing over your emotions and throwing tantrums, remember this: the deal you’ve been offered will not wait. You have until tomorrow to bring the Letter of Initiation you received from Baron Bonatelli to Headquarters. Think carefully.”

  She paused, letting the words settle, then straightened her posture. Her hands brushed across the papers on the table, the movement deliberate. When she spoke again, her voice carried a razor-sharp finality that silenced even the restless shuffling in the chamber.

  “Today, this Council has weighed the evidence, the circumstances, and the laws of the Guild with the utmost care. Justice requires your absolution. Let this ruling serve as a testament to the principles of Carnifex, the Guild that has not forgotten about the real world—but do not mistake this for mercy. Carnifex spares no one from the consequences of rebellion, not even heroes. This chapter is closed. You are free to start your life as a Player of our Guild. But heed my words, Arslan: there are no third chances. Dismissed.”

  Solo’s chair scraped against the stone floor as she stood, a precise, calculated motion that felt as sharp as her words. Without sparing Stick a second glance, she strode toward the door at the back of the chamber, her polished boots echoing with a finality that sent a chill down Stick’s spine.

  Duke Herzog rose as well, nodding briskly to the Council. His voice was gruff, almost perfunctory. “Thus concludes the trial of Stick Arslan and Shadis Moore.”

  The room erupted into noise. Council members exchanged hurried whispers, their voices rising like a storm. Soldiers moved with purpose, rounding up the defendants. Stick barely noticed as the bailiff approached to unlock the chains biting into his wrists. With a sharp clank, the restraints fell away, and Stick flexed his fingers, savoring the small, fleeting sense of freedom.

  The bailiff then turned to PP, intent on removing his chains as well, but the big man shook his head firmly.

  “Leave them,” PP said, his voice low but resolute.

  The bailiff tilted his head in confusion. After a moment’s hesitation, he turned to Stick, holding out the iron key.

  “Here,” the bailiff said flatly, shoving the key into Stick’s palm. “Your new possession.”

  Stick stared at the key in his hand, its cold weight feeling impossibly heavy. He looked at PP, who stood tall despite the clinking chains that bound him, his dignity unshaken. As the room began to empty, Stick felt the Council’s collective gaze lingering on him, a silent reminder of the stakes he now carried. Their eyes seemed to bore into him, each glance a weight pressing down on his already burdened shoulders. Led by a pair of soldiers, Stick, PP and Shadis exited the Council Hall. As they passed by Baron Bonatelli and his entourage, Stick caught the Baron’s scowl—a mixture of anger and confusion. The Baron’s lips moved as though he wanted to speak, but no words came. Stick met his glare with defiance, though inwardly he felt the tension coil tighter in his chest. We won, but at what cost?

  Beside him, Shadis walked with quiet composure, his chains clinking softly with each step. Stick opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the words lodged in his throat. His mind churned, searching for a way to stop what had been set in motion, but no solution presented itself. As they reached the golden statues near the staircase, the soldiers pulled Shadis toward a separate path, leading him deeper into the castle. Stick’s heart sank as he watched the man who had fought so fiercely for others walk away, his fate sealed.

  “Shadis!” Stick called, his voice cracking.

  But Shadis didn’t turn back.

  “Tomorrow,” he said simply.

  Then he continued forward, his figure shrinking into the distance. Stick stood frozen, the iron key still clutched in his hand. Tomorrow?

  His mind was a whirlwind of questions and doubts as his eyes drifted towards the statues of King Ahlgren and the knight in the heroic pose. The statues seemed to watch him, their cold gazes as unyielding as the Council’s. His grip on the key tightened, its chill seeping into his palm.

  What would a hero do?

  The statues offered no answer, only their unflinching gaze as the sun dipped below the walls of the capital, casting the world into shadow.

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