The noon bell of the third day rang out over a city balanced on the edge of open insurrection.
Inside the Granite Hall of Verdicts, the iron drop-gates remained barred. But the silence within the chamber was ear-splitting. The sixty Iron Templars stood with their axe-spears gripped in sweat-slick gauntlets, their eyes darting nervously toward the locked bronze doors where the muffled roar of the crowd in the square sounded like an approaching tidal wave.
On the high bench sat Chief Justiciar Malvane, his pine-tar bandage leaking a pale, pungent yellow fluid down his silk collar. Beside him sat the seven high-born jurors of the Grand Inquest. Elderly noblemen in velvet mantles and golden chains, sitting stiffly in their raised chairs like wax mannequins.
In the front row of the gallery, Lord Malakor leaned forward in his wheelchair, his brass breathing mask hissing with ragged, shallow gasps.
Hiss. Click. Hiss.
“The Court reconvenes for final deliberations,” Malvane croaked, his voice cracking with tiredness. “Advocate Rostov. Present the Crown’s concluding summation to the Inquest.”
Advocate Rostov stepped into the center of the well, his scarlet Procurator’s gown rustling. He carried no books, no evidence trays. He held only a single rolled parchment—the formal verdict of guilt.
