The hour of the trial had finally arrived.
Lucius stood before the assembled nobles, his expression composed and commanding as his golden gaze drifted toward his daughter.
Olivia stood some distance away, beside Mathias, dressed in an elegant velvet gown despite the lingering signs of her injuries. Her posture was impossibly straight, her expression an unreadable mask of ice. Only the restless, repetitive friction of her fingers against her palm betrayed the dark, suffocating tension she was trying to contain.
Lucius's thoughts briefly turned to Serene.
She had refused to attend.
He had not argued with her. After everything Roland had put her through, asking her to stand before him again—even as a condemned prisoner—would have been a cruel form of torture. She had told Lucius that she did not wish to see his face ever again. She wanted no part in his judgment, nor did she wish to hear his voice echo in her mind.
Lucius had respected her decision without a word.
