A black-gloved hand traces the rim of a glass half-filled with hard liquor. Surrounded by flickering candles and crystals, Prince Orwellin sits in a royal tent on the outskirts of a forest clearing, forty leagues west of the Northenian capital. He leads an assignment of knights in pursuit of beast-mounted raiders that have begun to plague noble landstest.
Muttering soft incantations, flakes of ice tumble from his hand into the glass. He sinks deeper into a cushioned chair, his legs crossed and head leaning over the backrest.
"Your Majesty." A voice whispers from a slit in the tent's wall. "A Royal Nightrider. He says it's urgent."
"You may enter." The Prince commands calmly.
An armoured man steps inside, bows and quickly hands a sealed envelope to Prince Orwellin. He accepts with a side-nod and gestures for the man to exit.
The message bears the mark of Khelben Runae, his most trusted personal aide at The Royal Palace.
Brow bent, he slips a small dagger between the envelope's edges, sliding it through the thick parchment. Ruffling inside, he draws out three pages.
"From Aribelle." The first reads. "Keep this safe. Read only when alone."
Orwellin pauses, staring at the note for a moment before gently setting it down beside him. He flicks open two more pages that emerge from the envelope.
Subtly sipping from his glass, his eyes narrow as they scan through the parchment. A grin spreads across his face.
He slams the pages onto his desk, gulps the rest of his drink and exhales sharply through the alcohol burn.
"Aribelle," he murmurs, eyes smoldering. "You continue to fascinate me."
Two days later, Orwellin leads Aribelle swiftly along windowed corridors overlooking a bustling street in the capital's central business district. He scans over pages as they walk, taking little account of the woman's struggle to maintain his pace.
"Orwellin!" she huffs. "A moment, please."
He stops mid-stride, and with a sharp twist, turns back toward her. Focused on her flowing dress, she collides into him.
"Oh! A-Apologies, Your Majesty." she stutters, eliciting a chuckle.
"No need. Once again, my treatment of you has been improper. I arrive at the capital unannounced and demand your presence without warning. Shall I delay these proceedings and allow you more time to prepare, Lady Lindbergh?"
"What? N-no. It's not that." Aribelle says as she tugs at the straps and ruffles of her dress.
"Then what troubles you, m'lady?" The Prince asks softly. He steps forward, hand across his heart as he stares at her intently. Deep brown eyes, filled with passion.
His gaze reaches for her, trying to once again rob her of logic and conviction. She evades, shifting to a window, hiding in the view of people that move about on the streets below.
"Sorry, it's nothing m'lord. I, um… only wish to know…" She hesitates. He moves in her periphery, sending a shiver down her spine.
"To know what, Aribelle?" He whispers, his voice brushing over her shoulder as he looms at her back.
"The assassination!" She blurts. "Have you found anything?"
A gloved hand softly rests upon her exposed shoulder, warm and firm. She gulps.
"It vexes me that the perpetrators are yet to be brought to justice," he says. He tugs at her, and Aribelle quickly turns toward him. "But I swear to you, Aribelle. Whoever threatens your life, will find theirs forfeit."
Blushing, Aribelle nods.
He smiles as he gestures for her to lead. She struts down the halls of the Northenian Royal Tribunal's central offices, the Crown Prince following close behind.
Reaching a large set of dark, wooden doors, she glances back at Orwellin who gives her a knowing nod. She stops just short, waiting for him to knock.
"You may enter." A voice answers from beyond.
Orwellin opens and Aribelle enters with a nodded bow. The Prince follows after and the door clicks shut behind them.
"Your Graces." Orwellin greets warmly as they enter.
"Welcome, Your Majesty." An older woman bows, having risen for her seat. A group of six other elders sit around a long, curved table. Elegant sheets of gold-laced, silken cloth covering its worn, wooden edges. The row of Tribunal judges are framed by large, vine-covered pillars that open into a spacious balcony overlooking the western part of the capital.
"Please, have a seat." The woman says, gesturing to two chairs that have been prepared for them.
The Prince pulls one back for Arienne, helping her settle into her seat, drawing curious glances and looks of bemusement.
"I must say, Your Highness." an old man rasps, rubbing at his beard. "This whole situation is highly unusual. The allegations themselves are of grave concern, yes. But your involvement in her defence… Your Majesty, forgive my candor, but is it wise?"
The Prince lifts a single finger, eliciting silence across the room.
"What I risk is none of your concern. The consequences are mine to bear. I believe in what Aribelle Lindbergh has to say, and if what she says is proven true, you should ask only if you have the conviction to stand against Church and Guild. To uphold the tenets of justice on which this Tribunal had been built more than a millenia ago."
The old man recoils at The Prince's words, muttering under his breath as he tugs at his collar.
"We have read the allegations against Lady Lindbergh. Treason and heresy, to name but a few. You allege you can prove, beyond doubt, that she is innocent?"
"Not today." The Prince replies. "But we will in due time."
He rises from his seat, producing papers from a coat pocket. "Until then, consider this…"
He struts toward the row of Tribunal judges, slamming two sheets of paper on the desk with an echoing thud.
"Spare us the theatrics, Orwellin." A voice sneers from the edge of the table. "What have you brought us?"
"A manifest, Uncle." Orwellin replies, glaring at his father's oldest brother, Nystal Umberius. "A request order from Guild headquarters. Signed by Prime Magister Signus himself. Note the two wagons provisioned for the delivery."
"And?" Nystal shrugs.
"Three wagons were signed into the palace entrance. Not two. Something was hidden. And I suspect the Guild knows…"
"Your Majesty," A voice interrupts as all eyes tighten onto the Prince. "Are you implying…"
"We imply nothing!" The Prince cuts in. "We seek only the truth. And until it is found, unbesmirched by the shadow doubt, we ask that this Tribunal withhold any judgment on the fate of Aribelle Lindbergh. Her involvement is not in question. But allow us to prove that her actions were done in the best interests of this Kingdom."
"Are you finished?" Nystal grunts.
Orwellin replies with a stern nod.
"If I may…" Arienne interjects, lifting from her seat.
Nystal stares at her for a moment and then across to the tribunal judges. Most answer his wordless question with a stern nod.
"Proceed, Lady Lindbergh."
"I do not deny my actions." she says, her eyes locking onto each judge across the table in turn. "I destroyed the Guild's construct beneath the teleportation chamber. Not out of malice or heretical thought, but duty!"
She steps forward. The Prince watches on, stunned.
"A duty deeply instilled upon me by family, Church and Guild alike. I saw something that night, Your Graces. Something… forbidden. And my dedication to duty would not allow me to sit idly by. I acted. If you wish to label me a traitor or heretic for doing so, so be it. But do so knowing the full truth."
"Beautifully said." An elderly woman responds softly. "But your impatient pleas for mercy bears no weight amongst this delegation."
"I plead not for mercy, Your Grace." Aribelle replies "But the justice this Tribunal claims to uphold."
"Facts, girl." Nystal grunts. "We seek facts, not emotional blabbering."
"Then allow us to uncover them!" Orwillen snaps, glaring at his uncle as the room falls to silence.
Nystal smirks.
"Let me remind you, boy." He sneers, lifting from his seat. "In these hallowed halls, all men stand equal before the Judges of The Tribunal. Your royalty bears little consequence here. Go wait outside. We shall deliberate on the lady's fate."
The pair quickly exit the room and move to a bank of windows opposite its door.
"That was incredibly brave." The Prince says as they walk.
"But was it enough?" Aribelle asks as she slumps onto a windowsill, hands quivering and mind racing. "What now?"
"We pray." He says with a sigh as he leans on the wall next to her.
They remain silent, staring at the scenes of the capital outside the window.
A few moments later, the room door creaks open. Aribelle and the Orwellin spring to their feet.
"You've always had a love for theatrics." Nystal groans as he steps through the door. "Your father would be blooming if he heard of this."
"A decision has been made?" Orwellin asks pointedly.
"Have we ever not?" Nystal grunts. "A stay of execution. She lives. For now."
"Thank you!" The Prince exclaims, slapping his uncle firmly on the shoulder.
"I don't know what you see in her, boy. But whatever it is, is it worth risking a kingdom?"
The Prince grins widely at his uncle. Nystal scoffs with a smile.
"Be careful, Ori." He says as he glances over at Aribelle. "I'd hate to see you get hurt."
"Uncle." Orwellin nods. "Give my regards to Aunt Elinil."
He turns to Aribelle, mouth curled into a sly smile. Grabbing her wrist, he quickly leads her back down the corridors and out of the building where his personal carriage awaits.
"We have passed the first step toward your vindication. Rejoice, Lady Lindbergh. Your effort has not been in vain."
"Prince, if not for you…"
"It was you. And, Lady Duskvale." he smiles. "The manifest and guard log were pivotal in sowing distrust in the Guild's actions."
"I suppose." she replies wistfully.
The Prince shakes his head. "You humble yourself too much, Lady Lindbergh. I would parade your bravery before the masses were your life not in danger. Which is why, I wish to move you away from the capital."
"What of my opinion on the matter?" Aribelle stares at him with a pout.
The Prince grunts, slumping into his seat, shaking the carriage.
"Your Majesty. Forgive my insolence. I forget my place." Aribelle whimpers.
"I forget, Aribelle, that you are not like the other ladies of the court. "
"Prince…" she says softly.
"You are a Lindbergh. Generation after generation of renowned warriors and scholars. And you have more than proven yourself capable. Yet, I continue to treat you undeserving of your station. Forgive me, once again, m'lady."
"Forgiven." Aribelle smiles.
"Then, Lady Lindbergh, would you allow me?"
"Where shall you take me?"
"The Winter Palace on the Northern Mountains is certainly secure, but the weather may be unwelcoming this time of year."
Aribelle shivers.
"Not a fan of the cold?" The Prince chuckles. "My personal estate, then, to the east, in the forests of Nubnoria."
Aribelle's eyes spread. "Nubnoria? I have dreamt of it since I was little! Is it not forbidden?"
"Not for royalty."
She nods, excited at the prospects of entering the ancient, enchanted forest that had fascinated her for as long as she had known of its existence.
"When do we leave?" She asks.
"Tomorrow. If it suits you." He replies, bowing his head slightly.
"It does." She smiles.
The carriage lurches forward, tugged along by a parade of white horses. It weaves through the city, vanishing between the bustling crowds.