A cold breeze blew through the gaps in the tall windows of the Great Court Hall, bringing with it the scent of rusted iron and despair. Askaroth stood tall in the middle of the grand but forbidding room, surrounded by high lords seated in a circle like birds of prey waiting for the right moment to strike.
Cold iron chains encircled his wrists, their weight a reminder that his once-glorious status and intelligence were now meaningless. His emerald green eyes swept across the room, taking in every face that had once smiled at him, that had once sought his advice, that had once praised his genius for military strategy and diplomacy.
Now, those faces were filled with hatred and contempt.
"Askaroth of House Valdris," Duke Morgrim's voice echoed through the hall, cold and sharp as a newly sharpened sword. The old man stood from his throne of black marble, his deep purple robes billowing dramatically. "You stand before us today on charges of treason against the Kingdom of Aethermoor."
Askaroth remained silent, his jaw set. He knew the game. There was no point in talking when their ears were already sealed by prejudice and political ambition.
"The first charge," Countess Seraphina rose from her chair, her voice melodious but poisonous. "You have given secret strategic information to the kingdom's enemies, which resulted in the crushing defeat of our forces at Shadowmere Fortress."
Lies. Askaroth clenched his fists behind his chains. He remembered clearly how he had warned them of the surprise attack, how he had pleaded for a change in strategy. But it was General Blackthorn's arrogance and Duke Aldric's incompetence in leadership that had caused the disaster.
"The second charge," Baron Thaddeus continued with a tone full of hidden satisfaction. "You have manipulated royal letters for personal gain and used your position as Strategic Advisor to enrich yourself."
Askaroth's eyes glinted dangerously. Manipulation of letters? Personal gain? He who had refused five bribes from wealthy merchants, he who lived modestly despite his status allowing for luxury.
"And the final charge," Duke Aldric stood slowly, a cruel smile etched across his gray-bearded face. "You plotted the assassination of His Majesty King Aurelius."
This time Askaroth could not hold back. His bitter laughter echoed through the hall, causing several of the nobles to flinch.
"Murder?" his voice was low but piercing. "Against the king I have served for ten years? The king who trusted me more than any of you?"
"Silence!" Duke Morgrim snapped, the golden scepter in his hand hitting the marble floor with a loud bang. "You have no right to speak in this trial!"
"Trial?" Askaroth raised an eyebrow, a sneer playing on his lips. "This is not a trial. This is a charade. You have already decided my punishment before I have even stepped foot in this room."
Countess Seraphina's face flushed. "How dare you—"
"How dare I?" Askaroth interrupted, his voice rising. "How dare you! I was the one who saved this kingdom from the Shadowlands invasion three years ago. I was the one who designed the trading system that made the kingdom's coffers double. I was the one—"
The whip tasted his back without warning. The stinging pain made Askaroth stagger forward, but he did not fall. The guard behind him raised his whip again, ready for a second attack.
"Enough," Baron Thaddeus' voice was cold as ice. "Your arrogance only proves our accusations. A traitor who is proud of his sins."
Askaroth spat out the blood that had pooled in his mouth. "You fear me. That is the real reason behind this charade. You fear me because the people respect me more than you. You fear me because the king trusts my strategy more than your nonsense."
"The people?" Duke Aldric laughed mockingly. "The people will forget you in a week. No one will remember the name Askaroth of House Valdris."
A terrible silence filled the room. Askaroth felt something cold sink into his chest—not fear, but deep, burning rage. Rage, pure and burning.
"Perhaps they will forget my name," he murmured softly, but every word was clear in the silent hall.
"But they will not forget what you have done today. When this kingdom falls because of your foolishness and greed, they will remember that you drove away the only man who could have saved it."
Duke Morgrim snapped his staff again. "We have heard enough from this traitor's foul mouth. It is time to pass his sentence."
The nobles rose in unison, their faces filled with a sinister satisfaction.
"Askaroth of House Valdris," Morgrim's voice echoed with absolute authority. "On charges of treason, manipulation, and attempted murder, you are found guilty by the High Council of the Kingdom of Aethermoor."
Askaroth waited. He knew the penalty for treason was death. At least it would end this disgusting political game.
"However," Countess Seraphina continued with a sweet, venomous smile, "in view of your past services—though we now doubt their sincerity—we will not execute you."
Askaroth's eyes narrowed. Something was wrong. They were planning something worse than death.
"Your sentence," Duke Aldric took over, his voice triumphant, "is permanent exile to the Shadowlands. You will be escorted to the border at dawn tomorrow, and should you dare set foot back on Aethermoor soil, death will be immediately imposed without trial."
The Shadowlands. A cursed land where monsters from the worst nightmares roamed free. A land where dark magic poisons the very air. A place where death is perhaps the best fate one can hope for.
Askaroth laughed. No, he laughed so hard that the sound filled the hall. The lords exchanged confused and uncomfortable glances.
"You think that's punishment?" Askaroth said as his laughter died down, his green eyes gleaming with something dark and dangerous. "You have just given me freedom. Freedom from your foolish rules, from your corrupt politics, from this decaying kingdom."
"Silence him," Morgrim ordered the guards.
But Askaroth had already finished his sentence: "One day, you will send messengers to the Shadowlands, on your knees and begging for my return. And when that day comes, I will remind you of this day."
A dirty cotton ball was forced into his mouth, muffling his last words. But his eyes—emerald green eyes once hailed as a mirror of great intelligence—gleamed with a terrible promise.
As the guards dragged him from the hall, Askaroth could hear whispers among the nobles:
"Did we do the right thing?"
"He's bluffing. No one can survive in the Shadowlands."
"But what if he's right? What if we really need him someday?"
Askaroth smiled through the cotton that covered his mouth. They were already beginning to doubt their decision. And doubt is the beginning of destruction.
That night, in the cold, damp dungeon cell, Askaroth lay on rotting straw, staring up at the seeping stone ceiling. Tomorrow, he would begin his journey to the Shadowlands. Tomorrow, he would leave his life as a noble behind.
But tomorrow, too, he would begin writing a new chapter in his life. One that would likely end with his return to this palace—not as a prisoner, but as something far more dangerous.
Something that would make the nobles regret ever waking the monster they had created.