The Judgement

But for repressed whispering, the vast Council Chamber was silent. No loud voices or noises broke the solemnity of the moment. All knew they were gathered to witness a trial where a prisoner would be condemned according to Royal Law. Torches lined the carved walls, their flames steady and golden, casting deep shadows behind the pillars. Soldiers, nobles, and citizens summoned to witness the first royal judgment of Queen Luxa’s reign filled the great hall.

At the far end of the chamber, behind the raised royal table once used for Regalia’s banquets and festivities—a table now draped in black—sat Queen Luxa, with Gregor at her side. The crowd heard three loud raps on the door to the right of the Queen. The Captain of the Guard beside the table commanded, “The guards will bring the prisoner before the Judge—Her Majesty, Queen Luxa.”

With two guards at his sides, a figure dressed in black prison garb entered. The Captain ordered him to kneel before the Queen, now his Judge. His legs were shackled, his hands cuffed in iron behind his back, and he kept his head bowed. The prisoner did not speak, nor did he lift his eyes. The guards moved aside with their hands on their sword hilts, ready if needed, but stood motionless so the witnesses could see and hear the judgment of their Queen.

Seated beside Luxa, Gregor watched gravely. His eyes shifted from the prisoner to the Queen as she rose to speak. She wore her gold crown, which shimmered faintly beneath the torchlight, and when she stood, the whisper of her robe was the only sound in the chamber.

As Luxa’s gaze swept across the prisoner and the hall, her voice carried clear and unwavering. All whispering ceased. No one wished to miss a word.

“Prisoner Number One. You are the first to stand before me since I was crowned Queen of Regalia. A month has passed since the night you sought to end my life.”

The prisoner did not move.

Luxa’s gaze did not soften. “By Royal Law, the penalty for murder or attempted murder is death—swift, public, and without delay. That has been our law since the first monarch of Regalia.”

Looking toward Gregor, she said, “Were it not for Gregor the Protector, who placed himself between you and me that night and disarmed you, your body would have swung from the gallows before dawn. The ants would have claimed what was left by sunrise.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Luxa raised her hand, and silence fell again.

“You live because Gregor protected me—and, by doing so, protected you from death. When I ordered your imprisonment, it was not to spare your life but to give me time for proper judgment. Now, thirty days later, that judgment is at hand.”

After explaining the reason for his survival, Luxa stepped down from the platform and came to stand a few paces from the kneeling man. Her voice softened—not in weakness, but in measured mercy. He did not look up.

“I have thought long on what it means to be Queen. To rule is not merely to punish—it is to protect. I have learned from watching Gregor the Protector that mercy is not the opposite of justice—it is its strength. So hear me.”

She drew a long breath. “I forgive you for your attempt upon my life. I forgive you as one person to another, for I will not let hatred take root in my heart. But forgiveness does not erase the law. The Royal Law exists so that all may live in hope, without fear—that no one should raise a blade in darkness. Therefore, though I forgive you, I cannot release you.”

Luxa turned to address the hall. “If I were to let this man go unpunished, it would teach the violent that mercy is weakness and would endanger every soul in Regalia. The Queen’s forgiveness is personal; her duty is public.”

She looked back to the prisoner. “Because Gregor spared your life, and because I too choose life over death, I will not command your execution. Instead, I sentence you to imprisonment below the city—until such time as the Council and the Queen together see fit to review your fate. There you will live, work, and reflect upon what you have done. You will have food, water, and the care due any living being in Regalia.”

For a moment Luxa’s voice trembled, though she did not falter. “Had you slain me that night, the law would have ended your life. Yet the one you sought to kill became your protector—because someone protected her. Remember that. It is a lesson for all of us: that protection, not vengeance, must rule our hearts. Armed defense is sometimes unavoidable, as you see here in this Council Chamber, but Gregor chose to spare your life when his goblet struck your wrist and your dagger fell.”

Gregor watched her closely. Pride filled his chest, though unease remained. He knew the cost of mercy in a world that had long survived by fear and war. Yet when Luxa’s eyes met his, he gave a faint nod. She was doing what he could not—transforming protection into principle.

Luxa lifted her chin. “Guards,” she said quietly, “take the prisoner to the dungeon.”

The chains rattled faintly as the man was led away down the long corridor. No one spoke until the sound of footsteps faded.

Luxa returned to her place behind the draped table, but did not sit. “Let this be known throughout Regalia,” she declared. “The reign of Queen Luxa shall not be one of cruelty, but neither shall it be without law. We are a people who live by the light of others’ sacrifices—by the courage of those who protect instead of destroy. The Protector saved me. Today, his mercy saves another. May it teach us all.”

The torches flickered as low murmurs filled the hall—some in agreement, others uncertain. The old guard of soldiers who had served under Vikus and Solovet exchanged glances, weighing this new kind of justice.

When at last the chamber emptied and the guards had gone, Luxa stood beside the judgment table, her hands resting on its dark cloth. Her crown caught the firelight, its reflection trembling across the polished metal.

Gregor rose and came to her side. “You did what was right,” he said quietly.

“Was I?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “The Council wanted his death. Some may still want mine. Some will see mercy as weakness.”

“Maybe,” Gregor said. “But you gave them something stronger than fear—you gave them an example. Maybe some who would not listen before will learn to now.”

Luxa looked up at him, eyes bright with both exhaustion and pride. “Then let it be remembered,” she said. “The first judgment of my reign was not a hanging, but a sparing.”

Gregor nodded. “And Regalia’s safer for it.”

They stood together in the torchlight for a long moment—the Queen and her Protector—beneath the carved emblems of the kingdom. Somewhere deep below, a cell door clanged shut. Above, the city carried on, unaware that its future had shifted quietly toward mercy, and perhaps, toward peace.