VoC: B1 — 6. The Weight of Law
Added 2025-06-25 23:04:49 +0000 UTCPoV:
1. King Enrir Rhommo du Mentris (Damon's Grandpa!)
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King Enrir Rhommo du Mentris remained seated on his throne long after Damon had left and the lower nobles had emptied, the echo of footsteps fading into the vast marble halls.
His mind kept reliving that ruling.
An hour had passed since, and still discussions were raging.
The Seat of Judgment beneath him still hummed with residual divine energy, though he’d already deactivated its truth-seeking properties. Certain truths were better left unspoken.
During the trial, he’d kept certain sections of Damon’s status window hidden from the court’s view, which was within his right to do as the final arbiter of law.
He’d memorized every detail before obscuring them.
A Level 1 Lich…bound to my grandson?
Impossible.
Even Demiliches are at a minimum in the 60s.
Only a reincarnate could explain it—she must have come with Damon from his previous life… Yet, she does not follow Titania.
A reincarnate without a divine claim?
Curious.
That changes everything we know about reincarnates.
What are you plotting, Titania?
The implications churned in his stomach like acid, adding yet another weight to the crown that seemed heavier with each passing year.
Worse, the Holy Emperor was silent.
He’d instructed him less with each year since a particular law was expanded.
Stephen lingered near the chamber’s exit, those calculating eyes searching his face for any sign of mercy, any hint of what was to come.
The marquess had hidden this for a decade, guilty of enough crimes to see even his privileged status challenged—if the law applied to him the same way it did to others.
But Stephen’s sovereign territory operated under its own legal framework, answerable to his own people first. It was why so many nobles envied and distrusted him, yet the royal family had no such luxury. They were bound to the law’s letter, not its spirit.
“Your Majesty,” Stephen finally spoke, his voice carefully neutral. “Regarding Princess Catelyn’s trial—”
“It will proceed tonight, after the royal banquet,” Enrir interrupted, his tone allowing no argument. “The court will have time to consider what their decision means for our nation. That is all.”
He watched Marquess Aldric practically flee the chamber at those words, no doubt already plotting. There would be a target on Damon’s back before nightfall, but Stephen had the resources to protect his grandson after his ruling. He had to trust in that, at least.
“I will be in my chambers,” Enrir announced to the remaining attendants. “I shall arrive late to the banquet due to pressing royal matters with the Archmagus.”
With that, he rose and left without a backward glance.
The walk to his study felt longer than usual, each step weighted with the knowledge of what awaited him. Not his bedchamber—Elara had ordered herself locked inside, unable to face what was coming. He couldn’t blame her.
Archmage Aldwin was already waiting in his study, silver smoke from his pipe curling toward the vaulted ceiling. The old wizard didn’t bow, a privilege of their long friendship.
“Your Majesty.” The archmage’s eyes held that knowing look that came from decades of reading people and magical auras. “How is the queen? People will talk if she’s absent from the banquet.”
“She knows if she sees our daughter, she’ll break and do something drastic.” Enrir moved to the window, gazing out at the holy city below, its white towers gleaming in the afternoon sun.
“Is that why you scheduled Catelyn’s trial for tonight?” Aldwin asked, puffing thoughtfully. “When the nobles are tired, drunk, their blades dulled by Damon’s trial—and their spies already spilling into the streets to shadow him?”
A ghost of a smile touched Enrir’s lips, though he kept his eyes on the city. “I can feel the Holy Emperor’s favor waning by the year, Aldwin. His presence pulls away from us like the tide, retreating from the rot festering beneath our foundations… Yet, I am bound by laws that prevent me from correcting it with any measurable speed.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft crackle of burning pipe herbs and a mechanical clock’s rhythmic ticks.
“…The Public Decency Statute of 782,” Aldwin finally said. “Aldric pushes for interpretations that seem righteous on the surface—merficul, but in execution are…extreme. Is it truly that damning that the Holy Emperor is turning away from us?”
“Execution is everything in the law, old friend. It is how the magistrate and guards enforce it, the law written in their hearts we cannot see, but He can… There’s a shadow moving through our court,” Enrir whispered.
“A changeling operating within the law—impressive, given our restrictions on their race, to be fair. That makes them all the more dangerous. See what you can learn about this Madame Zorya Stephen has warned me about.”
Aldwin nodded slowly. “Stephen has keen senses, and the Delmore spy network is formidable, true. I’d say we’ve relied on it too much, to be frank, which has weakened our own arm. However, the shifter concerns me less than other matters. Have you read my report? My meeting with Solar Incarnas Lumineth?”
The sun elf representative’s warnings echoed in Enrir’s mind, mixing with questions that had plagued him since seeing Damon’s status—the implications of what was coming that Titania must have seen and prepared his grandson to face.
The deities played games that spanned far longer than their mortal lives; this was planned—a chess match between high deities, with the Crawling Chaos in the backdrop.
“The reincarnate sun elf boy?” Enrir kept his voice level, Aria’s name in Damon’s system sheet burning in the back of his mind. “Yes, I’ve read it.”
The archmage frowned and pulled out a leather journal, flipping through its pages. “It seems I’ll be busy today. My apprentice claims a sun elf was spotted in the city.”
“Oh?” This time, Enrir’s smile held genuine amusement. “Did your apprentice happen to report the gender?”
Aldwin’s silver eyebrows drew together as he peered up at him through his sunken eyes with an inquiring smile. “Gender, old friend? Sun elves are the most isolationist race we are aware of, and you bring up gender? Merely three are ever allowed to leave their veiled isles, excluding this new reincarnate. You know something I do not.”
“Perhaps I do. Make a full report, but don’t interfere. Not when it involves a sun elf. I’ll handle it personally once you’ve gathered the information. I know you will be thorough.”
“As you wish.” Aldwin moved toward the door, then paused, withdrawing a sealed letter from his robes. “Ah, my mind was so taken by your mystery I almost forgot this…”
He closed the distance and handed it to him with a melancholy smile. “From Princess Catelyn. I…hope for a happy ending, Your Majesty, though in my experience, those are rarer than phoenix feathers.”
The door closed with a soft click, leaving Enrir alone with the letter.
The wax seal bore Catelyn’s personal mark—every child selected their own when children—hers, a swan in flight, chosen when she was barely seven. His fingers trembled slightly as he broke it.
The message was brief, written in her careful script:
“Father, please bar Stephen from attending my trial. I love you, and accept your ruling.”
Two lines. Not pleading for mercy. Not attempting any legal maneuvering. Just protecting Stephen from association with her fall, accepting her fate with the dignity he’d tried to teach her.
Enrir sank into his chair, the letter crumpling slightly in his grip.
In his mind, he returned to a small girl, standing under the stained-glass of a cathedral, her eyes, which shone with life and kindness, burning from across the room.
I cannot be the savior I long to be, my daughter.
You never needed my protection, though, did you?
Stephen’s explanation to him weeks earlier hit his battered heart.
A conversation he had yet to break to his wife.
Not yet.
Not until this was settled.
Oh, Titania… I do not pray to you, but you brought light to where there was nothing but despair. My daughter…
His gaze wandered to an image of his little girl, a painting made months before the tragedy Stephen had revealed to him.
His youngest daughter—the one who’d suffered most, who’d been forced to bear a child from dark magic at thirteen—was still trying to protect others.
No, you are not weak, my daughter, but stronger than our entire family.
You bear those pretty white jaws, where delicacy ends.
You show me what you’ve lost, and why you fight for him.
You show me your wounds without bearing the mark…
Are you watching me with those strong eyes?
I will not flinch.
You are noble.
I will not taint your sacrifice.
“You learned your lessons too well, my daughter,” he whispered to the empty room. “Your wish will be granted.”
The words tasted like ash, knowing how Stephen would feel, but he would honor her request. It was the last kindness he could offer her as both king and father.
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